In the six months since the mass arrest on the Brooklyn Bridge on October 1st, the bridge has become an iconic symbol of the Occupy Wall Street movement. We marched over it on November 17th and have kept it in our sights ever since, nearly taking it again just a week ago during a night of marches demanding justice for Trayvon Martin. As we approach the half year mark and another march over the bridge, we look back. Click here to view all the stories we have published about the Brooklyn Bridge. And read our newest feature as an occupier recounts his arrest on the bridge during a first date.

Editor’s note: This is the eleventh 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.

The sun came up on another October day in 2011, and the fascists in Oakland are blaming each other for what is unfolding into a public relations disaster, after an attack on the Oakland camp seriously injured an Iraq war vet. We know the fascists started it, and then over-reacted, of course, because the Oakland’s Democratic Mayor, Jean Quan, who rode into office on money from the white fascist elite, ordered the police to bust the occupiers’ heads in absolute total violation of their civil rights. Now she is finding herself in a mess because the occupation is pushing back and we still have a shred of public sympathy. Mayor Quan is backsliding so fast, she basically made a public apology today while the Oakland camp is quickly being reassembled, which shows the philosophy of this movement, whose tenacity in Oakland has not ceased to amaze me.

This display of arrogance and total disregard for our civil rights is proof the fascist criminal element has rotted the entire power structure of the US-and the world-from the bottom up. It starts with your friends, family members or neighbors who are so brain-washed by the unrelenting corporate media-fueled propaganda machine; they go to the polls and elect the fascists. And the fascists have one thing in mind-to get their palms greased and rub elbows with the thieves that are destroying the world’s economy, environment and financial system. Even people like Mayor Quan, who are empowered because they are backed by fascist filth from both sides of the political aisle, happily give orders to local constables and police to treat unarmed American citizens as if they were a threat to the entire world. Well, we are a threat to the fascists’ world, but the real world, where most people reside, is hopefully saying, “What the hell took everybody so long to stand up against these crooks and do something?”

But the worry about how to control us is not just on a local level. You can bet while President Obama is giving us lip service, he has his guys working on a way to kill the occupy movement before it gets any bigger, especially before we occupy the upcoming party conventions. We will not be defeated if we show up in the numbers expected and shut the conventions down until our demands are addressed. By the fall of 2012, our movement will be very strong, but we must stick to our principles of
non-violence and continue our intellectual debate. And we must not allow internal differences to split us apart, such as who is gay or straight, black or white, feminist or businessman, old or young, etc. And we must not allow egos to explode and blind the movement from its objectives. The world is watching, albeit with a jaundiced eye. In the previous two days, Obama threw out two milquetoast ideas that will go nowhere in his attempt to appease us. One was about helping homeowners underwater on their mortgages, if they have perfect credit, and another program to help those with student loans that is so stupid and obfuscated it doesn’t even require a comment or review. Both programs were designed specifically to appease the big banks and prevent a downtick in their murderous profit line.

Every Occupy camp in the country is now very agitated with developments over the last few days, which not only include the attack on the Oakland camp, but cities across the US. The timing and orchestration of the raids is suspect, and it would take an idiot to believe Homeland Security isn’t hot on our trail. In fact, DHS vehicles and personnel were spotted doing surveillance at several camps, including Los Angeles, and of course New York, according to a recent article by The Guardian’s Naomi Wolf, and DHS was on a conference call with mayors from 18 different cities before the Oakland raid. It is obvious no one is standing up for us, and why should they? We have become the enemy of the power elite. Our occupation is throwing a wrench in the gears of the fascists’ finely tuned machine of death and destruction, and they have the power to crush us at every turn. In fact, the police take classes to learn the latest method to destroy a “peaceful protest,” while many of the occupiers, at the Austin plaza anyway, have not seen a classroom since 9th grade. We are a total mismatch for their chicanery and under-handed tactics. Unfortunately, I am learning that in Austin, nearly all the remaining occupiers, for some reason or another, are simply outcasts from society upset because somewhere along the way, they didn’t get theirs, and they want it now. But what it was they wanted was becoming more and more difficult to define. The whole idea about fighting the influence of money in politics is degenerating into just fighting. It was like being on a desert island and watching a group of people without the mental capacity to function in any society, attempt to build a new one, while surrounded at all sides by a well-armed and sophisticated enemy. It was becoming a tragicomedy remake of ”Lord of the Flies.” By now, some of the occupiers had stopped organizing and were now on an active hunt for a scapegoat to alleviate their own sense of powerlessness. You could hear it in their murmured voices and see it in their accusatory stares.

