Editor’s note: This is the eighth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

It was Sunday, and I awoke to the news that on the previous day, hundreds of thousands of people had marched for the occupation in cities all over the world, and although 3000 to 5000 people marched in Austin, the local newspaper, The Austin American Statesman, covered it as if it was a minor car accident on the Travis County line. But we knew better because we were there.

Later in the day, The Austin American Statesman offered a few photographs on their website, and they were tastefully done. There was a picture of two children in a wagon holding balloons while being pulled through the Austin protest, which at least helped our image a bit. They were not like pictures from other news organizations cherry-picked to show the most downtrodden or bizarre characters because they think Americans will laugh or make fun of us. Fox News and a handful of other conservative news sites are doing their best to make us look like outlaws, but as anyone can see from looking at pictures of us from all over the country, we are all, simply and beautifully, Americans.

But the day before, the day of the mighty march, I was dressed loudly as possible and ready to go at the designated time. You are supposed to be colorful when you attend a peaceful protest. It helps lighten the mood, puts people at ease and hopefully, they’ll join us. If we all wore black, covered our faces and carried hammers, something tells me the mood would go sour rather quickly. I brought my tambourine, plenty of water, wore my favorite Grateful Dead tie dye given to me by my friend Erica, and a big hat. The crowd got mobilized in the plaza at 11:30 am sharp.

Our first stop was Chase Bank where a few protesters went in to close their accounts and move their money to local credit unions. On Friday, in New York, 30 protesters were allegedly arrested for trying to close their Citibank accounts. That’s right. Citibank, the company that used Robert Rubin to lobby President Clinton to implement the very tactics that brought down the economy, and took in almost 2 trillion dollars in bailout money, is now having people arrested for trying to flee from them with a few thousand dollars of their own money.

We made a lot of noise during the march. I gave a fiery speech on the corner where Chase Bank sits. In a booming angry voice, I shouted, “Look at the protection Chase now gets. Just look at all the police standing by the doors. This is after Chase and other New York banks stole trillions from you and brought down our economy. Where was our protection when Clinton, Bush and Obama opened the safe and dished out your money to them, and now these same banks want to kick you out of your home before they’ll lower your mortgage rates while they get their gambling money free? Now look at these fascist pigs standing behind me ready to throw you in jail because you are angry that you can’t pay your bills because of what these people have done to you. These pigs are protecting the fascist scum that is destroying our world. Who is protecting us now? Nobody! This is what fascism looks like! This is what a police state looks like!”

The crowd flowed around me like I was a rock in the middle of a fast-moving stream. Cameras and microphones came and went. I was giving the battle call to the troops as the cacophony and immensity of the protest swelled. I jumped back into the crowd and made it to another vantage point atop a planter box of some sort. “And for all the soldiers who are overseas giving their arms and legs for our country and even their lives, they aren’t fighting for you, they are fighting to keep the fascist war machine in power and keep you impoverished while your money is taken from schools, bridges and healthcare. This is what fascism looks like! Don’t be stupid! Join us! Join us!” I shouted at the gawkers on the other side of the street.

I hopped from one location to another and repeated variations of the speeches very loudly. By now I was losing my voice, but I managed to yell at an older man with his arms folded as he stood with a larger group of stalled pedestrians, “Folding your arms won’t protect you when freedom comes, because this is what America looks like-this is what democracy looks like-it does not look like the America the fascists are trying to paint for you. You’ve been living a lie. We are fighting for the America the fascists have promised you and never delivered! We are fighting for the small businessman, the house, yard, 2 kids and a dog, not for an America littered with the broken bodies of the fascist war machine!” That was a good one; I had to admit to myself. I was alive, liberated and in the mix. I didn’t feel the jackboot of oppression on my lifestyle or my political beliefs. It was all lifted away and carried over the tops of the buildings along with chants of “We are the 99%” and “You are the 99%” and “This is what Democracy Looks Like!” Occupy Austin had reached the peak of its power.

So, it goes without saying, everyone was exhausted when we got back to the plaza, but spirits were high. There were awesome fiery rallying speeches by the organizers, as they stood on the rocks near the sidewalk on the south side of the plaza, and the honk if yer horny line was in full bloom. Then, an angry young man arrested a few nights before during the power wash, who was now exiled to the sidewalk, was given the microphone. As he faced the crowd, he loudly complained about the police presence, even though the police could have cracked any of us over the head any second during the march, especially me, who was obviously antagonizing them the entire time. Then this odious jerk demanded we call out Joshua, the guy with the dreadlocks, who has worked his ass off for this campaign, because it was Joshua’s PA and Joshua had told the jerk he couldn’t use the PA to be an asshole to the police, although that was exactly what the jerk was doing.

When the idiot finally got off Joshua’s PA system, Joshua was standing near and the scene was like a high school fight about to happen with the dickhead’s few supporters standing near him, and Joshua’s supporters rallying around him. They included a babbling man with an Italian accent talking very close to Joshua’s face, as European’s often do when arguing politics, but the withering effect it was having on Joshua was obvious. There were a few other folks I haven’t seen hanging around, and me, standing between Joshua and the dickhead. The heat was oppressive. The small crowd gathering around the two was animated, standing very close together and highly agitated. Our most victorious day was being tainted by this sorry pitiful angry jerk, with so many ripe whiteheads decorating his face you has to stand back 3 paces just in case one went off, who really had one issue: he was angry he now had a jail record for standing in the way of a power washing machine, and we couldn’t do anything about it.

Joshua was nervous and had crumpled his empty water bottle to the point it looked like old chewing gum. I took it from him, threw it away, then found some fresh water and handed it to him. He was looking perturbed and of course, exhausted. I talked to the dickhead and asked him why he doesn’t channel his energy in the right direction, and then it occurred to me, he didn’t even know what that direction was. He was literally too stupid to know why we were even there. He was just a hothead with a lot of rage who probably would have been better off cooling his heels in jail for a few days and leaving us alone. I really hated that guy. It was then I saw my beautiful occupation movement had an ugly side, just like everything else in America, and just like everything in life, I suppose. A few cops, one with a bandage carefully taped over 5 or 6 bloody stitches above his left eye walked over and stood beside the dickhead to monitor the situation.

Then I talked to a young man named Alan standing near Joshua who appeared to have a grievance for Joshua. I decided to draw fire for the beleaguered Joshua who was melting in the heat and frustration of the moment. Alan said the community organizers, on the minority dominated east side of town, are saying their constituents are not comfortable coming to the rally because of the police presence. He went on to say the rally organizers, like Joshua, by coddling the police, are keeping some people away, the very people who are the most affected in our economy. I reminded Alan that Joshua was working hard and this isn’t a movement about us against each other, it is us against the past. The angry tones must go, we must forget about our differences and chill out so we can move forward. And there was no reason the minorities he spoke of couldn’t come to the plaza. Indeed, half our group’s spokespeople, or magnets as they are called, or of some minority group or another. I reiterated to Alan that most people in today’s America are so used to arguing and not listening they can’t get their head around how the democratic process is supposed to work. And then you’ve got a group of people with trillions of dollars that want us to go the hell away and make sure the system won’t work for us even if we did understand it. Alan agreed, and since things seemed to be cooling off, we shook hands and I moved along, spending the rest of the day and much of the evening drinking in the excitement and exhilaration of Occupy Austin’s crowning achievement: Our glorious and beautiful mighty march.

