The mood is celebratory. This is an action organized by the Green Bloc, which focuses generally on issues involving the environment and sustainability. “Free” trade certainly isn’t “free”; the ones who pay are simply often kept out of our sight. It’s refreshing to see the terminology reappropriated, and righteously. We mosey through the park, pausing to greet friends old and new. I catch sight of Starhawk, long-time activist, writer and member of the Pagan Bloc. When I ask her how she fared yesterday, she frowns. “I was on the front line of just about every moment of police confrontation. We were remarkably disciplined under enormous provocation. It wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, compared to Genoa, but there was a quality of sheer brute calculated fascism that’s hard to equal.”

Indeed, in today’s Miami Herald, Police Chief Timoney accords himself credit for having successfully repelled the protesters who came here to “terrorize” Miami (considering $8.5 million of Bush’s $87 billion Iraq budget came directly to the Miami police department, specifically to ward off us nasty traitors, this is hardly astounding news). What is disturbing is the inclusion of the term “terror,” coupled with the increasing militancy with which Miami police have responded to us exercising our constitutional rights. And the television news has consistently portrayed us as violent and irrational: footage of a protester throwing a police projectile back at the riot lines was erroneously reported as evidence of activists provoking the police.

I also run into Medea Benjamin, co-founder of Global Exchange. When I enquire as to her experience, she expresses outrage at the city’s response, as well as the media’s rendering. She tells me that last night she was in a car pulled over and surrounded by 12 police, all pointing their guns at the driver. “This is the model by which the citizens of Miami, and of this country, get used to seeing tanks in the street, and fully armed police acting like the military. Viewers get used to a military state.”

There is a rally called for this afternoon, to support the 150 who were arrested yesterday and are sitting in jail. I decide to skip this and instead head off to a discussion forum on the FTAA to participate in some workshops. When I leave the forum and call Code Orange to reconnoiter, everyone I speak with is completely shaken. Of a crowd of under 200 holding a peaceful jail support action, 50 were arrested. There were six helicopters and 680 riot police in full gear. Directly after opening negotiations, the police broke their word, issued a three-minute dispersal order, and closed in, arresting both those consciously choosing civil disobedience as well as those inadvertently caught in their circle. Whatever happened to freedom of assembly?

Later tonight, we drive back through downtown Miami, heading to the Convergence Center for a press conference. There are police everywhere, multiple cars on several corners, and predictably we get pulled over. A truck full of puppets simply isn’t suitable transport in Miami these days. The Dade County Deputy Sheriff peers in my window, unsmiling. “Having fun?” he asks. “Not really,” I respond. “How about you?” “It’s been an intense time,” he replies. You can say that again. They check the registration and let us go.

When we drive off, we notice them trailing us. Is this psychological warfare? What exactly have these police been told about us? As a white woman, I have never experienced profiling; unlike people of color in this country, I haven’t been compelled to shoulder a legacy of fear when it comes to the police. But these days in Miami are rapidly changing my outlook. What does it take to get people off the streets? And then what becomes of democracy?

Code Orange has left to begin our puppet parade; I hop into a car with some friendly North Carolinians, and they drop me off a few blocks away from what looks like the parade. I run to catch up. And when I get there, I am a blip of color among a sea of black. I’ve unwittingly joined up with the Black Bloc. I can’t help grinning to myself. I am virtually fundamentalist in my embrace of nonviolence, and here I am with the Black Bloc, infamous for property destruction and for their obstreperously militant tactics. Whoops.

There are cops everywhere, sirens screaming, and someone somewhere in front gives the order to run. Suddenly everyone is running, hundreds of us, hurtling through the streets in chaos. Panic fills my chest; it is impossible to see very far in front or behind, and I’m rapidly growing tired. On my left, someone scrawls the anarchy sign onto a window in black spray paint. A cheer rises from the crowd. We continue sprinting haphazardly through the streets, and finally come to a standstill. Why have we stopped? What’s happening? After milling about in confusion for awhile, I grow impatient. I push through to the center of the crowd, where affinity group representatives have gathered in an ad-hoc spokescouncil. We have stopped because we are blocked off by police.