Cracks were forming in my blinders of optimism, and the truth was blinding me. The winds of defeat and poverty were blowing through the Austin Occupy camp and many who stood with us at the beginning went back to their comfortable couches to watch us fall apart on TV. An unforeseen development in some of the camps, including Austin’s, is we are also being overrun with not just the homeless, but complete idiots in the filthiest of clothes, shouting out the goofiest things and acting weird, disruptive and dangerous. Where did these people come from and why are the police just standing around while these people are threatening us? It was like the Circus of the Macabre had come to town and somebody was paying them to perform. Somehow, we were trapped in a downward spiral of our own making yet orchestrated by powers beyond our control. It was enough to drive anyone mad, and if you were already there, well; the plaza is not the place for you. But like filthy lice-ridden survivors from a confederate battlefield, they continued to straggle into the camp. Of course, we are welcoming them with open arms while they eat the free food, flop and fight, totally unaware of our agenda, while slowly outnumbering us.

Apparently, watching us rot from the inside is an accepted form of crowd control and it is a valid way of letting us destroy ourselves, but to see the police step back and deny the protesters’ protection means they do not consider us American citizens, but something to be trampled on by not only the establishment, but the worst elements in our society. Somehow, we, not the fascist rats overrunning the ship, have become the enemy, and we are powerless to do anything about it. Dirty police
tricks are showing up to play on our weaknesses, poor organization and fear. For example, yesterday they told us to clear off the lawn so they could turn on the lawn sprinklers, which is in line with the Stage 2 watering schedule. But then, they didn’t turn it on. Then at dusk, we were told to clear off the lawn because they were going to turn on the lawn sprinklers. This time most people just stayed there and waited to see what would happen. They didn’t turn them on.

Then out of the blue, the police moved in and decided to arrest 3 or 4 people for what the police considered unruly behavior. But the arrest tactics were over the top and meant to show us what will happen if we insist on hanging around the plaza much
longer. In one of the arrests I witnessed, an unarmed African-American woman was being held down by a policeman who had his knee on the back of her neck, while her face was smashed into the hot cement. Another cop stood nearby, taser at hand. The other arrests were for one silly reason or another, and plenty of people were suddenly getting searched and hassled. One guy was targeted because a woman working in the City Hall claimed he tried to sell her drugs. He was clean, but I’m sure she
smugly watched the entire illegal search from the tinted windows of her office while sipping a $5.00 latte. Interestingly, not one of the members of the Circus of the Macabre was hassled. Not one. It was only the people who were veterans of the
occupation being harassed.

In the evening, the occupiers wanted to march down dirty 6th street to support the Oakland occupiers. My feeling was too many provocateurs were in the camp. It seemed the more the police harassed us, the more the provocateurs materialized. Strangely, the weirdoes weren’t there to protect us from the police, but were agitating and attacking us-not the enemy. The occupation was becoming occupied. We didn’t see that one coming either. I thought going on a night march was a bad idea because the fascists and trouble-makers surely weren’t marching and they can work under the cover of darkness. Plus, marching will leave our camp unprotected from the kooks. My thinking was once trouble starts, the fascists will isolate us on 6th Street; prevent us from returning, then clean out the camp. And why anyone would want to march down dirty 6th when it is full of drunks and assholes is beyond me. You have to hand it to the people who have organized the last few marches down there though, those folks are super-dedicated and I admire their moxie, for sure. But even though I was fearful, the march was held anyway and everyone returned safely to the disorganized camp. I decided to stay the night since we didn’t get back from the march until after 11 pm. But the camp was even rowdier than usual, with people partying, arguing, fighting and creating real havoc. By 4 am I couldn’t take it anymore and walked home. I could hear the same woman, who had run around the plaza screaming for her lost mind for the last two hours, still going at it as I crossed the Ann Richards Bridge over the inky Colorado River. A dove, roused from its sleep, fluttered in a tree as I walked through the park. I turned the key to my front door just as dawn was breaking. I shed my clothes as I walked toward the bedroom, fell into bed and slept until noon.

-Jim Gober-

NEW YORK, NY -

Although the Zuccotti Park occupation was forced to end Tuesday (November 15th), the idea of it is far from over. In the minds of many, that idea has just shifted. This holds true for the occupations in Portland, Oregon, shut down Sunday, and the one in Oakland, California, which was also forced to come to an end.

During my first visit to Zuccotti Park, the site of the Occupy Wall Street occupation, in mid-October, I was given a shirt on which was stenciled a powerful message: “You can’t arrest an idea.”