Late that night, while sitting on a polished piece of granite waiting for Father Time to deliver me a bus at Congress Avenue and Cesar Chavez, I felt myself becoming urban and gritty after spending so much time in the plaza with my comrades. Glaring out into the night, I imagined myself as a gargoyle sitting on a high ledge staring over the same sooty grey buildings for 100 years. I looked around to see what a gargoyle might see from his perch far above the city, although I was grounded by fate and the need for transportation. I looked toward the third floor of the Radisson Hotel and there was a couple getting it on with the curtains wide open. The room was directly over the intersection where the entire world could easily see them. She was on top for a while, then he was, and after a few minutes there was a spectacular missionary finish with all the bells and whistles and legs high in the air. After the show, he stood up, moved into the light of the room, and hastily put on his clothes. He stood near the door and talked for a moment while she sat cross-legged on the bed. Then he turned and abruptly left, his presence replaced with the impressive wooden door. The door was bare except for the oversized key card reader and the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hanging on the inside latch. She remained sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, and began pulling hairpins from her mouth as she put her hairdo back together from memory.

An unofficial count of 400 Occupy Oakland demonstrators were arrested Saturday, January 28, after being fired upon, beaten, kettled, and trapped by Oakland riot police. The Occupy Oakland social movement is rooted in the lower-income, ethnically diverse Bay Area city and has been a previous site of violent police repression. Oakland has been a nexus of social unrest long before the Occupation catalyzed it as an outlet for frustration. Oakland boasts closing public schools, an annual median family income at $56,000 in 2008, and in 2010, it was listed as the fifth most dangerous in the US with a history of police brutality. With all of these simmering tensions, Occupy Oakland’s actions should not come as a surprise to anyone, least of all elected officials like Mayor Quan and Interim Police Chief Howard Jordan.

The Occupy movement is a global social demonstration aimed at overturning the interconnectivity of money/economic/political entitlement. In 2011, acting under orders from Mayor Jean Quan, Oakland cops destroyed two Occupy encampments on public land. The immediate aftermath of their and other cities police forces’ wanton destruction of the camps created dialogue about the definition of public space, the role of elected officials and the need for the Occupy movement.

Occupy Oakland furthered the debate by their attempt to re-purpose the 6-year abandoned and shuttered Henry J. Kaiser Convention Center. The convention center has no current plans for use and Occupiers intended to re-purpose it as a community center, intending to offer housing, medical and convergence facilities. The simple fact that Occupy Oakland decided to enact this bold move is an indication that the public’s needs are not being met by their elected officials.

According to an eyewitness account from an arrested Mother Jones reporter, during an all-day festival, thousands of Occupy Oakland supporters demonstrated against the broken system, but did not take the abandoned convention center. Still, hundreds of police officers dressed in riot gear arrived to face down over a thousand Oakland men, women, and children as they walked the streets and sidewalks carrying signs, chanting and singing. According to the Huffington Post, there was a volley of tear gas and bottles between the police and protesters on the streets. According to various YouTube citizen video footage, the cops shot tear gas and flash bang grenades into lines of protesters, including a group of shield-carrying people protecting a medic as the masked individual provided medical assistance to a fallen man. Protesters retaliated by throwing bottles, furniture and rocks. Last year, brave men and women waded into the tear gas to rescue Scott Olsen after he was shot in the h
ead by a tear gas canister. They were dispersed when an officer shot a canister of tear gas directly into their group.

While no one should ever attack police officers, the violence enacted against police was a reaction to violence demonstrated to them. Not even in a directly proportional sense, the police launched high velocity flash bangs, smoke bombs, and bean bag projectiles while a few demonstrators tossed hand-sized objects while fleeing the public street.

In Oakland, a city so rife with economic and repressive tensions, Mayor Quan and Police Chief Howard seem intent on ignoring the needs of the public and grinding them under the department-approved 5.11 ATAC boot heel. In the mainstream media, Occupy Oakland participants have been typified as the aggressive instigators when, according to citizen journalists, they were only reacting to the upswing in violent action.

Furthermore, later that Saturday, Oakland police further increased the violence when after ordering the hundreds of women and men to disperse, kept them kettled in a small area and arrested them for a range of violations, including failure to disperse. Among the arrested included journalists. The elected officials of Oakland are choosing to burn taxpayer dollars restricting freedom of speech and freedom of assembly. Instead of throwing blame like tear gas canisters or rocks, city officials should consider the upside of allowing a community organization to repurpose an abandoned structure for the betterment of their city.

Locally, in Oakland, the police and state escalated the power struggle by attending a peaceful public demonstration dressed in riot gear. Nationally, the federal government has shown up with its finest billy clubs as First Amendment-curtailing laws like NDAA are signed in to existence, regardless of public outcry.

Escalation is occurring. The state and status quo are utilizing their momentum to further increase the acceptable allowances of violence. When Occupations move to take back their rights, we are beaten, gassed, pepper sprayed, concussed, kettled, and arrested. As one of the many signs I’ve held at my Occupy Chicago rallies reads, “They only call it class warfare when we fight back,” that statement is truth. We need to keep fighting the escalation of violence. Every local occupation needs more ideas, more voices, more bodies dedicated to building a better world where public needs are met and police are not ordered to fire on their brothers and sisters.

- Natalie -

Editor’s note: This story was originally published at thisiswhyioccupy.tumblr.com, and is republished here with the author’s consent. Read the original post.

One Step Back

It is only when we stop seeing each other solely as our roles or affiliated Working Groups – Facilitator, Kitchen, POC, Direct Action, whatever – and start to see each other as people with backgrounds, with histories, with stories – that empathy will prevail over judgment and we’ll begin in solidarity to get some real work done.

And, through our own storytelling and understanding of our histories and what brought us to this moment, this movement, we understand our place within it and possibly where our efforts should lie.

As the saying goes, “If this isn’t deeply personal for you, it won’t stay political for long.”

This is the beginning of my effort to define for why this is personal for me. For me to identify at the root, the heart of things, why I occupy.

Defining Home

Home is not a place, or a building, or even shelter. Home is not defined by where I live or where I keep my things. Home is a feeling, something I understand intuitively through the people I am surrounded by.

Growing up, home was my family – my parents and my older brother.

We moved houses three times between the time I was 12 and 16. I had lived in the first for 12 years, and about for three in the second two. None felt more like home than the others.

I liked the houses we lived in, but moving always kind of felt like an adventure, and I relished in the ability to shed old skins and redefine myself in new spaces.

