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10A THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
KULTURE
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27, 2005
Courtesy of Allecia Ruscin
"90s, I never thought I would see activism again, and now you are doing the same thing that we did."
From left, Leslie Kuluva, Kat Randolph and friend, all anarchists, protest with Free State Action in 2000 on "corporate corner" in front of Gap, 643 Massachusetts St.
Courtesy of Cl Brune
Brune is known for her radical takeover with the "February Sisters" of the East Asian Studies building, which was located just south of Corbin Hall, in 1970.
Front, from left, Dave Strano, Chantel Guidry and Allegia Ruscin, all Solidarity members, march through downtown Lawrence in the 2004 Pride March.
"I'm amazed there are people like you remaining active and are not losing faith," she says. After a thorough pause, she tells the group. "We learn from you now. What can we tell you to help you?"
Courtesy of Richard Gwin/LAWRENCE.COM
"The anarchists organize things — in the '50s we never organized things," he says.
Former beatnik Ron Pine recently attended a lecture on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict at Solidarity.
Strano claims the trend is in response to the growing threat posed by the current administration's consumerist, fascist regime.
Solidarity is part of a new movement of anarchists in action, which some are calling New Wave Anarchy. In the last half decade it has been the fastest growing counter-cultural movement in the United States, according to numerous national media sources, including "The Nation" magazine.
The movement lends itself to ideas from communism, socialism, punk and radicalism.
"Anarchism is compassion," says Belinda Penaloza, freshman in Latin American studies. She identifies as a Christian anarchist.
"Being a true Christian means you're also going to be an anarchist," she argues. "There is just so much misconception about both. People don't investigate either. They just accept the government's and capitalists' manipulated definitions."
Penaloza has been involved with many of the groups grounded at Solidarity.
Lawrence Police Chief Ron Olin stands in front of a group protesting a dinner at the Holiday Inn Holidome, 200 McDonald Drive. The event commemorated the opening of the Robert J. Dole Institute of Politics on July 21, 2003.
She helped start Workers Support, a group offering assistance to people, especially "legal or illegal" Hispanic immigrants, who are unable to get government services. Penalolaa herself emigrated from Mexico City six years ago.
Penaloza also finds time to write to her pen pal — an inmate in a New York correctional facility — as part of Kansas Mutual Aid, an ongoing effort lending support to "political prisoners." To anarchists, that means all prisoners.
State Department was on hand in response to an Overseers Security Advisory Council's listing of a potential threat, which Penaloza lightly mocks. She says the convention went smoothly and peacefully.
She was proud to take part in organizing the North American Anarchist Gathering in 2002. Five hundred anarchists camped at Clinton Lake for the weekend convention. The U.S.
This Saturday, as most, Penaloza leaves a meeting to go home and help her housemate, Vanessa Hays, senior in women's studies, prepare for Food Not Banks.
Hays makes her way through erupting bags of bread, beans and indefinable edibles that fill her kitchen and begins cooking with some help. Food Not Banks is a local take-off of a growing national anarchist effort. Food Not Bombs, which provides a free vegetarian meal, made of food reclaimed from dumpsters, to the community. It serves massive appetites in front US Bank, on the corner of Ninth and Massachusetts streets, every Saturday evening at 7.
"We feed off their wastefulness," says an FNB regular, calling himself "Scrounger," as he takes big bite of recovered rigatoni.
Like many anarchists Scrounger makes dumpsterdiving a way of life.
Strano explains that their black-bin binges "utilize the excess, rather than participate in disease of consumerism."
"I do it because I can't afford a good slice," Scrowunger savs plainly.
After filling up at Food Not Banks, Erica Goddard, freshmen and native Lawrentian, fights her way through a crowd of tube tops, beer belies and slurred hoots in front of It's Brothers Bar and Grill, 1105 Massachusetts St., turning the corner to check in at the Oread Community Network's meeting at Solidarity. You won't see this hipster spending her week-end partying or bar hopping. Her Saturday nights are dedicated to patrolling Lawrence on bike for OCN's version of Neighborhood Watch.
The 115-pound anarchist, together with her patrol partner, cruise the streets between 1 and 4 a.m., keeping an eye out for police harassment or the average drunkard in need of escort. Goddard says she helps them so they don't have to face the consequences of police intervention, such as a fine or being hauled off to jail.
The anarchists carry ideals and dreams that could never fit into a ballot box. They do not support political parties. Instead, they try Direct Democracy, which Strano vaguely defines as "everyone in the community taking part in every decision."
Many anarchists do not vote, yet they maintain a reputation as one of the most political groups in town.