That is true. But you can occupy it, which is what hundreds of people with disparate backgrounds and political beliefs chose to do when they took over Zuccotti Park on September 17, 2011: occupy the notion that people, that is the 99 percent who have been suffering injustices at the hands of greedy corporations and government, have a right to demand change, call for justice, and shape a better world.

The Occupy Wall Street Movement in Zuccotti Park was modeled on the occupations that rocked Europe and the Arab world this summer and repeated in cities around the country. The movement, decentralized and leaderless, is far from rudderless. Its aim, to raise consciousness, harks back to the feminist and gay movements of the 1960s. In those movements too, the personal was political.

“We are all in this together,” its participants seem to say. In truth, every area, even the most affluent, even Fort Lee, has suffered in the economic downturn. Stores have closed; unemployment lines are growing. During the last three years, my household alone offered temporary shelter to three homeless women, two of whom are acquaintances. Last week, a homeless person was discovered sleeping on a bench in front of the Fort Lee Historical Society. As long as one person is affected by poverty and economic deprivation, we are all affected. And, as we all know this, the phenomenon of protest in Zuccotti Park was something that attracted many – those wanting to participate in the change and those wanting to witness it.

In October, a friend, Linda from Fort Lee, and I met up with two more Bergen County friends – Peggy from Fort Lee, who actually works on Wall Street and is supportive of the movement, and Patrick, an artist and activist from Hackensack, who rode his bike to and from Zuccotti Park to join the protests every day. We were struck by the attention to what is important – a library with books that helped to explain why the OWS even exists; an altar with tokens from every religion.

The messages on signs held up by Zuccotti Park protestors and by activists around the country—Tax the rich; End corruption; Greed is a family value—are deeply felt, personal and political. They don’t represent abstract ideas. Protestors are a diverse lot, and they are sharing their stories of loss, deprivation and injustice; they are individuals fighting foreclosures, looking for jobs, struggling to pay back loans, and just wanting to make a difference or help out a neighbor.

Christine, a young woman who volunteered to help provide blankets to occupiers in Zuccotti Park, said her life felt empty as an artist, working alone. She wants to make a difference. She is one of many students I encountered at Zuccotti Park who can’t repay their college loans.

Intelligent, hungry for a change, she, like so many there, appears as intent on protest as on offering herself up to benefit the cause of peace and social justice. Kristle, one of several kitchen volunteers, said she helped to feed vegan meals to approximately 800 people at the park every day. Artists, musicians, chefs, techies, medical students, union workers, the unemployed and just plain sick and tired helped to create a small, peaceful community in Zuccotti Park, modeling for the rest of the country, perhaps what could be.

It was a hopeful sign that support for the protestors was also unprecedented. Friends came from near and far, including the Bergen County contingent, to stand with activists and offer support. A network of truth, support and justice will go on and the Occupy Wall Street Movement will manifest itself in new ways.

For many activists, the Occupy Movement became a success the moment government officials and the media took notice. One thing is certain, the 99 percent in this country who “have not,” who have lost homes and jobs, who can’t repay loans, who are tired of corruption in government and oppression by a system that has failed to live up to its promises, will no longer remain invisible and silent.

© 2012 Arya F. Jenkins.

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From the anthology, The (Un)Occupy Movement: Autonomy of Consciousness, Practical Solutions, Human Equality - prose & poetry www.allbook-books.com

 

Occupiers assembled last Saturday in solidarity with victims of police brutality. A group of hundreds that included city council members marched for hours from Liberty Plaza to join hundreds more at Union Square. On the way, they shared messages on the right to assemble with evocative banners, chanting, and performance art. Photographer Rose Magno documents this expressive and coherent culture of a civil society coming together in peaceful protest.

NEW YORK, NY-I have had strange confrontations with Bank of America lately. In the last 8 days I was arrested twice only on the verge of approaching the Bank, steps away from the unknown possibility. And what was the NYPD working so hard to protect Band of America from? First I was dressed as a clown with a team of merry pranksters who sought to enact a short, harmless skit of pulling down the pants of “unsuspecting executives” to expose ALEC, an organization that allows corporations to draft legislation-which, no surprise, Bank of America is a prominent member.

It was raining and biting cold but the +Brigade Shenanigan team, a newly formed OWS effort of creative resistance, was suiting up in Bryant Park on F29 with bright monochromatic colors and the “executives” scavenging in trash cans for Starbucks cups to look authentic. But our pantsing skit was deterred, because as soon as we tried to cross the street, a police barricade of bodies and scooters lined up alongside us. The Bank of America tower, like the Death Star, loomed in the distance surrounded by police, like clusters of black mussels clasping onto its mammoth shape.

