Essay in N+1 by Tobi Haslett about the 2020 protests.
“What elasticity, what historical initiative, what a capacity for sacrifice in these Parisians!” Marx gasped in a letter when news reached him that the members of the Paris Commune had repelled the imperial army and abolished the police; he said they were “storming heaven.” And a version of that thought — a degraded, baffled paraphrase — flashed to mind as I saw the masked children of New York slam their skateboards against police vans and throw themselves at lines of officers packing guns and shields and nightsticks; chanting the name of a dead man while sprinting with hundreds down an avenue, I’d never felt an ecstasy more complicated or a freedom less false. On a plateglass window in SoHo, someone graffitied, simply, “GEORGE!” So many of the faces I saw streaking through spring and summer — lit by burning cars and reflected in broken windows, doing victory laps around sneaker stores and bloodied by batons — belonged to adolescents. Armed only with their psychotic courage, they were running, dancing, singing, smashing, burning, screaming, storming heaven: all rapturous varieties of Baraka’s “magic actions.”