One spokesperson offers to liaise with the police. “Can someone liaise with me?” he asks. No one volunteers. “I will,” I offer. I’ve liaised before. “But only if people feel comfortable. I don’t belong to this bloc and do not represent any affinity groups here.” Heads nod. Nimo, my counterpart, shakes my hand as we approach the lines of police — there are two of them: in front, the city cops on bikes; behind them, the riot police, heavily armed. And around us, an eager trail of press. Nimo smiles as we head up. He can’t be more than twenty, delicate-limbed and fine-featured. “Good to meet you.” He pulls his black mask back up over his mouth.

The captain is relatively amiable and open to negotiating. Thus ensues a lengthy process of negotiations; if everyone puts away their sticks and spray paint cans, they’ll escort us to Government Center. We head back to the Bloc, and split up to spread the message. I yell it out in phrases, the group yelling back in repetitions. Sticks and cans vanish into black backpacks. It is hard to tell who is who; the black clothing, masks, and beanies lend near-total anonymity. But most of the faces, I note, are quite young. And contrary to my expectations, the Bloc is relatively gender-balanced.

Slowly we head out. I stay in the front, where the captain can approach me if any problems arise. There are some kids around me heckling the police. Although it’s not my role here, I can’t resist informing them that they’re just pissing them off, and will be sure to reap the rewards should anything go wrong. To my surprise, they listen to me.

When we get close to Government Center, the captain tells us that there has been confrontation, and he can’t let us move further. We simultaneously learn that most groups have left Government Center and are approaching the fence. We spend the next hour or so in negotiations, and eventually the police let us disperse. I am thanked by several members of the Black Bloc. We hug. I don’t agree with their tactics; I’m a firm believer in means holding congruent with ends, and I want to build peace as well as justice. But nonetheless, it’s been a pleasure, and I’m happy to have been relieved of some stereotypes. I move on, anxious to locate Code Orange.

Ah! Finally I locate the huge painted sun-puppet — that’s us. It’s a joyful if belated reunion, and we advance, puppets and flags in place, to join the massive AFL-CIO march. Energy is high, and it’s a relief to be in the midst of a permitted march, with the cops hanging back. Later in the day, there is more confrontation — the police have conveniently labeled the direct action contingency as the “bad protesters,” and grow increasingly forceful in their treatment of us. Tracy from Code Orange gets a faceful of teargas. I run into my friend Carwil, and he has a lump the size of a Ping-Pong ball on his forehead from a rubber bullet. When we head back to the Convergence Center at dusk, there are cops everywhere. We dump the giant puppets with a friendly resident, apologizing for the chaos we are bringing to their neighborhood, and move rapidly towards public transit — we have gotten word that the Convergence Center isn’t safe. Josh from Code Orange pauses outside a shop window to catch a glimpse of television; it is footage from the helicopters above us, and we watch as they film protestors running ant-like through the streets. I glance up to where they careen above us. It is all bizarrely apocalyptic, and I’m beginning to feel like a hunted animal.

We get to the station, which is overflowing with activists. We locate the right bus and pile in, relieved. When we return to our hotel we read of the “FTAA Lite” that has been agreed to by the delegates. This is an excellent development. It will certainly mitigate some of the more egregious parts of the agreement. Our mood is jubilant. At dinner, I finally begin to relax, the adrenaline seeping slowly out of my blood. What a relief to simply sit in a restaurant, safe, unhounded.

Who knows what effect we have had? Certainly the mainstream media will continue to portray us as clueless, dissatisfied radicals looking to make trouble. But altogether there have been thousands here, protesting American-led policies in the very belly of the beast. And it is the spectrum of protesting tactics that comprises the whole; the margins that allow for the middle. Only on the margins can we lay the foundations for true alternatives, can we move sufficiently far from the mainstream to create other ways. The environment and the peoples of this earth will not be saved from destruction by slightly different policies; there must be other structures built, kinder paths explored. This may be a young movement, but it is directly democratic, entirely cooperative, and it is growing. We toast each other and cheer. What a day.