We had the light. There was the flashing white man walk sign taunting us with the rite of passage. Struck by the absurdity of police barring 8 clowns from crossing the street, I was immediately on my hands and knees crawling between their legs. I was promptly lifted up and put in handcuffs. I didn’t want and wasn’t expecting to be arrested. I was in that precious liminal space of free play. I felt like I could do anything.

But corporations have a way of smashing any spark of the unique human spirit rising up. As the crowd looked at me for some words of inspiration, something, I could only muster a call to bravery for the clowns to carry on, and a bad joke: “Why did the clown cross the road? To get arrested!” As they marched me off into the paddy wagon, I began singing and dancing, “I’m Singing in the Rain! Just Singing in the rain! What a glorious feelin! I’m happy again!” But as I was placed into the wagon alone, watching my comrades carry on valiantly with their march, my ridiculous wet spandex costume began to chill me to the bone at the thought of being a drenched clown in the tombs tonight. That day I was lucky to be released within 5 hours at the precinct, where I was joined by a fellow bicyclist friend, Joe, whose bike was confiscated for “evidence”; a 16 year-old mega force, Mesiah; and another cyclist, Mandolin, who tried to carry a tent on the march. In my cell, Mesiah and I did yoga and talked about housing rights. In the other cell, Joe and Mandolin were starting a men’s group to discuss privilege.

My next encounter, I was not so lucky. This time it was a call from the courageous Code Pink on International Women’s Day. The plan was to gather at the Bank of America at Zuccotti Park as super-Sheroes with message-ready breasts for a BUST-ing up the Big Banks action, harking on a thousand year old tradition of women putting their bodies on the front lines. I dressed in a denim jumpsuit with a red scarf on my head, re-appropriating Rosie the Riveter. I met Savitri in the park, that empty park once so full of life. It was hot with gusts of wind shooting through the trees. She wrote on my arm, “We can do it!” and I painted “BofA, You can suck it!” across my chest. We began to walk casually into the bank. Savitri, Medea and Rae, all wearing suits, made it in. As soon as I stepped up to the doors, the cop locked the door in my face. Ah yes, the paint was peaking out from my jumpsuit.

Mark and I walked around to the other side to look for another entrance and saw customers slipping out. People could get out, but no one could get in. Well, at least we shut down Bank of America again. I called Savitri on the inside, who said there were only three of them and they were very vulnerable. She had a beautiful baby to get to after this. We waited at the side exit and suddenly Savitri bounded out the door like a leaping gazelle and raced off to safety. Soon after, Rae ran out with the policeman close on her heels. I called out to him, “Hey Officer! Over here!” but he was hot on the pursuit. He grabbed Rae roughly. Mark was quick to de-arrest. The burly policeman grabbed her by the neck and threw her head down into the concrete, all the while she was crying out that she had a neck injury.

As they were detained in the bank lobby, the choir gathered and decided to sing in solidarity, walking along the sidewalk in front of the bank. As we walked past once and I began to circle back, a cop told me I couldn’t sing and had to keep moving. I said that I was moving and was not obstructing traffic. Instantly, the same rough cop threw me over the scaffolding to arrest me, my things spilling out of my bag. I lifted my leg over the scaffolding so as to not have my stomach jammed into metal and try to kick my things from falling into the gutter and another cop snapped, “Stop resisting arrest!” And off the 4 of us were carted away, at the bank manager’s request. I watched the rough cop throw around several woman walking by for no apparent reason.

Maybe it was the full moon, or the solar flares in the sky, but there seemed to be a lot of crazy in the air that day. In the precinct, two men in Mark’s cell seemed dead set on winning the crazy war. A white man in an all black suit skirted over to our side when he was released to go to the bathroom and starting messing with the cops, “How crazy do I have to be? What do I have to do so you’ll take me to the hospital so I can get a meal? How CRAZY do I have to be?” The other, a young black man, was far more sympathetic in his rants. Screaming bloody murder about injustice and racism. Despite all the machismo, you could understand his anger. We began to sing to try to calm him. Love, Love Love, all you need is love. When we quieted, he surprised us by calling out, “Love is what I need. Keep singin’, ladies! I need you to sing.” We sang every song we knew.

First they told me I would be there for 15 mins to an hour because I didn’t enter the bank. Four hours later, we were all taken to Central booking, which was packed with men lined up against the wall in chains. Throughout the whole process, Medea was brought in again and again to try to capture her prints, and they made ageist remarks, like she was so old that her prints were rubbed off or that she was some kind of alien. We said goodbye to Mark, fearful of what he was being led into. Later we found out there was huge brawl in his cell and he got punched in the back of his head.

