Brian Hicks Personal Account Of His Arrest During The Keystone XL Protests in Washington, DC

In his own words...


My story is essentially one of a guy becoming an activist for the first time at age 60.  Maybe call me a “reluctant activist” or an “unlikely activist”? In any case, I’m not ‘one of those.’ No, it turns out that ordinary people can do this stuff.

So how about “Brian Hicks, 60-year-old first time activist” or maybe “reluctant activist”? That’s more like it.

By Brian Hicks, Reluctant Activist?

Over the course of the two-week sit-in 1,252 people were arrested, including top climate scientists, landowners from Texas and Nebraska, former Obama for America staffers, First Nations leaders from Canada, and notable individuals including Bill McKibben, former White House official Gus Speth, NASA scientist Dr. James Hansen, actor Daryl Hannah, filmmaker Josh Fox, and author Naomi Klein.”

…and me.

Today I stood on the other side of the barrier, and clapped for each person being arrested. I waited (many of us did) for the last person and cheered him. This was the last day.

I won’t write about the tar sands or the Keystone XL pipeline. Others have done that better than I can. I will write about one of the protesters, the only one I’m qualified to write about.

I get it, that to do this is out of the ordinary. I get it when I hear or read what some of my friends have said to me. Lovely things. I got it when I was standing on the other side of the barricade this afternoon, looking at the people solemnly submitting to being handcuffed and loaded into police wagons.

That’s the point, I suppose. That it is out of my comfort zone: I do not disobey police orders. The notion of doing so, when I visualized it clearly for the first time a few days before my trip, was deeply unsettling. I had no idea how firm a part of my personality that is. I did not want to get arrested. I did not want to use my vacation time to fly to DC. I have other things I’d rather do with my money. This was a sacrifice.

So maybe that’s the point, then. Yes, that’s getting closer. Taking 30 seconds to sign a petition, or re-using a paper bag – these are not sacrifices. Why me, though?

(I must pause, before I go on, to get this out of the way: I thought often - as I endured my gentle and respectful treatment by the police, my mild deprivations, my inconveniences and moderate expenses - of those others, elsewhere and in other times, who have risked and too often suffered a nightmare version of what we were going through. And I am in awe. Still, what I did was out of the ordinary. It crossed the line into sacrifice.)

I did not think of the word “sacrifice” until just now. But I think it explains what I was doing and why. At the training the night before our action, they asked us to discuss with our buddy how climate change has affected us personally. When they asked for a few to share their experiences with the group, several discussed tangible changes in their own home areas. I have not observed that in the San Francisco Bay Area. But it has impacted me quite profoundly. It has robbed me of the peace of mind I so want to have from knowing that the earth will continue be an exquisite, generous planet long after I’m gone. It has caused me anguish when I think of the suffering that billions will endure as a result of our collective short-sighted and narrow-minded decisions and actions. I am very troubled. That’s been the impact on me. Some might argue that’s not a tangible impact. It is a very tangible impact.

I am privileged. I have enough – health, energy, time, and money - to offer some up as a sacrifice.

Benjamin Jealous, president of the NAACP, came to speak to my group at the training the night before we were to be arrested. It was an unexpected highlight of the event for me. Most memorably, he closed by saying, “Next time, come to us at the very beginning. We’ll help, we’ll stand with you.” It was the gentlest possible chiding of the organizers of this event, about a lost opportunity, and about our habitual ways of thinking. But mostly I felt it as hopefulness, even, in the language of the old Western movie cliché, like I had just heard that the cavalry was going to come riding in.

I responded to Bill McKibben’s invitation because of my deep concern about climate change. Wouldn’t you know it, that the day I am to participate, the focus turns out not to be on climate change but on indigenous rights, and on the harm being done to a small group of First Nations people in remote Alberta.

But wait, I came as an environmentalist, what does this have to do with indigenous rights and the NAACP? I think maybe the answer is that I came on the right day.

Bill quoted us this: “If you're comfortable with everybody at the table, your coalition is too small.”

The training was long and meticulous. We were there for four hours. A key message was that we were to be solemn and serious, as befits the issues, and that we were to be cooperative and respectful with the police. The point was made that anything one of us did to slow the process, or to aggravate the police, would just make it that much worse for those coming after us, and it is already going to be a very long, uncomfortable day for the last participants. We might even change the local climate enough that the police responded differently, with much larger fines, or jail, all of which is within their legitimate power to do. Of course it was also pointed out that the police were not our enemy and that undoubtedly some would be privately sympathetic to our message. I would add that they were going to be doing exactly what I want them to do.

That is, I want them to enforce our laws – that’s their job. I want them to serve us in that way even if it is me they need to arrest. And civil disobedience is about openly and willingly accepting the consequences of breaking a law.