Organize, organize, organize: Everywhere I look, people are gathering to strategize and plan. We meet first in our affinity groups — small groups, generally no larger than 15; the goal is to build supportive, close community — and work through what kind of action we want to be part of. My affinity group is Code Orange (for liberation!), birthed out of Direct Action to Stop the War — yes, we were some of the folks that organized to shut San Francisco down the day after President Bush declared war on Iraq. We want to incorporate lots of art and theater; we have decided to cluster with the FCAA, or Free Carnival Area of the Americas.

We cluster in order to accumulate numbers. The FCAA is comprised of nine affinity groups. Inasmuch as we can, we will travel as a bloc tomorrow. With 100 people, we can shut down intersections, and will be much harder to arrest. However, given the level of chaos intrinsic to mass direct action, we also devise a tactical scheme to stay in touch should we need to split into affinity groups. We go out into the street to practice street tactics.

“Link!” yells David from Code Orange. The circle instantly links arms. This is how we would hold an intersection. “Lock!” We sit down, amid bumping limbs and laughter. “Rise up!” This is our mobility tactic: It serves the dual purpose of raising flagging energy and keeping us moving in the face of looming police. We jump four times, hollering “Liberation!” at each leap. Then we swoop down and up three times to the call of “rise up,” and, whooping, sprint together down the street to the next intersection. Tactics over, sweaty and panting, I head back to the Convergence Center to get some water. When I arrive, there is a minor commotion outside. John Sweeney, president of the AFL-CIO, is paying us a visit.

The AFL-CIO has a permitted protest march planned for tomorrow, and initially requested that the direct action constituency hold off on organizing for the first day of talks. A lengthy process of discussion and compromise ensued in the following months, and we have scheduled the action early in the morning to avoid compromising their march. Sweeney is here, in a rumpled button-down shirt and suspenders, to thank us. He stands in the center of the hot warehouse, surrounded by a largely young and grimy audience. “We’re delighted to be marching together tomorrow,” he says. “I stand with you here in solidarity.” Wild cheers and applause: We know we are comrades in a shared battle. American labor has much to lose if the FTAA goes through.

The day ends with the spokes-council meeting, where each affinity group has one representative participate in a consensus-based decision-making process. David and Tracey from Code Orange are facilitating tonight. They stand under a large, beautifully decorated sign reading, appropriately, “Hungry for Justice.” The room is packed; the usual inner circle of spokespeople (other affinity group members sit behind them) is impossible to delineate from everyone else. Spokespeople rise, and introduce themselves and their groups. There are folks here from all over the country, as well as one group from Canada, and allies from Brazil and Venezuela. We run through the updates: medical, legal, food, media. Then, the organizing team for the mass action comes to the front, and we are updated on maps and strategy.

We’ve been told that there will be 2,500 cops deployed on the streets tomorrow. We will be anywhere from 1,000 to 3,000 strong. I’m nervous. Miami Police Chief John Timoney has earned himself a bad reputation for previous treatment of protesters. There have already been infringements of both First and Fourth Amendment rights by the Miami police. We don’t know what to expect. I personally plan to do my best to avoid getting arrested; I don’t relish the thought of sitting in jail here. But I trust the people I am going out with, and we will be carrying the tools of our trade: puppets, colorful flags, art. We will surround the fence, and we will strive to embody its antithesis. And the world will witness our dissent. Viva la revolucion!

I wade through the outdoor section-kitchen, living room, and back porch all rolled into one tarp-covered playground, and into the warehouse. I search the room, the multicolored signs, the massive, marked-up map of downtown Miami, the animated faces. Ah, there’s Meddle! I arrived in Miami last night, and have yet to hook up with anyone else from my San Francisco Bay Area-based affinity group. It’s good to see someone I know. We hug. Meddle has been here for weeks already, locating housing for the arriving activists (with little success: When the Coral Gables Congregational Church offered space, the Miami police — the most frequently indicted police force in the nation — issued notice that they were violating nonresidential zoning laws, despite ample precedent of churches housing activists). Meddle grins at me. “Welcome to Miami.”

