It’s a Wrap

Alice, a 15-year-old drifter, was standing outside, trying to hitch a ride back to Oakland. “Krazy Bill” was hauling stacks of Free Mumia posters to a recycling bin. And Roger, the artist, was boxing up a gigantic red-faced corporate greed puppet and clearing out of the parking lot.

They were among the few remaining souls Friday at the Convergence Center, which served as ground zero for this week’s protest movement. And almost as quickly as it formed in the Pico-Union neighborhood west of downtown--flooding the area with colorfully clad protesters, beaten-up Volvos and scraggly-haired families drinking soy milk--the center was disbanding.

For hundreds of protesters who came from all corners of the country, the bald concrete building on 7th Street was the nucleus of their convention week experience. It was the place to go for rally information, Band-Aids, legal advice, art supplies, meals and anti-establishment literature.

But with the Democratic National Convention over, organizers of this week’s street demonstrations planned to wind down all operations at their headquarters this weekend and go their separate ways until the next battle--whenever or wherever that is.

People inside and outside of the Convergence Center said they’ll miss the place.

“We’ve had a lot of good times in here sharing what little we got and trying to make revolution fun,” said Krazy Bill, a gray-bearded protester.

Protesters weren’t supposed to sleep in the building--the lease and zoning didn’t allow it. But it remained open 24 hours and sustained a freewheeling, Woodstock-like air in a working-class, mostly immigrant community.

“Yeah, those folks stuck out, ‘cause they dressed like they were in the ‘70s,” said Paul Davis, who lives in the Westlake Apartments down the street. “But they were cool, man. Those kids came here to get across their issues.”

Organizers from the D2KLA activist coalition took over the four-story building with chicken wire covering the windows on Aug. 5. It cost them $4,000 to rent the building until Wednesday, when they must vacate.

The 90-year-old building, last used as a flea market but abandoned 15 years ago, was in “scary shape,” said protest organizer Kimi Lee. In the days leading up to the convention, committees were formed to unclog toilets, replace broken windows, lay down donated carpeting, rig lights, bleach floors and set up a kitchen capable of serving 3,000 vegan meals a day. (Typical menu: granola and rice or soy milk for breakfast; pasta salad for lunch; and tofu tacos and chopped mangoes for dinner.)

By Monday, opening day of the convention, the Convergence Center was abuzz with activity. It continued throughout the week.

Young men with tattoos clustered around the back entrance blowing into didgeridoos and tickling guitars. Inside, on the first floor, a legal committee held what-to-do-if-you’re-arrested seminars and went over the ABCs of civil disobedience.

People marched around in berets. Others wore “Meat is Murder” T-shirts. Upstairs, rally-weary protesters crashed on plywood floors while comrades brushed paint on demonstration puppets.

“This was such a great space for creativity. You had all these strangers here and everyone had a role,” said Erin Zion, a 22-year-old Berkeley grad who wants to pursue a career making socially conscious puppets. “It’s sad this place is closing down and we have to go home.”

By Thursday, some protesters began to leave. Many demonstrators were visibly drained.

On Friday at noon, organizers held a final meeting to discuss how to support the 50-some colleagues arrested during demonstrations and still in jail.

Then the cleanup started and arrangements were made to return copiers, tables and other borrowed equipment. Out back, people sought rides and one sullen 18-year-old sat on a box holding a sign that read: “Trying Desperately to Go North and/or East.”

Because the center was the result of several unaffiliated groups banding together, there was never any question that its doors would close after the convention. Some people, like Lynn Miesse, a Florida-based activist, were fine with that.

“It’s time to move on,” Miesse said as she put her 4-year-old son, Skylar, on a hip and headed toward the door of her family’s 1979 sea green school bus with bikes, fishing nets and buckets on top. “We’re not the type to get attached to spaces.”

But some people did get attached. And it wasn’t just protesters.

Hyo Shin nearly got a tear in his eye remembering the moments when every stool at his 7th Street juice bar swiveled with a young, upbeat demonstrator sipping freshly squeezed carrot or apple juice.

He liked the youths. They made him think of his own son. He sometimes gave them extra juice and worried when they left because of all the police on the streets.

“These were good kids,” Shin said as he peered out his storefront toward the now-quiet ramshackle building.

“Good kids, yes, good for the neighborhood, good for this world. Do you know when they’re coming back?”

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Staff writer Joe Mozingo contributed to this story.