I’m Not Going to Forget What I Saw at the Capitol
“If you brought a weapon, it’s time to get your weapon ready!”
There is a man standing on the windowsill of the Capitol building, screaming, the glass shattered behind him. Squat, husky, bearded, wearing a cowboy hat. He brandishes a crowbar in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. Thousands of voices are yelling for a charge forward. “Now or neveerrrrr!” someone shouts behind me. “Everybody push!!!” Yells a woman. I wish the crowd wasn’t so dense so I could turn to see her, she doesn’t sound like the type who would encourage insurrection in her day-to-day life. The crowd is reaching a boiling point and the anger seems to be contagious. I’m scanning my immediate surroundings and see another photographer trying to move out. “I’m following you.” I say grabbing the stranger’s shoulder. “This is getting fucking dangerous.”
A few times during Wednesday, January 6th I felt like danger was imminent. As protestors climb the inauguration risers on their way to attack the building, I am keenly aware of how heavy we are and how I can feel hollow space below us. Angry marchers carrying various flags bang flagpoles on the temporary wooden floor as if to summon yet more glorious patriotism but I can feel each hollow bang with my feet. We are packed too tightly to breath at times, I worry that a small bomb or sudden disturbance will cause a stampede. I am aware of how people suspiciously look at my camera and sound equipment and ask who I work for with an angry sneer. Almost every outlet is fake news and no one is hiding their hostility. Lastly, as the crowd cheers on protestors beating the door, a man yells, “Let them fire!” and I feel sick to my stomach. The crowd roars.
An hour earlier, on my journey from the president’s speech at the ellipse to the West entrance of the Capitol, I climb up the risers to the lower platform, under the very recognizable dais where presidents take the Oath of office. I pass several people sporting Metro police gear on my way up. One man holding a police tear gas canister shows it off proudly. “How did you get that?” I ask, “Pulled it off a cop!” I ask him how he got close enough to police to pull an item from them and not get hurt, I didn’t understand until I saw the interaction with the two groups that rioters were easily pulling helmets shields and mace canisters through the half-opened swinging doors. I move to enter the hidden stairwell within the scaffolding to the upper risers and shift to let a petite, older lady come through. She is wearing a full police helmet proudly. A young men slaps her back and congratulates her, “I don’t know you but damn I’m proud of you!” the shirtless 20-something lauded. The woman could have been a grandmother, her face was so sweet.
Finally on the upper level, 50 feet or so from the door I can see the entire scope of this. I would estimate fifteen thousand people on this upper deck. The chant “Fight for Trump” is overwhelming. There’s one entryway on the West side and younger men decked in militia gear are pushing into it. I’m also now aware the crowd is so tight that whatever decision they make, you are going to be a part of it, whether you want to or not. When I hear “PUSH!” I force my way away from the door, landing a few feet under the window as it’s being broken. Rioters look on with cel phones trained in, everyone is streaming, everyone is gathering likes. The crowd wants this, they all want it, there is no going back, “Give me liberty or give me death!” they scream.
I don’t want to forget this moment. I don’t want it to be twisted in the weeks that follow as arm chair MAGA fans discuss how peaceful it actually was and that there were only “ a few bad apples” or probably invaded by that faceless, omnipresent enemy: ANTIFA. This was a tidal wave. The men breaking the windows, kicking at the West entrance doors from above were elevated, on display, visible to everyone. A rabid crowd cheered them on. We all saw what was happening.
This isn’t to say people didn’t try to stop the destruction. In one video I capture, the breaking of a window with a crow bar, a man with a red hat steps in to stop it. There is a struggle that pushes a large group of us down several steps. “That’s Antifa, trying to STOP us” a woman next to me says angrily. I turn to look at her and have a hard time reconciling the words with the person, we could just as easily be in line next to each other at a Starbucks, making polite conversation as we wait for peppermint mochas. “Go home if you do not want to go inside this building” says a second bullhorn man. “Fuck that shit!” responds Peppermint Mocha, “Break it! Break it! Break it!”
When we stand again there is an older man chiding the group, a salt and pepper dad-type. “You’ve already broken through the glass door over there, what are you doing with this window?” Peppermint Mocha focuses in on the older man, “WE HAVE TRAITORS AMONG US!” She alerts the crowd. “He’s trying to stop everybody! This guy here! He’s trying to stop them!” Another voice joins her, “He’s Antifa!”
I want this burned into your memory: Those who tried to stop the destruction of a government building, who tried to stop rioters with the intention of occupying it to overturn an election, they were accused of being Antifa.
On the video I watch later I am able to see guns, knives, and several militia insignias. There are 3 percenters, Proud Boys, local militias with little or no online presence. Some seem made up as a search only returns video game references or memes. The jokes are a deflection, a distraction, a way to say, “It wasn’t that serious.” Until it was. The real winners of the day are Army Navy surplus stores and the merch tables I think to myself. Everyone is covered in MAGA gear, flags, facepaint. It’s not a politician anymore or even something like a favorite sports team. It’s an ideology, a religion, it thinks for you and makes your decisions. It takes the coffee out of your hand and puts a crowbar in it, it fills you with anger and drags you to this place here and now. It paints the world a certain color and gives you lenses where you can clearly identify those you need to keep close or remove from your life. It tears out the guardrails of critical thinking. The people around me are open antennas, divining rods, from select sources they absorb any message and act on it. I’m in a sea of gas-soaked rags and someone will light a match any minute now. For a moment, I am sure I will die here.