Moving at age 12 allowed me to replace the bunk bed I had been using since I was very little, the top bunk populated with toys and stuffed animals. In our new house my room was gradually covered, wall to wall, every inch, with magazine cutouts, posters, and music lyrics written on masking tape.

The space became defined by my teenage angst. This room was defined by me, not me by it. It was my room, but it wasn’t my home.

Home was still determined by the people in the space with me.

Leaving

When I left for college in August of 2001 that feeling of home stayed with me. And for the first couple years, that feeling drew me back to Chicago and my family. There was a part of me that thought I might move back there.
When my brother moved to LA the summer before my senior year, the feeling evolved and I started planning a post-graduation move to the West Coast.

But spring break of senior year, in LA with my parents visiting my brother, changed nearly everything for me.

Every concept I had of what it meant to be family – everything I thought I understood of my family – came crashing down around me.

I learned a lot about how priorities, transparency, honesty, money, and love affected my family, and our relationships.

I found out my future was being mortgaged to sustain an unsustainable present.

Only now do I understand that my family was most likely working class, not middle class, as I had always assumed.

I learned that a dramatic explosive event is never where a story begins – there is always something, an action, an event, building up to this reaction. This is a symptom of some other root cause.

And I’ve learned that treating symptoms only delays an eventual relapse. Root causes must always be the focus of restorative, or better yet, transformative action.

A lesson learned on this trip, and in the months that followed, would be reaffirmed nearly six years later – love alone isn’t enough.

Without mutual effort, trust, compassion – what I now might call solidarity – a relationship cannot be sustained on love alone.

Two Steps Forward

In the years following the trip with my parents, and the months following my breakup, home was defined by my circle of friends who not only helped me weather the storm, but also made it all worthwhile.

And then Occupy Wall Street came along.

I can make a direct connection to how all this is relevant and applicable to OWS and my activism work. But I think for now it’s enough to have put all this out there.

I know that it comes from a place of privilege to talk about home in an emotional sense, without the fear or concern regarding actual shelter that so many people in this nation, and across the world, have on a daily basis, not to mention the actual struggles for basic needs that I will probably never know.

I will be moving forward from this point – acknowledging this is my reality, putting it on the table, with a desire to learn and grow and evolve – knowing this is all just a tiny fragment of why I occupy.

Brett Goldberg | @poweredbycats

Editor’s note: This letter was originally published at

Dear Mayor Emanuel:

You didn’t see me today, but I was at City Hall for the Chicago City Council meeting. You couldn’t have seen me, because I was not allowed in – nor were any members of the general public. Maybe in your eyes this made the meeting run more smoothly. In my eyes, it was a travesty.

For as long as I can remember, I have heard those in your generation and older bemoaning how the young people in this country are uninformed and apathetic about politics, particularly at the local level. I am in the demographic that supposedly does not vote, does not know their elected representatives, does not read legislation, and certainly does not attend City Hall meetings.

Except that I do vote – in every election, big or small. I know my elected representatives by sight and by name. I read ordinances and other legislation that is up for a vote and contact my representatives with questions and concerns. And now, this week, I showed up at City Hall to sit in on some meetings. I never expected that when I wanted to engage in the political process this way – personally – I would be turned away.

You didn’t see me today, but you may have heard me. I was one of the people outside the City Council chambers chanting, “Let us in! Let us in! We vote no!”

Here’s the funny thing: I came to City Hall today to observe, not to protest. After contacting my alderman (Silverstein – 50^th ward) and attending yesterday’s committee meeting, I learned details of the amendments made to your proposed ordinance changes. In the past 24 hours, I went from strongly objecting to your proposal to only having a few relatively minor concerns with the new ordinances. So while I do consider myself a member of Occupy Chicago and gladly joined up with them before the meeting, I wasn’t there to protest the ordinance changes. I assumed they would pass, and I was more or less okay with that.

Why did I show up? I was there to be involved in the process. To report on the meeting via social media for those who were concerned but could not attend in person.

For a mayor who champions “transparency,” it seems odd that the exact language of the proposed ordinances as they were to be voted on was not made easily accessible to the public. Your denial to let me and other members of the public witness the passing of these ordinances today also concerned and upset me. It changed me from a mere observer to an active protester, simply because I get a bad taste in my mouth when supposedly open meetings have no room for the people who will be affected by what is decided in them.

The people you kept out of that meeting were teachers and nurses, students and union workers, taxpayers and voters. They deserve better, and they will continue to demand it.

You probably weren’t aware, but we held a general assembly right outside the Council chambers after the ordinances passed. If you thought shutting us out of one meeting about a couple of ordinances would make us give up and go home, you were very, very wrong. We are committed more than ever to being seen and heard, and taking our rightful place in the democratic process.

Expect us. We are the people. We are united. The Occupation is not leaving.

Sincerely,

A Constituent

- Rachel Allshiny -

It was a particularly warm night, and I decided to go down to Zuccotti Park after my shift was over. I arrived at about 11pm and as usual the place was still pretty alive. We just got our bicycle powered generator for our lights, and we had a volunteer riding the stationary bike. At about 1am things seemed to be winding down, there were a few of us in the tent…we heard the megaphones (obviously outsiders, we weren’t allowed to use them) and saw the blue flashing lights. A surly policeman came into the medical tent and handed us a piece of paper. It was an eviction notice, telling us that we had 30 minutes to pack up and get out. It was chaotic. People outside were yelling. I stayed in the tent, fiercely wanting to defend it. We had become a community health center.

People not involved with OWS were coming to us for services. We had doctors and nurses, herbalists, acupuncturists, massage therapists, chiropractors, reike practitioners, EMTS, paramedics and street medics. We had an entire social work department! We gave out flu shots! We made rounds in the park and went out on marches, we not only helped those who sought us out, we sought out those who needed our help. All of our services were free! The community stepped up and donated every supply we could think of. We never ran out of anything. We were the most amazing clinic I’ve ever worked in! It was inconceivable that the police would be throwing us out, but they were. At this point there were 3 of us in the tent - doctor, our volunteer bike rider and myself. None of us wanted to leave.

I called our lawyer to let him know what was going on. As I did this the police came in with their cameras and yelled at us to get out. I saw a knife slash into the tent and then make a long tear. I tried to cover the opening they made with a piece of cloth, but that was ripped down, then another knife slash, the were ripping the tent down with us in it. The doctor and I tried to reason with the police, but they wouldn’t hear it. They lied to us and told us that they would pack up all of our supplies and that we could pick them up at the department of sanitation the next day. Finally I grabbed what I could, a box of herbal supplies, some medical equipment, a grapefruit and a stuffed elephant. (I can’t tell you what exactly I was thinking at the time). An angry cop grabbed my arm and thrust me out of the tent and out of the park, I wasn’t even allowed to stand on the sidewalk.