In mid-April the group was bestowed Lawrence's Tom and Anne Moore Peace & Justice Award, which recognizes a person or group for significant contribution to the local, national or international community.
The group's most recent focus is queer rights. Ruscin, the GTA in women's studies, has a passionate message for the queer community in Lawrence.
"I say act up, fight back, let's get out of the bars and into the street," Ruscin says. She shares the idea that gender and queer rights is the rights movement of our time, and Solidarity's support gaily expands beyond its large queer section in the library. In early April, it hosted the Tyranny Road show, a truly bi-partisan transient performance group. Most recently the group has started "Queer as Fuck," a radical "queerleading" group lending their cheers to the queers.
In August 2001, and again in March 2004, the anarchists threw a block party at "corporate corner" on Massachusetts Street, between Sixth and Seventh streets, blocking the streets with sofas. The eclectic party-goers played a game of corporate heads piñata, blasted loud punk music and sprayed "anti-corporate" logos in front of Gap.
The revolution will not be televised, but is being digitalized, and catalogued, and organized — by the anarchists, seemingly set on
bringing radicalism back to Lawrence.
The anarchists' next protest will take place, with raised fists rather than flags, on April 30 at the Army Recruiting Office, 2223 Louisiana.
counterculture and be a part of the continuous and constant contribution to the collective consciousness in our school, town and vast reaches of the country. The eyes and ears of the country are on us — what are we going to say?
We, the youth of today, with the richest history to date, have the ability to learn about past
- Leyser is a sophomore in journalism. Edited by Lori Bettes and Janette Crawford.
Burroughs
In 1981, infamous counterculture author William S. Burroughs invoked to Lawrence. He brought a countercultural rebinx, nirvana activism, reviving members from the various decades and countercultural movements. People such as David Chile and Rusty L. Mankhovich resurfaced and wrote books to document local oppositional cultures. Once again, Lawrence opcinal culture gained national awareness.
Wayne Propt also reenamed as friend and chef of Burroughs. Propt built mock weapons for Burroughs, most notably a cannon that shot bowling balls.
Burroughs
"Borrabbu just come out here so he could go shent his damn汗." Prost says.
Burroughs attracted international countercultural icons to town, including Timothy Leary, Patti Smith, Bob Dylan, Kurt Cobain, Steve Buscemi and Allen Ginsberg. Some performed while in town.
Beginnings of punk
To many, Lawrence has become known as "the place where Bitrone lived."
Punk
The country was blinded by a brief strobe of despair that burned out the radical culture of the 70s, but soon the original punk was revealed; which engaged in struggles against authority. The punks went to the The Outhouse — now the Out House, a B.Y.O.B. strip club at 1837 N. 1500 Rd., where hardcore punk shows raged on every weekend.
Punks went to shows at the Fetley, Eugene, Massachusetts St. or The Bottlemen, 737 New Hampshire St. — but the real, "hardcore punks" went to punk houses like the P Pirate House.
The 90s brought a popularized punk revival to Lawrence. The much younger "new pink" engaged in struggles against mediocrity and tried to shock the society they could fit into that were chosen at the Bonney League. 916
The Pirate House was the house for wild punk parties,
and "bandzounds" shoes were held every weekend.
"It became do-it-yourself touring, and we were do-it-yourself punks," says Pirate House couch-crasher Chris Kellogg. From the greedy muddy scene emerged the anarchists, a more organized and active offshoot. They garrisoned the Pirate House and renamed it the Joe Hill House, transitioning it from a punk party house into a sober organizing space. The leftover punks opened a new punk house that they called the Haunted Kitchen.
There was a silent tension between the Haunted Kitchen thrill-seeking, party-living punks and the too-busy-organizing to-party, ex.punk anarchists. They stayed out of each other's spaces.
Alicia Rusin describes 1990s Lawrence activism as "breaking away from our parent models of success, to real fun — not homogenized consumer-oriented fun." The anarchists slowly became Lawrence's most unified and radical movement since the 70s.
Arming themselves with their bike, they participated in Critical Mass, which met monthly to ride in the streets occpying entire lanes, proclaiming their rights to the road. The group brought together like-minded locals, riding together into the beginnings of Solidarity
ONLINE POLL
Results of this week's poll
In your opinion, how do counterculture groups affect the Lawrence community, politically and socially?
♦ 26% said Not at all — get them out of here
- 13% said Occasionally — their activism gets to some people
♦ 23% said Somewhat — they add to Lawrence's liberal bent
❖ 35% said Immensely — Lawrence wouldn't be the same without them
Percentages based on 21st interview
kansan.com
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