One student’s running diary of the Westboro Baptist Church protest

In the days after the original “Some Pretty Awful People Coming to Stanford” e-mail made the rounds informing us of the upcoming visit from Westboro Baptist Church, a few friends and I began to brainstorm some counter-protest ideas. They included, but were not limited to, a reading of the Vagina Monologues and ghost riding down Mayfield. But more seriously, our collective hope was that Stanford’s famed eccentric side (see: Synergy’s penchant for streaking) would come out to play. Accordingly, I volunteered to write a running diary of the day’s events.

But instead of recapping a morning of creative responses, the lone recourse was a gathering in the name of “unity,” “tolerance” and “diversity,” and everyone had to play along. The irony of silencing student expression by making them conform to one response, while allowing a hate group to freely speak on campus, was not lost on many. Instead of a clever retort (see: University of Chicago and Oberlin College), this disingenuous attempt to make everyone feel wanted was disheartening at best — it was only Westboro’s presence that prompted such a gathering, and it was undertaken as a form of crowd control as much as anything else. This, though, only begins to scratch the surface.

Contrary to the community’s perpetual non-confrontational stand, there are times when groups are so universally hated that making them feel unwelcome is exactly what’s in order. It is a rare occurrence, but when it happens, it is a waste not to capitalize on it.

Which is to say: the reactions herein are unadulterated, and while I had hoped that they would be focused mainly on our dear friends from Kansas, they are equally about Stanford’s lack of a response. The police estimated that between 800 and 1,000 people showed up on Friday morning, but for what? Let’s go to the tape.

7:30 a.m. Hop out of bed, immediately regret my decision, look for some rat poison to mainline, emerge unsuccessful.
8:08 a.m. Collect compatriots; saunter over to Hillel as the SUPD barricades Mayfield.
8:12 a.m. No one here. There were rumors that Westboro might not make it, but that’s not their M.O.
8:13 a.m. “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”?
8:15 a.m. They have arrived. I must admit, part of my motivation for coming out was to see Westboro in the flesh. Many share my initial fascination. As someone in the crowd notes, “It’s like we’re watching animals in a zoo.”
8:16 a.m. It’s noted here “explain that comment.” The zoo analogy works on many levels, as there is a legion of administrators and purple-clad volunteers preventing students from coming onto the sidewalk. There’s a 25-foot buffer that makes any interaction practically impossible.
8:20 a.m. I notice one of the first — and only — lever signs: “Gay for Fred Phelps.” This is soon followed by a virtuous lad in a rabbit suit holding a poster saying, “Don’t feed the trolls.”
8:22 a.m. Nearsightedness be damned, I pick out a supposed Bible passage. According to Westboro, Matthew 19:5 says, “Fags can’t marry.” We can go out on a limb and say that no, that’s not what’s written.
8:25 a.m. Back to the hidden rope line. A few souls have made it to Westboro’s vicinity. One is a former Marine — remember, the “church” applauds IEDs — who remains unflinching in his stance and subsequent glare. We learn later that one protestor wanted him arrested for stalking. That would have been a sight to see: the police ushering away or cuffing a non-violent veteran.
8:26 a.m. “You have to move back two feet, just two feet.” I will hear this phrase no less than a dozen times over the course of the morning. A strange dichotomy exists. The administrators are actively asking students, “Why don’t you make some noise and get excited” — this, as heard from no less than three different people — while simultaneously confining them to an area where Talisman is drowned out and frankly, nothing is happening.
8:28 a.m. A list of songs that, so far, Westboro has changed the lyrics to: Hatikva, Hey Jude and Hava Nagila. A great response? 500 people doing an impromptu horah. Does it happen? No.
8:29 a.m. Signs of life. A bagpiper emerges from Bob. The crowd roars.
8:30 a.m. Although our musician seems content to stay on the other side of the street, the ever-righteous Dean Julie makes sure he makes it across to Hillel. Excellent. Bagpipes and a kilt at 8:30 in the morning? This is more like it.
8:37 a.m. An odd sequence of events. A few friends and I begin guessing the ages of the protestors — some, we reckon, are college age. The administrators once again tell us to back our collective asses up, so we wave goodbye to our visitors. This prompts one girl to smile back and blush. No, hun, you’re not my type. On one level, you have to feel for some of the younger members — indoctrinated from a young age, prevented from doing much of anything else, and so on. Which is nice for a moment, but nay, you most certainly do not have to feel much of anything but vitriol toward them.

The notepad runs out there. Sometime in the near future, Westboro left without much of a sound. The Band showed up moments later and played for a few minutes. It was, predictably, the most fun part of the morning — a display of true Stanford culture. The word was that, because of the Band’s tendency to get rowdy, they decided to not come until later. And yet, because of the inadvertent human barricade between the Band, situated adjacent to Hillel, and the street, there was little chance for harm.

The missed opportunities abounded, although, as we would hear later, some entrepreneurial fellows took it upon themselves to slash Westboro’s tires. Upon hearing the news, Dean Schaffer ‘10 put it best: “God hates AAA.” And while that was no activity that many condoned, sad faces were hard to come by — the general reaction was “good” and “well deserved.” That says a lot — the visceral feelings that a large part of the community felt toward Westboro were teeming, and yet the only recourse for that anger was in the unfortunate form of vandalism. Instead of showing the public our ingenuity, we bottled it up until someone broke in a criminal way.

Was it a waste of a morning? Hardly, but it said volumes about the Stanford experience.