We watched the police throw the remains of our medical tent into a garbage truck and then compact it. We were holding medications for young occupiers, he had expensive defibrillators, we kept records of our patient’s conditions, we had ace bandages, and gauze bandages, foot care products, and lots more. It all got destroyed. It was that night when I decided I was in, I was an occupier, this was a cause worth fighting for. Mayor Bloomberg and the NYPD kicked a hornet’s nest!!!! We are not gone and we are stronger than ever….we will win, we have to, all we are asking for is a world worth living in for everyone. People maybe fighting against us, but they will wake up someday and realize we are on the same side.

- Nurse Janet -

Editor’s note: This is the seventh in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

After writing most of the day, I left the house in the late afternoon. As I was locking my front door, I glanced over and saw my neighbor, Margret Hofman sitting in her driveway. She is known as Austin’s Original Tree Lady, because of her life-long work for Austin environmental concerns, especially when it comes to trees and tree planting. She is instrumental in implementing the city’s first tree preservation rules and created a registry of Austin’s largest trees. She served on the Austin city council in the 1970′s. Although wheelchair-bound and nearly 90, she is still very interested in what is happening beyond the confines of her home, including the Occupation, of which I am keeping her updated.

Margret Hofman, Austin's "Tree Lady" Photo: Jim Gober

She waived me over, and when I told her where I was going, she asked me to check on what the protesters call “The Island” but is actually her namesake park, a small triangle-shaped grove of oak trees and landscaping with a large rock in the middle located across Cesar Chavez from City Hall. It was officially named the “Margret Hofman Oaks Park” less than a year ago to commemorate her work. The island is where most people congregated the night the plaza was power-washed and the arrests were made because a few people refused to move out of the way of the power-washers. It is also a place for the cops as well as the protesters to cool off under the impressive oaks. Margret was concerned it was being trampled by the cops and protesters. I told her I would check on it as soon as I arrived. And of course, it was the first thing I did, and everything was in good shape. The plaque with her picture and information was perfectly positioned on the biggest rock so the golden setting sun would highlight it every day.

While I was there, I noticed a lady standing alone on another rock holding a protest sign. Her name was Carmen. She was born in Puerto Rico, moved to Spanish Harlem, and then moved to Tacoma, Washington. She said the green lands in Washington were so beautiful and a shock after living in the concrete canyons of New York, and she fell in love with the natural spirit that is Mother Earth. At 20 years old, Carmen hopped on a plane and turned 21 on a beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico where she lived for several years. It was there she questioned integrity, common sense and humanity. She believes common sense is stolen from Americans at an early age by our standardized educational system and rigid conformity to useless, degrading and dehumanizing social mores. She sees a society that is so jaded and citified that people don’t even know they are in a daze. It frightens her to see humanity this way-so disconnected from each other.

Carmen was out of the country while the cell phone and PC culture hit in the 90′s and was shocked when she returned because of the human isolation, commercialization and “not one authentic thing coming from anyone.” It is the dehumanization that is going on and how we’ve become incapable of feeling for each other that disturbs her most. She said, “If we don’t have a heart, how do we care for each other?” Carmen went on, “Information is great, but it is only healthy if we can process it and who today can process all this information and still have time to care for humanity? If you have too much incoming information your mind goes mad. That is why we have dissent and stress. The corporations that constantly push out all this worthless information are the root of all this stress.” Carmen said she spends a lot of time in her apartment, or “The Grotto,” as she calls it, and as long as there is food there she can stay safe and happy. And I was guessing she was in her late sixties, but had the skin of a 25 year old. Her beauty glowed from within. A beauty built on a lifetime of awareness and a desire to help others, not a lifetime built on bullying other people, deriding those who she perceived were inferior or having her face stuck into an iPhone or a TV.

After we chatted for a while longer, I walked across the street to the plaza and met Larry. Larry is holding a silent vigil about 150 feet down the street from the honk if yer horny line. He is in his 50′s and after noticing him there every day, I decided to see exactly what he was up to. His sign is kind of hard to understand but the number $40,000,000 is fairly easy to see. So I asked for an interview. Larry is a veteran who had a tough life after the Vietnam War. He found God one day in church with the help of a lady he met a few years back. He prayed that day God would help him build a place for homeless veterans, with hot showers, meals and recreation areas. God also told him it would cost around 40 million dollars to build his dream, and that is what he is asking for by patiently holding his sign, praying and hoping. When Larry left church the day he found God, he looked on the ground and found a 20 dollar bill and thought it was surely a sign; the beginning of his journey. And he’s been on that path every since.

So there Larry stands every day, in the same place he will stand long after the occupation is gone, because he wants to open his heart and help someone else. Although he has nothing of material value, Larry is still trying to get something for his brothers and sisters who suffer so badly. Larry has emphysema, COPD and peripheral artery disease, but is confidant God will grace him with the money he needs for his mission before he dies.

At the end of the day, I looked toward the corner for Larry. He was sitting patiently on the short stone wall that lines the sidewalk, partially hidden in some native grasses under a small oak tree. He was barely visible in the faltering light of the evening, but I could make out his silvery short beard, his sunburned face and clean red button-up shirt. He stared straight ahead into the passing traffic as he could plainly see the clear-cut path to his destiny. His shoulders were erect as any soldier, but even from that distance you could see the exhaustion from pursuing his mission for his brothers and sisters on the hot pavement the entire day. A car, pedestrian or chatty young idealist on the way to the plaza passed him by. Then another, and another and Larry faded into the blue-gray ether of the evening until he was no longer visible from where I was standing.

I chatted with Gabe, who was in his early 20′s, and has a good job as a draftsman. He came out to make his voice heard because he doesn’t want his future consumed with corporate greed at the expense of everyone else. He had everything going for him: a job, good looks, and a heart. He was hardly the bum or wacko the corporate press is trying to make us all out to be. And he had a good point when he said politicians running for office now don’t need millions from corporations, they have a free social network to exploit. They don’t even have to go door to door anymore.

I talked to Zach, who has a PhD in Mathematics and is a teacher at the University. He was discouraged the best mathematical minds are not used to solve societal problems, but are instead hired by money managers and banks to figure out ways to screw people when they invest in the stock market. He was also dismayed that math is not taught as a theoretical problem-solving technique but rather as a series of standard problems, such as 2+2 =4, and if you get it right on the test, you don’t have to worry about math again the rest of your life. He said students aren’t being taught to think, they are being taught to follow.

Then there was a general meeting and time for speeches. I signed up for a short speech by talking to Kevin, a young man in charge of the speech queue, or stack, as it is known throughout the movement. There were quite of few of us gathered around to listen to the speeches and when my time came up I was nervous but grabbed the mike. Here it was:

“I just wanted to mention my neighbor, Margret Hofman. Now Margret came over from Germany after WWII where her Jewish mother died in a concentration camp. Margret was also in Dresden when the allies bombed it and even by a small count over 100,000 people were killed. So Margret knows a little about fascism and Margret knows a little about war, and Margret hates fascism and Margret hates war. And if she could, she would be right here with us right now.

