“Looks like I’m on the no-fly list again,” Rudy spoke matter-of-factly with Democracy Now blaring from the TV in the background. It wasn’t that he was on the no-fly list that I found interesting; it was the word again.
Rudy was a self-proclaimed member of Antifa and I had lived in the same house as him, three kids, two dogs and a Tinder date who took me in at the start of the COVID-19 lockdown. He lived in the basement, built Lego sets, had a crazy amount of World War II knowledge, and really liked music. Mostly punk rock. He wasn’t scary. He almost never left the house.
He claims to have been part of a group called The Green Anarchists when he was younger. He told stories of protesting in Seattle against the WTO when the riots broke out in 1999 and from there apparently, he was placed on the no-fly list for being a domestic terrorist the first time.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what had gotten the 45-year-old basement dweller onto the list in 2020. President Trump declared Antifa a terrorist organization, but according to Rudy there was no real leadership or organization to Antifa that he would have been a part of or recognized as. His sole contribution had to have something to do with the hours and hours every day that he spent looking at his phone and monitoring the news.
When the riots in Minneapolis broke out after the murder of George Floyd, he gave me news briefs every time I had a break from work that put CNN to shame. He followed white supremacist groups such as the Proud Boys through what sounded like shady back alley chat rooms and gave updates regularly about the wrongdoings of people I had never heard of. He was completely engrossed in the drama of the situation following every little shred of news about the riots from any source mainstream or otherwise that he could connect with. As the unrest went on, he became more and more involved. It was kind of sad to watch him disconnect with the real world in favor of the constant stream of negative behavior coming through his news feeds.
Then it happened. Someone in Libby, Montana scheduled a Black Lives Matter protest to show solidarity with the BLM movement. Rudy was going to have his day.
Facebook blew up in the days leading to the event with threats and accusations directed towards anyone who dare protest and promises from the 3% militia to come and keep the piece less the Antifa organizers fill their white vans with trouble makers and drop them off in Libby the same way they hadn’t done in Coeur d’Alene, ID the week before.
Rudy arrived at the protest. Dressed well with a railroad conductors cap with a Boy Scout pin in the middle front. He carried an Antifa flag and riled the ire of a couple of old men. That was about it. From my role as a journalist and interested observer, I watched as he was flipped off by a couple of Trump supporters, taunted by a few men well beyond their prime and interviewed by the local newspaper. The one time he raised his voice he ended up in a very civil conversation with the sheriff and the leader of the militia group. It was such a tense affair that I went and got the kids so they could come experience what was going on. They were unimpressed too.
He returned home later that night to a triumphant dinner. Recounted a few details of the conversations he had and made calls to family to ensure them that he had survived and was not in any trouble or danger. Facebook exploded again the next day with pictures of him at the rally and boisterous comments from people who weren’t there.
All was well. Libby had its villain. Rudy had his protest stories. I shook my head in sadness as I imagined people all over the country ducking in fear of the Antifa boogeymen.
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