Today, from September 2010, "Confessions of a pro-life tagger" (mirrored here)
Confessions from a Pro-Life Tagger
Running
from the police is one of life's great joys. Or so I'm told. Hiding
behind dumpsters, shedding clothing and evidence, trying to make the
calm and cool getaway... a successful guerrilla operation is a rare and
beautiful moment. Even more rare on an American college campus.
I'm getting ahead. We'll come back to the police.There is a theory behind what is a "proper" liberal arts campus. The brick buildings, a holdover from nineteenth century architectural styles, provide an air of aloofness, dominion and detachment. The campus is stark. Scrubbed. Bleached. Sanitary. Airport modern. It resembles a hospital even in its sidewalks. Clean, white sidewalks. Posters advertise milquetoast affairs of special lectures and symphonic recitals. Even the ‘radicalism’ is chic, come hear the lecture on ‘white privilege’ or the essay on ‘institutional racism’ all contained within these scrubbed, bleached, sanitary modern walls.
The
campus is small. Intimate. The paths between the dorms and the
classrooms intersect, forcing students into interaction. Morris was
founded with these ideals in mind. It is a special affair for the
intelligent and gifted, the best in the Minnesota system. The honors
student. There is an expected decorum held sacred by which all speech,
must it happen at all, be bland and passionless. Intellectual. Rules,
speech codes and administrative pressure are expected to keep the peace.
Such a model invites entropy. Such a model needs entropy.
In
a poorly lit room, tucked away in one of those imposing brick
structures, six individuals sit preparing to fuck the system. I'm one of
them. This was a training exercise. Some off-campus leaders thought it
necessary and decided to help out the local riffraff develop some
guerrilla skills. We had started earlier, with small stuff. "Big R" was
one of the off campus pros. "Little e" was the organizer, known for
holding his knowledge close to the chest. Organizing guerrilla campaigns
requires wavering attention spans and incoherent mumblings. Little e
has mastered the art of comprehensible incomprehension. One pictures
Lenin mumbling something about storming the gates, or Trotsky obliquely
mentioning the advancing white guards.