But I wanted to tell you this: The little island across the street is named after her. Margret Hofman was a city councilwoman who was very important in creating the tree-loving environment we enjoy in Austin today. So when you look around, take a look at what Margret has done over the years with her activism and letter-writing campaigns and how even one person who is dedicated enough to a cause can make a difference. If you go over to the island and look at the big rock you will see a picture of her and a little information about Margret. The park is formally named Margret Hofman Oaks.

I just wanted to tell everyone to appreciate what Margret has given to us and let everyone know a little something about the place we call, “The Island.” Before I left today to come to the plaza, I told her I would check on her park and make sure it was OK. And if it wasn’t for that island, the police would have had everyone standing in the street the other night when they came to power wash the plaza. So I just wanted to say thank you Margret, and before I close, could I get a big hand for Margret and all she has done for us and this beautiful city?”

Everyone clapped and cheered and some yelled, “Thank you Margret!” And for the first time I got plenty of the good kind of sparkle fingers before I stepped down. I had just given a perfect speech. It was completely unrehearsed or thought about beforehand. I got up there simply because I loved someone who loved the whole world. A world that tried to destroy her time and again. But somehow, tonight, all of our hearts-Margret’s, mine and everyone’s at Occupy-for a perfect shining moment-had melded into one.

Although it was after midnight when I got home, I could see a dim blotch of light shining through Margret’s antique living room curtains. I gently tapped on the front window. The home healthcare lady that stays with her answered the door and there was Margret, wide awake in her rented hospital bed facing the door so she can see the sunrise every day. I told her everything at her little park was OK and that I gave a little speech about it and had recorded it for her.

As I played it she closed her eyes and listened to me speak as if she was listening to an orchestra inside the most beautiful concert hall in Europe, before the angst, destruction and terror of war and fascism had stolen her mother and engulfed her young and precious life. When it got to the part in the speech where I asked for the applause, Margret noticed it was loud and quite impressive. She opened her eyes and got the attention of her day-sitter who was ignoring the entire scene with her head buried in a newspaper. When the day-sitter looked up, Margret said with a smile, “Do you hear that? They are applauding for me.”

The above was written in October 2011 and just last week Margret took her last three breaths and passed into the garden. Today, I planted a small oak tree she had nurtured in a flower pot on her back stoop. Three weeks ago, Larry had emergency heart bypass surgery. Yesterday, I saw him standing on the corner by the deserted Occupy encampment which lies across the street from Margret’s park. His left hand was holding a wooden pole on which a huge American flag was mounted. It flapped unceremoniously in the chilly February breeze. In the other hand was his sign with the $40,000,000 still clearly visible. The traffic roared by.

Editor’s note: This is the sixth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

Before I made it to the occupied plaza today, I had to wait for the bus as usual, and was entertained by an older man with a horrible limp who hobbled up to a pay phone situated between the two bus benches. It was one of those newer types that sits on a pole about 4 feet high. After he used it, he managed to make it over to my bench and sit down beside me. I looked closer at the pay phone and the price was 50 cents per call. And apparently you could call Mexico too. Although I couldn’t understand the writing on the little sun-bleached sign above the receiver, I could make out a beach scene crowned with a palm tree and a benevolent smiling sun reminiscent of Mexico’s golden days. It was scribbled over with gang graffiti.

I asked the man who sat beside me if the phone worked. He said it had a dial tone, but the number 3 was out and it took his 50 cents anyway. I mentioned how you don’t see many pay phones anymore. He said that’s what always happens before they invade-they take out all the pay phones-and he’s seen it happen plenty of times such as in Panama, Cuba, and then he started mumbling and I couldn’t get the full list. So I asked him who was going to invade and he said, “The Obamabush aliens.” He then announced they want to take over and bust your head if you don’t give them what they want, and they want your house and your money.

Now the similarity between what this poor old man, wracked with schizophrenia, was saying and what I say, when I am talking about the fascists, was not lost on me. But is it because our political situation in this country was so crazy and out of control that even the most severe of schizophrenics could smell it, or was I just another kook with something/nothing to say? All this had to be called into question. Was I crazy for believing big money from corporations and wealthy individuals had corrupted our government to the point they would take our homes and money to serve an ambitious agenda? But then again, isn’t that what they’ve been doing for years? I settled on the fact the whole country is collectively mentally ill. It’s out of control, neurotic, schizoid, over-medicated and brainwashed. Wherever I fit in, that is where I sit-in this crazy fucked-up place called the United States, still advertised as the best country in the world to live, by the fascists, of course, every time you complain about it in front of them.

It was obvious this guy, with one tooth, nowhere to go and now no way to make a phone call needed help. But that help was done away with in the 1980’s under the Father of Modern American Fascism, Ronald Reagan, and it’s never coming back. But schizophrenics, like this gentleman, have the power to see the world in its purest sense, without the numerous filters “normal” people paste over the truth to avoid pain and anger. That’s why political or social arguments coming from people like this man have a frightening ring of truth, because, although the presentation is lacking, they offer some insight into the real state of affairs without being tainted by the fascist controlled corporate propaganda machine. For example, it can be said that every sensible argument for positive change in this country made in the last 25 years has been discredited by powerful people who, through the use of the corporate media, make you believe you are crazy for going along with any solution that doesn’t include transferring more power to the fascists. Think climate change, the Iraq war and bank bailouts.

So here is this “crazy” gentleman, all alone with his thoughts of an impending invasion of the Obamabush aliens as he watches the pay phones disappear. But is he crazy? I thought of an album by singer Jeffrey Lewis entitled, “It’s the Ones Who’ve Cracked That the Light Shines Through.” Oddly, now that my bus stop brethren had brought it up, the disappearance of communication lines that cannot be switched off instantly or easily monitored by the government, the proliferation of cell phones, which hold our entire life history within them, and the increased control of one political party on all levels of government, is unsettling when looked at it as a whole. As I got on the bus and paid my fare with the last dollar in my pocket, I looked back and there he sat, ripped off for his last 50 cents, after a simple device he expected to work stole his money. The parallel with what is happening in America cannot be denied. You put your life, time, money and energy into this country expecting it to work like it always has, and the fascists steal it all. Meanwhile, the opportunities once available to everyone if you work hard and sacrifice are disappearing before our eyes. Where did they go? They were stolen by the Obamabush aliens.

I made it to the plaza just before sunset, and there wasn’t much going on, so I sat down to write about the scene and it wasn’t long before a very nervous woman took to the microphone and asked for supporters in the planning commission meeting being held in the city hall. She was trying to save a beautiful pecan tree from a developer who wanted to do what developers love to do to trees. You know trees-those stubborn things that keep you from dying in the Austin summer heat if you are not bathing in the luxury of a high-dollar condominium. There was some chaos as a motion had to be called by the occupiers and volunteers chosen to go. I was chosen, but since it wasn’t going to start for a while, I did other things to keep busy. I passed out food, picked up trash, straightened out some stuff and held up a sign for the passing cars until my arms got tired. I noticed Ron Paul supporters were coming into the scene. Even though Occupy Austin is a non-political movement, we needed bodies today, so nobody said anything. My favorite sign today was “TV News is FUBAR” which means, “Fucked up beyond all recognition.”

