The clashes between authorities and protesters that have taken place in downtown Portland for more than sixty days have been described as authoritarian, dystopian, fascistic. And they are all of these things.

Yet at times, one can’t help but feel a sense of absurdity, too.

In front of the heavy steel fence that separates the nightly throng of angry Portlanders from the courthouse authorities, I’m standing in a crowd of hundreds, a mix of genders and ages, many of them the moms, dads, and even grandparents who became the front lines of the city’s civil disobedience campaign, kitted out in bike helmets, face coverings, and — for the lucky and well-prepared — gas masks. At best, they’re armed with a makeshift shield or leaf-blower; there’s a chance they have an umbrella, picket sign, or a laser; most likely, they’re empty-handed.