“NOW OR NEVER!” I hear again, this time closer. “FUCKING BREACH” the voice screams, directly behind me. Bullhorn man steps into the window and continues, “I’ll give you all the information you need. This is not a peaceful protest,” he continues, “they are hitting us in the head with batons!” To his left a line of men are ramming into the doors yelling “Heave! Ho!” I don’t find out until later the pushing is in fact crushing an officer. This may be where you can forgive some people for not knowing the gravity of what they were doing, the entryway vestibule is long and someone at standing height would not be visible to some of the crowd, those pushing a few feet back could not have known they were hurting a person. Thankfully, he did survive. How culpable is a crowd for cheering this on without understanding what was going on just out of sight? Those who could see the pain as he screamed and bled didn’t stop, who can say if those behind would have either? Those who have tried to stop or reason with the crowd have been denounced as traitors and Antifa. “They’re using live ammunition inside,” I hear someone announce, “a woman was shot.” My stomach sinks, someone has died for this, for all of this.
“This is your country,” Bullhorn continues, “they’ve already taken it away! What are you going to do fucking SIT HERE?! Get your weapons ready!” As I’m following my new photographer friend down through the crowd a loud bang echos, tear gas begins to clear the crowd quickly. My fears of being trampled dissipate and the crowd moves swiftly and quickly down the stairs and out.
Freezing and stunned, I reach the courtyard below and look back. The sun is setting making DC an ominous gray-blue. A cloud of tear gas is visible, the capitol lights turning on look like fire. I turn away and work on getting to a safe place.
A half hour later, in a hotel with the heat on full blast, files transfer to a hard drive. Earlier in the day at Trump’s speech I’d gotten my period and under my long peacoat my clothes are soaked with blood. I thaw my purple toes in a shower that never really becomes hot, standing under the water fully clothed watching blood pool at the drain. I’ve been shut off from news most of the day thanks to an overload of streaming cel users. I can’t understand the scope of this. I nervously flip between stations wondering why I can’t hear anyone playing the “Fight for Trump!” chant (but surprised to hear “Hang Mike Pence” which must have come from the East side or the lower part of the West.) A friend checking in confirms the woman being shot and sends the video which had accidentally aired on CNN un-edited a few moments before. She is wheeled on a stretcher, her chest covered in blood. In a moment of error the network has shown her naked, a wound above her bare breasts, the EMT is giving her CPR but it’s a foregone conclusion. Her open eyes are lifeless. I put my phone down and silence it.
I’ve not eaten anything since my red-eye the night before and walk down to the lobby to see if there is a vending area. The small room of coolers and pre-packaged sandwiches is overrun with riot attendees. I grab several bags of chips and fruit and wait to pay behind the red hats. The conversations filling the room confidently describe the innocence of those involved, the peaceful intentions, the spotting of infiltrators. I know how information grows and evolves in these groups and I know in a short time with these people, as it will be with my family, the story will change. There are only minutes until a fresh wave of videos purporting false flags, infiltrators, deep fakes, crisis actors… I can practically write them in my head. I can hear the fiction in its infancy coming out of the mouths of people. The new version of today grows in realtime and crystalizes, it morphs around me. 4 years of patient reason with Trump supporters is pushing down on me, the air around me is thick, their laughter is shameful.
In the hours that follow, my uncle sends me an InfoWars video showing “proof” the protest was peaceful. The video shows a bewildered older man who witnessed no violence but is sure of the event’s innocence. It shows no proof. Another video shows a man displaying cel phone footage of “Antifa busses with police escorts.” As it turns out, there were white shuttles with escorts — for the event organizers. “Are you starting to see?!” he writes. For him this is definitive proof, no other evidence is needed.
Over the weekend, safe at home, I facetime with my conservative mother, she listens patiently but my description of what has happened is met with resistance. “Mom we are blood, do you think I’m not telling you the truth? Everyone could see what was happening. Everyone wanted it to happen.”
“Well,” she responds, “I just know that you are very liberal.” The debate continues until I sit at the computer and show her the video I’ve shot. “Well… we’ll see.” The conversation trails off, and we eventually say our goodbyes. I love my family but I feel lost.
I don’t think those who condoned the riot — and even those who were there cheering in the crowd — will come to terms with what January 6th really was. They will find a comfortable storyline for the day and let the ugly parts wash away safely, conveniently erased. They will construct a story that lets them be there and be heroic without the guilt. I will not forget the voices of the people around me at the Capitol. You will not whitewash what you’ve done here today, I am not letting you write a new history where you avoid blame. I’ve seen you, I’ve recorded you, and I will remember your words.