An elderly couple pulled up to the curb and hastily dropped off two boxes of fruit. There were lots of bananas and some huge apples. I carried it to the food station, took the wrapper off everything and handed a banana to a man named Bert. I made a lewd comment about the banana, which caused him to emit a nervous laugh. Then I asked Bert to tell me his story. Bert is a 64 year old homeless man sleeping every night in the plaza. He is retired and on disability. He claims the system is broken and that is why he is there. Bert gets enough disability to have money in his pocket or a home-but not both. He said he’s been homeless for a long time. Bert went on to say, “When I was younger, I was in Vietnam, I was a Navy Medic. After the service, I owned my own landscaping business but can no longer do that kind of work. I thought I had enough saved to retire but couldn’t keep health insurance. Medical bills piled up and I had to sell my home. I am on Medicaid and get $687 a month. I’m on a housing list but that is a 5 year wait. I take my showers at Barton Springs during the free swim time at 6-9 in the morning. I don’t stay in shelters because they are dirty and people are on top of each other. But I don’t think I am different than anyone else. As long as we all stick together we can make a change for the better.” I liked Bert. He was neat and clean, used a cane to walk and complained that sleeping on the plaza cement was giving his hips plenty of problems. But he was cool and happy to be with us. I had a feeling it had been a long time since he was surrounded by this much love. I offered a hug and he eagerly accepted.

Another great sign today: Real Eyes Realize Real Lies.

“Join us! Join us! Join us! Join us! Join us!” They chanted over and over in the honk-if-yer-horny line. I stood there again with my sign and watched the faces of the passers-by in their comfortable cars. The furiousness and hatred plastered across some of their faces was unsettling. How were we hurting them? I wondered. Why would they hate us so? Some didn’t even notice we were there, but most honked, waived or pumped their fist in support of Occupy Austin.

I thought about how in any war, you have your warriors and those that stay home and pray for victory, and we have our share of both. But in this war, you don’t see cheesy “pray for our troops” spam on Facebook or preachers telling their congregations to pray for us or little yellow ribbons around an oak tree, even though we are fighting for America too. And ironically, it’s the ideal America where everyone has a house, a job, 2 kids and a dog we are fighting for-the one the fascist right is always dangling in your face so you will vote for their ilk. But they never deliver. Never. The America our soldiers are fighting for overseas is an America taken over by the industrial-military complex that sucks up every penny that should be used for housing, healthcare and job creation. Those soldiers are fighting for an America that feeds on human blood, arms and legs and the suffering of others. Who in their right mind would pray for that? Well, just go to church or get on any social network and take a look. It seems like everybody is-and you thought the guy back at the bus stop was crazy. We are just fighting so Americans can live in peace.

Eventually, it was time for the meeting about the tree, so I went into the civic center and signed up to speak, but got cold feet because it wasn’t really an emotional issue as much as a technical one, and I was going to look the fool trying to talk about the technicalities of this potential building permit and a tree I never saw. But I hung around for moral support. And guess what? The planning commission denied the request for the developer to cut down the tree.

As I left the plaza and meandered through the sign-waivers and horn-honkers and animated speakers, I was happy. I looked over Austin’s lush green hills and felt all the trees were happy too because one of them had been saved from the fascist jerks that don’t give a shit about anything beautiful or kind unless they own it. I thought how happy we would all be if we worked harder to save people we will never know from the pain of losing their home, from not having affordable healthcare and from the life and soul-destroying war machine. Then I thought how mankind-now at the absolute peak of its existence, has decided the few, who are just like us, somehow have the right to more than the many, whose only mistake is they trusted the few.

Mike Huckabee was in Valdosta, Georgia to speak at a fundraiser. There were no protests against him, so I decided to try to organize one myself. I created a Facebook event and publicized it on the Occupy Valdosta page. Ten people said they would show up according to the event page, but when it came time for the protest I was the only one protesting. So, I held up my sign that said “Trust your neighbor, not the news” and stood in front of the building Huckabee was in while all of the well-dressed gala participants entered the event. A homeless man came up and talked to me about why I was there. His presence felt like a god-send. I was there for about 15 minutes when a police officer pulled his car onto the sidewalk in front of me and got out to question me. I talked with him calmly for as long as I could, hoping that another protester would show up. Then 4 other police officers walked up and told me if I didn’t leave I would be arrested for criminal trespassing. I chose to not be arrested.

I was walking home by myself a couple of hours later, it was dark, and a police officer saw me, as far as I know, he had no idea what had happened with me earlier. The officer did something really kind, he drove ahead of me and shined a light into a dark corridor before I got there to make sure there was no one lurking in the shadows. He was concerned for my well being, it was a small thoughtful act of service and protection, not mindless use of oppressive force.

It occurred to me then that the police are more afraid of the world than we are. They see danger where we find trust, and where they fear the unknown, we imagine the beautiful possibilities of the moment. The people in the police force are not the enemy and if we do our job right, eventually they will join us.

I don’t know what the future holds, our small group is now largely inactive outside of the online dialogues on Facebook. Revolution ain’t easy, and very few in our town see Occupy as something they want to be part of locally in its current form, so the challenge now is to transform. It means keeping the dream alive beyond the name, I will continue organizing but I will figure out a way to do so that will encompass as many people and ideas as possible, yet join with the vigor and urgency of the revolution already in progress.

-Julia Ward Howe-

Valdosta,

Editor’s Note: This story first appeared on ilovechile.cl, and is republished here with consent from the author.

Police clashing with protesters, shattered bits of glass from broken street lamps and bus stops littering the sidewalks, disemboweled traffic lights idling on street corners; the charred remains of a bus, lit on fire in Macul. These are the pictures circulating through the public consciousness following the October two-day national strike in Chile, images of the violence and destruction – the fallout from almost six months of education protests that have yet to yield any sort of concrete result.

In the nascent days of the education movement, when spurts of violence were just starting to make their way onto the streets and into the headlines, I remember hearing the justifications for such acts. They went something like this: The clashes and public vandalism are necessary because they are the only certain way to grab and maintain public attention. They also show the seriousness of the protesters, who have to make it clear that they will refuse to be ignored or shunted aside by an intractable government bureaucracy.

How pallid and naïve those arguments seem now, after this six-month (and counting) war of attrition. The seemingly never-ending stream of street confrontations between the police and the hooded, rock-wielding, Molotov cocktail-hurling encapuchados or masked protesters have begun to alienate people, especially moderate Chileans fed up with the constant, sometimes dangerous disruption of their daily lives. Maybe at one point there was a justification for these acts. Violence was a useful little stimulant, able to rivet the country’s attention for short bursts. But like any harmful drug, habitual use has begun to lead to destructive side effects that are slowly wearing on the Chilean body and psyche.

