Yesterday was one of those warm Vancouver Sunday early evenings when we can proudly declare, without fear of argument, the environmental superiority of our city. While walking with friends down in Gastown, at Water St. and Carrall, we came across a mounted policewoman, which, no doubt had been dispatched as a hospitable public relations gesture. Not the RCMP variety but a Vancouver constable riding a huge and formidably beautiful beast decorated and spirited and although being ridden, seemed to have an awareness of its own importance, independence and duty. It edged and snorted its way forward in a kind of sideways motion lifting its forelegs knee high and placing them back down hard in a display of controlled power. The policewoman was visibly pleased with her mount’s exhibition.
Involuntarily, I recoiled, startled. My guests were surprised that I seemed afraid of such a marvelous and unlikely appearance of the mounted officer. And I unashamedly explained myself.
����������� About this time, over 35 years ago, I began, actually on August 7, 1971, we had a riot in these very streets during which four mounted Vancouver policemen discredited and shamed themselves, and the city in the view of many. “The Gastown Police Riots”, as they were referred to in the papers afterwards. I continued explaining that I was a naïve art school student, roaming the peripheries of the assembly of about 2,000 provocative “heads”, and entirely innocent tourists and ordinary Vancouver citizens.
����������� My guests, peered around; from left to right as if looking for some remnants of rioting, were surprised and intrigued by the basics of my story so asked me to expand the narrative. By asking me to expand the memory I took it to mean embellish and so took the opportunity of being able to offer a living history of our city. I continued the story with as much adventure and commentary as I could recall.
����������� It was a time when the police believed that smoking dope made your hair grow longer. Everyone nodded in agreement. I was a junior art school student at the time at the Vancouver School of Art and so was imminently eligible as a possible detainee, having had the obligatory long hair. I later added a moustache and beard, supposed to indicate a complete metamorphosis from� citizen to civil foe. �Almost everyone with long hair was a police target for harassment, illegal search and seizures; and the application of a rather loosely worded ‘vagrancy’ law which entitled the police immeasurable latitude in questioning and detaining anyone that they showed an interest in. But this attitude existed all across North America and what happened in the states, often became the case in local Vancouver. The crux of all the conflagration and attitude was focused on the legalization of marijuana: an innocent theme of the moment characterized by bright and explorative school age kids wanting something called ‘freedom’. It was part of the times when such social assessments were more for display than political discussion.
����������� An article printed by the Georgia Straight a prominent underground newspaper of the day advised: “…not to promote any kind of antagonism or violence, and asked those who attended the rally to give the police no justifications for arrest.” It encouraged restraint and withdrawal against any attempts by police to "manufacture a police riot." The attitude that night was just that, a quiet, orderly assembly of those for and against liberalization laws. That is until the four horsemen advanced on the crowd about 10:00 pm. Determined to transform a modest assembly into a fully developed riot.
����������� Even from a distance you could sense the powerful chests of the horses charging into the crowd. Their mouths wee open as if gasping for air and ready to physically attack. Long-haired hippies were not the only target. Innocent bystanders and tourists were caught up in this shameful historical display of force and violence. In "almost a satanic arrogance" the horsemen waded into the crowds. Horses galloped unsure of their footing down the slippery sidewalks of the refurbished streets. Pedestrians were pinned to walls and doorways and then lashed indiscriminately with heavy batons. The damage was immediate and horrific. Police control was maintained within minutes, the strategy of fear and flight having taken its toll. Mr. Sweeny, alderman at the time was quoted as saying, "They are using them [sic] like you'd use a stick to beat a dog."
����������� Afterwards was cleanup and arresting time. Anyone acting contrary to what police perceived to be uncooperative were seized and undignifyingly thrown into the back of a paddy wagon, often with the assistance of a perfunctory probe from an eagerly wielded baton. Fevers and fear ran high.
����������� We passed by a restaurant where they were distributing “The Georgia Straight”. I �explained that the paper which was the bible of so many in the late sixties and early seventies and which was proudly referred to as Vancouver’s free underground press at the time, is now albeit an all-entertainment, mostly music-focused publication. Oddly, the paper has the same publisher, Mr. Dan McLeod which is a testimonial to the obvious: that both people and times change.
����������� My guests looked around them perhaps trying to re-enact the story in their minds. We were at the exact position of the riots that took place almost 37 years ago. I laughed after reading their expressions. I agreed that it was hard to believe. The Vancouver constable moved her mount nimbly across the cobblestones and sidewalks. She was less than 30 years old so I resisted the temptation to ask her if she knew of the history of the Gastown Police Riots. I think it would have embarrassed my guests if I had asked, and may have perplexed the policewoman so I denied myself the opportunity.
Anyway, as we have established, people change and that goes for the police of today. I think it unlikely that you would be able to witness such a display of force in this day and age on such a non-violent question. The kind of insurrection in 1994 which we refer to as the Stanley Cup Riots, are a different kind of confrontation fuelled by hooliganism and alcohol.�
My guests wanted to return to Gastown the next day and take in some restaurants, all of which as I explained, were new to the area. There were new trendy sites Irish Pubs selling nothing but salt and the pepper, which are fashionable for awhile and then die off discreditably, like sudden, summer thunderstorms. I agreed to accompany them starting in the early afternoon and luckily we were again favored by one of those days. ���
Comments