[mobglob-discuss] BURN THE FLAG - My Canada Day in Jail

[Garth Mullins]

BURN THE FLAG – My Canada Day in Jail

In 1997, I observed Canada’s birthday in a tiny jail cell, with bruised ribs 
and skull, wearing only my army pants, standing in an inch of piss. Activists 
had placed their bodies under the wheels of the paddy wagon that was taking 
me in. It seemed appropriate enough.

Canada was celebrating 130 years of conquest, genocide, assimilation and 
polite Anglo-Saxon anal retention. It was a hot, sunny flag-waving day of 
jingoism and xenophobia in Vancouver. Regular folks were encouraged to 
blindfold and gag themselves with the maple leaf flag and get behind their 
oppressors and exploiters - ideological masochism. 

Activists were unwilling to let this event go by without a little counter-
hegemonic shit disturbing, and had called a demo to disrupt the celebrations. 
Numbering no more than 40, we assembled in front of the Granville Sky Train 
station. With politically edited Canadian flags, we marched down to Canada 
Place, where the hypnotized hordes indulged in flag waving and anthem 
singing. 

Our little posse arrived and set up shop. A number of speakers exposed 
Canada’s real history of conquest, genocide, potlatch-banning, rebellion-
smashing, Quebec-invading, civil liberties-eroding, union-squashing, On-to-
Ottawa trek crushing, and other events not generally found in Canada Post’s 
TV Heritage Moments. Some nationalist celebrants listened with interest. 

Being prepared with accelerant, we then set about burning a big pile of 
Canadian flags that we had brought for the purpose. A concerned Samaritan 
tried to stamp out the mass of flaming imperialist symbols, only to alight 
her own shoe, which I then stomped out. The celebrating crowd reacted with a 
mix of emotions. Several rednecks made their way to our little spectacle and 
began yelling, hollering, chest-thumping and issuing threats. 

A crew of police was soon to follow. “Who’s in charge?” they demanded. As 
usual they projected their own organizational hierarchy onto us, assuming 
that we had captains, corporals and privates, like them. “Nobody!” we yelled, 
in unison and moral superiority.  But the police told us that we should leave 
the immediate area, to avoid all being arrested. After a brief discussion we 
decided to take our protest on the road.

The cops escorted us away from the crowd of flag lovers. As soon as we were 
around the corner, and out of sight of the public, I heard the radio of a 
near by donut-muncher: “crackle-crackle professional protesters crackle-
crackle Garth Mullins crackle-crackle Jaggi Singh crackle-crackle arrest ‘em” 
Protesters looked at each other and everyone broke for it.

I was tackled by three refrigerator-sized cops.  Not having ever played 
football at school, I went down like a bag of water-logged and unread 
Socialist Worker newspapers. Splat. Through a galaxy of spinning stars, I saw 
a few people looking on in horror, some videotaping, and Jaggi holding a 
baby. Damn, that guy is good with the tactics. A crowd of spectators looked 
on. I told them “this is what you are celebrating.” Then one cop, grabbed my 
dreads and banged my head off the road. I began to yell out my phone number, 
and received a further bonk for every digit.

As news crews arrived, I was shoved into a paddy wagon. But we weren’t 
moving. I later found out that a dozen people lied down under the wheels of 
the vehicle, making it impossible for police to leave. They were hauled out 
one by one. When we finally go down to the station at 312 Main, I discovered 
that my friend Norm was in the other section of the wagon. He had been 
arrested for asking the police why I had been arrested.

I asked why I had been selected out for special attention, and was then 
charged with inciting and petty theft. Apparently I had stolen the flag of a 
celebrant, but the evidence was all burnt. Of course, we had brought our own –
 stolen from government offices and hotels weeks before. 

I was booked, printed, mug shot and stripped of everything but my pants. I 
was locked in a tiny 3’ by 4’ cell with an inch of piss on the floor, in 
which I stood without shoes for eight hours. The walls were full of graffiti, 
the most profound of which said simply “THIS SUCKS!” Indeed.

I demanded my phone call, and got Tony Tracy on his cell. He had arrived at 
the action, which had moved to the front of the police station. I was able to 
address folks through Tony and his phone. When the police realized my ranting 
and rhetoric was not to legal aid, they ended my call. Click. 

Around 7 p.m., I could hear the booking officers watching the “Simpsons” on 
TV. I heard the TV cartoon police ‘Chief Wiggum’ saying “Hey, those guys made 
fun of me, and just called me Chief Piggum…” The Vancouver police on duty 
laughed at this. I spent the rest of the day there, until midnight, when I 
was released onto the streets without charge, in pee-pee soaked socks. Makes 
me feel proud to be a Canadian.   


Garth Mullins, Vancouver