Two important points need to be made here. First, the police and government response to the marches bears just as much, if not more blame for the current situation. And second, the perpetrators of these violent irruptions make up a minuscule portion of the people fighting for education reform.

To the first point: the aggressive tactics (tear gassing, water cannons, etc.) utilized by the police special forces unit since the early days of the protests have, far from restoring order, served only to escalate tension and engender more violent reaction. The police want to do their jobs: enforce the law, maintain order and keep the streets safe for ordinary citizens. Fair enough. But the events of the past half-year show that these tactics are having just the opposite effect. At first, the violence was unexpected. Now it seems inevitable. It’s almost as if the troublemakers are taking to the streets because they are expecting to clash with the police forces.

The street confrontations play out like an elaborate game of cat and mouse. Police trucks rumble up and down the streets, spraying water and tear gas at delighted protesters who duck for cover and then emerge again, a few moments later, chucking stones back at their pursuers. After getting riled up into a frenzy, the protesters retreat, and that’s when the real destruction begins.

During the Oct. 6 protests, generally agreed to be one of the most violent days of the education movement, police vehicles chased students down the streets. As they retreated, groups of people would swarm around streets signs and park benches, using their collective force to turn them out of their concrete foundations. Of course, there is no justification for this type of vandalism, but the police response certainly didn’t help. If anything, it created the hysterical, fear-laden atmosphere that made those acts possible.

To the second, and perhaps most essential point: the vandals, encapuchados and whoever else is taking advantage of the strange, uncertain environment brought on by the marches, represent a tiny portion of the protesters, the great majority of whom conduct themselves peacefully and with great dignity. On Oct. 19, the second day of the two-day national strike, nearly 200,000 people came out to march in Santiago. They marched peacefully and without incident for most of the afternoon, until a small percentage of troublemakers broke off from the group and started causing problems. But this is what people were talking about the next day.

And that is perhaps the greatest tragedy brought on by specter of continuous violence; it dominates the conversation and saps urgency from the student cause. When I went out to observe the Oct. 19 march, I was struck by the enthusiasm of the crowd and the air of passion and positivity that ran through this mass of people. Protesters came out in costume and groups of musicians and dancers performed in small pockets of space. People, young and old, marched together. They laughed and joked with each other, but there was also an underlying seriousness of purpose. It was a culture event, a parade of discontent but also an expression of joy, creativity and possibility.

The process of reform – lasting and systemic – can be messy and slow, full of setbacks and frustrations. But the art of change, something we are seeing not just in Chile but all over the world, from Wall Street to Tunisia, can be a beautiful, collaborative process that shows humanity at its best. Ultimately, violence is not a means to anything but more violence- a distraction that obscures the true potential of people searching for a better path.

Titus Levy

This is the fifth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

“Beauty awakens the soul to act” -Dante

It was Monday, Columbus Day, and I hitched a ride to Occupy from my neighbor who was heading downtown. I quickly found myself at 2nd and Congress and walked the few blocks to the plaza. There is really no reason for me to stay every night on the plaza like some of the occupiers. I live 20 blocks away and spent the better part of 2001 living in a tent with no electricity or running water, and 1989-91 running the streets of Austin and San Francisco, so I’ve made my sacrifice to the gods of homelessness. These folks at the plaza got it made. Food and water is being delivered non-stop due to a healthy stream of donations, and they have toilets and running water. They can brush their teeth 10 times a day if they like, and don’t have to cook and eat with filthy hands. And hard-core drugs like heroin, crack or meth are readily available, which is really bad news for Occupy Austin, but when you roll out the welcome mat…

The thick clouds left over from the weekend storms were beginning to clear as I approached the plaza. I was surprised to see only 100 people or so there, and most were in a large circle doing yoga. The speakers were playing a recording of yoga sounds over the PA that went,”Ohmmmmmmmm, ohmmmmmmm,” and the vibe was most excellent. Everyone was very still, evenly spaced and casting long shadows on the plaza in the hazy golden Indian summer sun that was breaking through the clouds. The yogis looked like monoliths planted years ago by an ancient and mystical religion. I took off my backpack and sat down next to a garbage can adorned with a recycled protest sign that read, “Recycle Here.” I got into my yoga pose, following the lead of the yoga leader, who, according to his demeanor, was well into yoga land. Then I looked up and noticed the clouds had completely blown away, leaving a brilliant blue rain-washed sky. It was the kind of sky I had not seen in months of dusty drought. I could see a sparkling white airliner blazing toward the sunset 35,000 feet in the air. At a lower altitude, a small private plane hummed. Then beneath that a helicopter chopped by and then a flurry of white-winged doves-which are everywhere in Austin-flew over the treetops.

Was this a metaphor for how far we are willing to go with our movement? Are we going to soar with the highest jet airliner? Or will we just simply flutter above the treetops? Or maybe I was looking at the different levels of consciousness and understanding that only comes through meditation and peace? Who knows? But one thing I know for sure is that was one sparkling blue and pretty sky and I was optimistic as ever. A fire truck came by along with a police car and all the honking and sirens failed to dislodge the ohhmmmmers, but I found it hard to concentrate on my own ohm, and since I am a writer, this was not the time to gaze inward, so I started poking around for a story.

I noticed the plaza was straightened up and was beginning to look like a place we could stay long-term without sitting in something gross. Things were arranged neatly. There was even a big “Do Not Litter” sign posted. A sign by the restroom asked people not to write on the walls, because someone went into the most awesome restrooms you could ever ask for at a protest and scribbled anarchy stuff. Was it an agent provocateur? Maybe. Was it an asshole? Bingo.

Then there was some excitement as the bulk of the protesters were returning from a protest march on Christopher Columbus Street (which I couldn’t find on the Google map) and I didn’t understand the reason, so I didn’t go, even though it was Columbus Day, and I think it had to do with Indians. But Anglo-Europeans protesting against Columbus for the Indians seemed lame. What happened 600 years ago stays 600 years ago, if you ask me. My name ain’t on that one. I live in the now and now we have problems we have to solve now. When the marchers poured back into the plaza, everyone was in high spirits and blowing on flutes, banging drums and chanting things like, “Power to the family,” which I never heard before, but it sounded gay, so I was down with it. Some of the bigger marchers were sweating a lot and needed water. All the new racket was annoying the yoga people for a minute or two until the yogis got their ohmmmmmmm back and everything settled down a bit.

I changed my mind and decided to really participate in the yoga scene, just so I could take in more of this beautiful sight. I watched some of the young hippie girls looking so awesome in their beautiful natural selves. No makeup, no trashy high heels, nothing making them look like prostitutes, even though they were showing plenty of skin. Their hair is naturally sun-bleached, curly or straight. Their tan is not sprayed on, and they are just dealing with what their maker gave them instead of trying to cover it up with handfuls of chemicals or worse. As we all know, we live in a society that tells women of all ages they are ugly unless they do something-anything-to hide their real selves. Could it be by the time some of them are adults, they don’t know who they are anymore? Is that why so many young women are so insecure they’re ready to claw each other’s eyes out any second? Who knows? But all you had to do this afternoon was look at the young woman meditating by the yoga master in her tattered homemade dress as she captured the last rays of the day along with the essence of all creation. Her eyes were closed, and she held her hand over her heart as if she had discovered something breathtakingly beautiful and pure. I held my hand over my heart too, but just to be sure it was still beating.