On Friday, we arranged ourselves on the sidewalk where tourists take the souvenir photo of the White House, in rows, seated in front, standing in the back, some holding signs. And we remained that way. In doing so, we broke the law. We got the first warning from the police. After the second warning, those not willing to risk arrest quietly left. The third announcement from the police was that we were no longer allowed to leave, that we were under arrest.

The barriers and caution tape went up to isolate us. Crossing that line now would have been a significant offense. And then the slow process began. A few of the most frail were taken first, then the older women, then the rest of the women. After an hour and a half, the last woman was removed and they took the older men. I was standing with two ‘buddies’ (the result of a pairing up for us solo travelers that had taken place the evening before) who, like myself, were not young (I am 60). I confess we all three took some satisfaction that we had passed the test and had not been perceived as ‘old’. But it meant we stood longer.

Mostly, we stood quietly. At some point an officer came and advised us that we would be waiting quite a while and that if we’d like to sit, we could. We thanked him and some sat.

But there was some chanting as well, with call and response between us and the supporters in the park, behind the police vehicles and the barricades. I did not always participate, it seemed out of keeping with my intentions and attitude.

There were a few moments where we were to raise our fists, which made me very uncomfortable. Both were led by the group of first nations leaders at the front and center of our group. And when I thought of the immediate threats to them and their families and their land, and the violence done to them, even to the point of death, by the pollutants already in their drinking water, I chanted and even raised my fist once or twice. “If you're comfortable with everybody at the table, your coalition is too small.”

When it was clear that I was next, I said a quick word to my new friend King, who drove from Texas, stood and waited for the officer to motion to me. These were SWAT team police, very menacing and intimidating in their bearing and their attire. I stepped forward, turned and put my hands behind me so that he could put on the cuffs. Turned, I was looking back at my compatriots. A few solemn nods. Perhaps they applauded and maybe there was applause from across the street – as there certainly was the next day when I was on the other side. Oddly, I don’t remember. The cuffs are not police-movie handcuffs, but ‘flexi-cuffs’ a plastic strapping that is just as effective.

The officer held my upper arm and led me toward the processing tent and vehicles, saying “Watch your step”, as we came to the edge of the sidewalk. I said thank you. We stood like that for a few minutes, his hand on my arm, until he handed me off to another officer, a regular park police officer. Someone was holding me at all times throughout the process, until I was in the police van. I suppose that’s standard procedure when a suspect is in custody – you wouldn’t want them running away – but mostly it felt to me that they were there for my safety, because you are quite vulnerable when your hands are lashed behind your back.

A thorough pat-down, and more waiting. The rest is tedious detail that went on for two more hours – photographed while an officer held a sign with my number in front of me, answering questions, sitting in the police van, hands behind us, with the sections separated by wire mesh, the drive to the station, more standing, the relief of having the cuffs removed, more questions, handing over $100 (getting a receipt!), and being released. Although there was nothing noteworthy in all of this, I went through it in something of a state of heightened awareness, as might be imagined. It was all significant to me.

I walked up a ramp and opened a door, thinking I was going to the next step in the process, but instead finding myself outside. One of the volunteer organizers was nearby. He handed me my sign(!), the one with the number, and told me where to find the larger group. I caught up with the man in front of me and we approached the group to a small amount of cheering. There was water and a bit of food. I waited for my buddies and after a while we walked to the Metro and the day was over.

So what was that all about? Why did I do that, and so what?

I’ve exchanged emails with my buddies. I forwarded them these words from my daughter, “…this is AWESOME! Good for you. I'm bragging to all my friends about what you're doing!”

It warmed my heart, of course, but was just one example of something I only realized after it was all over: There is a bit of power we individuals gained by doing this: The power to get people to stop and think. It brings people up short when they understand that I flew across the country and got arrested for something I care very much about. It pierces the fog of the ordinary. I’m pretty much Clark Kent to most people. I imagine that people learning this about me would experience a thought something like, “Oh…If Brian is doing this…hmmm.”

That’s how it spreads.

Collectively, we sent a message to Obama, and quite broadly to organizations and people in the United States, Canada, and elsewhere.

Personally, I sent a message to my friends and family, and to 100 people on Facebook. My message was something like this: I care enough to sacrifice something (you might stop and think about that for a minute). I have decided that the time has come to say enough! (when will that point come for you?)

I think I sent a message to myself as well, that went something like this: Look at you! Maybe you aren’t quite who you thought you were. Maybe you have a little something in you that you didn’t know about. You’ve been fretting and hand-wringing, knowing all along that wasn’t really going to help. Maybe you’re becoming the kind of person who will go farther, who will make a sacrifice for the things you believe in and love.

Friday morning, the day I was going to be arrested, I awoke from a dream in which I was late and disorganized. I showed up at the protest location without something essential and said I had to go back for it. But there was no time. The person I was explaining to gave me a stern and doubtful look, and asked in a patronizing tone, “What makes you think you are ready to cross the line?”

I guess I crossed the line.