I am excited to be here. Unlike many of the other activists arriving, I wasn’t at Seattle, or Genoa, or Cancun. But I have been active organizing direct action in the peace movement and the anti-globalization movement, and as I’ve grown more familiar with the potential impacts of the FTAA, I’ve felt increasingly obliged to travel across the country to voice my dissent.

The Free Trade Area of the Americas, should these agreements go through, will prove a disaster to communities and the environment. The FTAA essentially expands NAFTA to the entire Western hemisphere (with the predictable exception of Cuba, which is not represented among the 34 countries here). NAFTA, contrary to optimistic predictions, has only benefited the wealthiest in the three countries it includes. According to a study conducted by the Economic Policy Institute, since NAFTA was passed in 1994, an estimated 765,000 jobs have been lost in the U.S. These jobs have largely moved to maquiladoras, cheap border factories based in Mexico. Meanwhile, the number of Mexicans working for less than Mexican minimum wage has increased by over a million. NAFTA is a race to the bottom, and those who are paying for increased multinational profits are the most destitute.

Like NAFTA’s Chapter 11, the FTAA’s rules of investment would additionally allow corporations to sue governments for future profits lost (a recent example of this was when Canada’s Methanex Corp. sued the state of California for almost a billion dollars for banning the use of MTBE in its gasoline, due to its high toxicity. Should Methanex win, California either has to pay out or significantly lower its environmental standards). A poor nation like Bolivia would have virtually no protection against the might of U.S.-based multinationals in a case like this. And the FTAA would also include services, which means that everything ranging from water to education to hospitals would be up for privatization.

The FTAA is a nightmare for the environment, labor, and human rights. And there is no process for public input: the space for nongovernmental organizations amounts to little more than a suggestion box, while corporate advisors are given privileged advisory roles in these talks. Most of the communities represented in these talks cannot come to voice their dissent. For those who can, for the conscientious and the outraged, nonviolent protest is the last tool left us. That is why I came to Miami.

Next stop: the Root Cause march. I drive with some friends to meet the march, which is a coalition of local groups representing immigrant and workers’ rights. This is the third and final day of the march, and the marchers are loud, festive, energized. We stop to protest at the INS, the boarded-up Dade County School Board Administration building (Jeb Bush’s policies privatizing education have cut some ugly corners), and at Taco Bell, where appallingly underpaid farm workers call for “uno centavo mas,” or one more cent per pound for the tomatoes they pick. These farmers make around $7,500 per year, without any benefits or the right to organize; Yum! Brands Inc., which owns Taco Bell and buys these tomatoes, is the largest restaurant system in the world.

Gradually our motley crew approaches downtown Miami. The street numbers descend in rapid succession, and suddenly the road is lined with police, eyeing us suspiciously from behind their helmets. We turn, and there it is: the fence, 10 to 12 feet high, sturdy, intimidating. Wholly for our benefit: erected specifically to keep us out. The entirety of downtown Miami has been fenced in. Welcome to Miami, indeed. Behind the fence, like a crew of dedicated worker ants, are hundreds of police in bulky black riot gear. And finally, glowing in the distance, the Continental Hotel — the rarified rooms that will hold these talks.

I pause, aghast at the visceral reality of the separation, of our total and violent exclusion. And then I am caught again in the flow; we are moving onward, chanting and drumming and dancing. This is what I love most, and partly why I came: There is an incredible, enduring energy about these actions. We are creating the world we want to see, replete with art, culture, and cooperative, consensus-based processes. I look around, at the smiling faces, the arms flung up jubilantly. When I feel impotent in the face of all the damage being wreaked on this earth and its peoples, this is the energy that sustains me. This is when I realize, with a familiar-feeling jolt, that change is possible, that yes, we can make a difference; indeed, we are making a difference, we are actively building the alternative. Welcome to Miami.