Then I saw a guy I started calling “Ask Me” wandering around the plaza. He wore a little yellow sign on his shirt that said “Ask Me,” so at first I thought he must be there as an information source. But all he did was walk around and aggressively ask people for change and cigarettes. He was heading for me, so I got up and started looking busy, as I was out of both. About then, the yogis gave out three long ahhhhhhhhssss, which are much different from ohmmmmmmmms, and the yoga part was over-for now. A Mexican kid sat down beside me with a sign that said “Columbus-destroying our home since 1492.” Of all the people who had a genuine gripe about European “Explorers,” his was probably the most authentic. After all, Mexico has seen its share of marauding invaders over the years and all the goodies they brought along with them such as smallpox, cholera and the plague. Of course, Mexico sent the explorers back home with syphilis, but who’s counting.

As the day wound down, new age music continued to play from somewhere. The PA mike had been left on and was picking up the crowd chatter. The word “reality” came through loud enough to discern. A dog was barking. The mood was carnival-like. The Chief of Police, Art Acevedo, and his entourage, made the scene without raising any eyebrows. Then something occurred to me as I watched everything working together for a moment or two. With all our technology and advances in healthcare and our ability to really care for each other-we could have a perfect and amazing world, why are we not working as a planet to move into that space? The worldwide occupy movement is not just a movement for change in the political process, it is an awakening. It is awareness that if we do not change, we are all-and I mean every one of us-rich and poor-are going to die a hideous and completely unavoidable death.

Listening to the left-wing pundits on TV yelling about the Republicans and vice-versa makes me realize these folks don’t have a clue either. It’s time to stop yelling at each other. The world is changing-we don’t have peace and happiness because too many are making money on death and destruction. We are arguing too damn much rather than working on any reconciliation. But many of us are becoming aware of this sea change whether we like it or not, as one Government after another is stripped of its lies, greed and deceit. No matter what the fascists want you to believe, the children of the sun are beginning to awake. This occupation isn’t about us against them; it’s us against the past. You can feel it in the air. Someone turned the page on us. All the fascist batons and pepper spray will not make it go away. We are moving forward into the light and out of the darkness. Do not be afraid. You must join the change that is sweeping the world.

Then I spotted my best friend at the protest from a few days ago, John, and he was glad to see me. He was talking to Joshua, the Trustafarian, who I couldn’t look in the eye because I betrayed him by thinking bad thoughts about him a day or two before. I felt ashamed, because he turned out not to be such a bad guy for one, and two-why would I be negative about my brother in arms? The sunset was truly spectacular and perfect and I thought about my friends who haven’t talked to me since I’ve been involved in the occupation, and why even people you respect the most can fail to see the beauty in the mundane, which is the only way you can truly see the light that radiates from us all-even the plants and the lowliest of creatures. A brown-skinned man of Middle Eastern descent gathered his things that were piled next to me. He was wearing traditional clothes from his country. I closed my eyes as I slowly inhaled his scent. The smell of sandalwood combined with an exquisite touch of body odor sent me thousands of years back to the cradle of civilization. It was a beautiful peaceful place with colorful cluttered streets lined with shop barkers and the finest artisans displaying their wares. In my mind, I could hear people from an exotic faraway land going about their business, the sound of their activities undiluted by the electronic and mechanical hum of modern life.

I was brought back to nowadays by a lady who was telling everyone to go into the City Hall to see democracy in action. That was where the “Signs and Other Eyesores Approval Department” was having a hearing. I went in and sat down. There was an older man, around 70, named Peter, who was arguing against a new sign for a grocery store and strip mall on a scenic road near where he lives. After he made his point, a young woman walked to the podium. She was dressed down for the occasion, but was obviously a sleazebag, because she wanted to put up the ugliest damn signage you ever saw for the development she represented in total violation of the scenic highway ordinance. At first, the commissioners seemed sympathetic, until they read the fine print on the application, because she actually wanted to build four of the eyesores. Since it looked like she was trying to deceive everyone, her application was denied because of the domino effect of approving her sign, then another, then another, according to one of the commissioners. Interestingly, the three women on the panel voted for it and the four men against. And that sign was the ultimate eyesore. If you could distill ugly from a chunk of cement-that would be that sign.

As I was leaving, I chatted with Peter and congratulated him and asked if he was a retired engineer. He laughed and asked if it showed that much. It did-but that’s what was needed to fight a developer who was wanting to ugly up the highway. Education was needed-that is why we must fund education and why the fascists are constantly at war against anything to do with education, unless it’s so expensive only their children can attend school and the classes are taught with a religious bent. As long as people are educated and enlightened the fascists cannot control us-or at least put up ugly signs where you don’t want them.

As Peter and I walked out into the plaza among the protesters I asked Peter’s opinion about the protest and he was happy things were peaceful. He said he talked to the Police Chief the day it started and asked why there were so many police, paddy wagons and police cars for so few protesters. The Police Chief said he would rather be over-prepared than under-prepared. Then I said that’s what happened when the fascists took over America, we were under-prepared. Peter and I laughed and parted ways. Then it struck me how our Police Chief had to be over-prepared for people to exercise their right for assembly and free speech in a public plaza.

After dark, John and I had an excellent vegetable medley put together by Food Not Bombs. I asked the server her name because John wanted to talk to her earlier but forgot he had mentioned it. So I gave him an unexpected gift. Her name was Ramen. I introduced her to him and they chatted for a while. Before I left, I gave John a hug and made my way to the bus stop. There was an African-American couple sitting next to the only seat, which I gingerly took. She was in her twenties, but he was much older and was the clappiest looking man I’d ever seen. Although he was sniffling and coughing, they were still pulling tongue and she had her hand around his dick which you could see clearly through his pants. You only needed one look. Their making out was making some serious slobbering noises that was making the Food Not Bombs vegetable medley do flips in my stomach. Then her phone rang. She said she had to get it in case it was her mamma. I could hear her wrestling the phone out of somewhere.

Then she started chastising the person who called her by yelling, “Why you talking crack on the phone.” Ain’t nobody supposed to be talking crack on this phone.” Then clappy coughed my way for the tenth time, so I got up and stood close to the front by the bus driver. I asked the driver if he ever got lost with a bus full of people and he said yes, when he first started. He said he found himself lost in a neighborhood of narrow streets and had the hardest time turning around after pulling in somebody’s driveway. He said the people who owned the home were sitting outside, and you should have seen their faces when that city bus full of angry people, who were all yelling directions, pulled up. So we had a good laugh. I told him thanks for his patience and hard work then jumped off at my stop.