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Jewish World Review Oct. 19, 2000 / 20 Tishrei, 5761
Philip Terzian
Such demonstrations, in the past, were comparatively rare. Coxey's Army, a populist
contingent that walked from Massillon, Ohio, descended on the capital in 1894. The Ku Klux Klan
marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in 1924. The Bonus Marchers occupied the Anacostia Flats in
the summer of 1932, until Gen. Douglas MacArthur, the Army chief of staff, routed them with
tanks.
Now, in the television age, mass demonstrations are a routine event. Beginning with the
1963 civil rights march, the urge to descend on the Mall, disrupt commuters, dislocate workers,
deposit mountains of rubbish and figuratively shake fists at the White House or Congress, is
irressistible. Washington has been the destination of choice for feminists, AIDS quilts,
antiwar, animal rights, pro- and anti-abortion activists, motorcycling veterans, angry farmers,
homosexuals, truckers and environmentalists, Promise Keepers and proponents of a nuclear
freeze.
Driving to church on a Sunday morning, you're never sure if you might find your path
blocked by a 10K fun run against breast cancer, a march of Iranian dissidents, or women
protesting female circumcision.
In the past few years, however, the undoubted master of ceremonies has been the Black
Muslim orator Louis Farrakhan. Five years ago Farrakhan convened something called the Million
Man March, which prompted some 300,000 black men to pack the eastern end of the Mall and listen
to his two-hour talk on numerology, white supremacy, Jewish control of the media, economy and
frican slave trade, and the importance of racial unity. What the Million Man March achieved is
open to conjecture, but it spawned innumerable t-shirts and inspired Spike Lee to make a movie
on the subject.
The success of that event -- the press tended to concentrate on Farrakhan's style, ignoring
the anti-Semitism and his mystical attachment to the number 19 -- yielded a host of pale
imitators: A Million Mom March, a Million Youth March, etc. And this week Minister Farrakhan
produced his own imitation, the Million Family March.
The Million Man March had a fascist quality that was intriguing to observe: As Farrakhan
spoke, he was surrounded by his uniformed "Fruit of Islam" praetorian guard, scanning the
throng with sunglassed eyes for non-existent enemies. And the Minister was so evidently
incensed -- at white folks, especially Jews and their "gutter religion" -- that his anger ebbed
and flowed like abdominal cramps.
By contrast, the Million Family March was a sullen disappointment: It was never quite clear
what its point might have been, and Spike Lee won't be making a film on the subject. To the
cynical observer, it might even be said that Farrakhan convened the march largely because he
relishes the sound of his voice. He was reduced to depending on the resources of the
Unification Church (the Moonies) to put the thing together, and a portion of the day was
devoted to a filmed chronicle of his travels, thrown on huge screens on each side of the Mall.
Farrakhan had hoped to attract a galaxy of black entertainers, but had to settle for
Whitney Houston and her husband, Will Smith and his wife -- all of whom waved to the crowd but
said nothing. The high point, for me, was the list of acknowledgments: The Metropolitan Police,
the Rev. Sun Myung Moon, hip hop impresario Russell Simmons, and best of all (in Farrakhan's
words), "those street organizations that are called gangs," whose strict bonds of loyalty are
instructive to all. Imagine Malcolm X addressing the Lions Club, and you aproximate the flavor
of the Million Family March.
Perhaps most poignant was the offstage activity. When I was a boy I took a bus downtown to
watch the 1963 civil rights demonstration -- largely out of curiosity, I confess -- and recall
only marchers intent on their mission. By contrast, on Monday, even while Farrakhan was
speaking, most of the families in attendance were buying and eating, recumbent on towels,
talking and chewing. Constitution Avenue was lined for blocks with vendors hawking steaks and
fried chicken, pennants and hats, assorted CDs, paperback books, African-style sculpture,
jewelry and clothing. This was not a gathering of people observing the importance of families;
it was, instead, a celebration of taking Monday off.
And, it should be added, the t-shirt economy was very much in evidence: There were dozens
of piles of shirts in all colors, most of which were unsold by the end of the day. One vendor,
in front of the National Archives, was offering shirts for a dollar; or if you didn't need a
shirt, a "F**k George W. Bush" poster, which he advertised by screaming at the top of his
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