Rae and I were led into the women’s cell. Medea’s fingers were still being pushed and prodded. We had about 16 women in there, mostly in their early 20s, all of color, almost all of whom were new mothers too. It was freezing cold, the window open, a fan on. We weren’t allowed to keep our jackets because of the zippers. Rae’s neck had fingerprints on it still and she was sore. We told jokes, arrest and action stories, talked about what ideal brunch we would have. For awhile we tried to huddle on one mat but I couldn’t get warm and fall asleep until hours later, when a kind prostitute offered to cover me with her fur coat and to share her mat. We snuggled tightly and she asked me if I had lice. Said she’d been there 36 hours already, had been working the same streets for 28 years.

They woke up everyone at 5am and said we had to clean up and get ready to go to court. Only 3 women were taken. Later on, everyone felt up to chatting again and they all wanted to hear why we were arrested. They laughed and laughed, couldn’t believe we’d be arrested for protesting a bank, let alone for singing. The women there were smart, knew what was going on in the world, knew all about Bank of America and its foreclosures, its corruption. There was no surprise that corporations are criminals. They were arrested for fighting back against an abusive boyfriend, getting in a screaming match with her boyfriend, bringing in a cigarette to her son in jail, smoking pot, selling fake watches. But none of them were interested in protesting. They agree it has to be done but they can’t do it. They have to work, take care of their babies, survive. They said things have to get really bad so people will get up and do something. How much worse does it have to get?

We waited and waited. Didn’t want to drink the dirty water or the milk or the vacuum packed sandwiches. Finally, after 3pm, our names were called. We were all charged with criminal trespassing.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the courthouse next to Rae, when I saw my friends out there, looking tired but smiling supportively, that a rush of anger flooded over me. The parody of this system. There we were in this dressed up, fancy court when a foot behind us lay filthy floors covered in cockroaches and a system that has no interest in improving society. Police protect the corporate personhood and never our freedom of speech. There’s no telling what we could be arrested for any more. I can’t gauge actions by the same standards any more. As Spring blossoms, the spirit of the people is heating up again, we’ll be out on the street in big numbers. We will fill those cells so packed, the walls might explode.

-Monica Hunken-

We often hear scenes from the Occupy movement at large cities, and it’s easy to forget what’s happening in the smaller towns that are no less affected by what goes on at Wall Street. A reader submitted this video from Occupy Halfway, Oregon, which features a scene not often portrayed as part of the movement. But as Cheryl, and occupier in Halfway (population: 337) says, “Even in rural populations, we have concerns about what goes on in our government.”

 

This story was originally published at Anti-State STL

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“Hey, would you help me unfurl this banner?”

So I found myself holding a corner of a massive banner, the size of a billboard that read “Police State.” The moment that my friend asked me this question I knew that the attempt to hold the park had failed. What occurred thirty minutes prior – a group of 100 or so people successfully shouting back the police – would not occur again. Pigs amassed in force. Suddenly, the agreement the group had made before the 10pm curfew that no one would talk to the police was forgotten, and politicians from both sides of the situation began to negotiate… well, it was more of the same “Occupy Movement” attempt to convince a city official that we had a right to set up a camp. The ridiculous 1^st amendment argument that some people think is a ticket to freedom… because freedom is apparently synonymous with “rights.”

As I stood there, confused about all the conversations I see occurring at the bottom of the hill, pissed off that people are talking with the cops and the mayor’s aid, the police began to multiply. The first group of pigs stood there, rubbing their batons, obviously fantasizing about avenging their earlier show of weakness. As their numbers continued to swell, it became clear that to prevent ourselves from being arrested in the context of civil disobedience, and to end this night with some measure of power, we had to move. With spontaneity, a march was called, this billboard banner leading the way. As we began to walk south, blocking both lanes of traffic due to the size of the sign, the cops stopped their conversations and conceivably received some kind of vague order. They were pissed. They were disorganized.

I found myself on the west side of the street, closest to the sidewalk with my good friend Ryan on my left. The banner was approximately my height, so the fact that I couldn’t see anything except Ryan and the cars parked to my right made me extremely anxious. Less than 20 seconds went by since we crossed into the road and suddenly, I hear screams of “get on the sidewalk!” and “holy shit, holy shit!” I freeze in confusion and Ryan grabs me and pulls me on to the sidewalk. Several feet in front of me I see another protester… already the cops had picked off their first victim. Half of his body was on the sidewalk, the other half in the street, three cops incapacitate him with their knees. After a moment, I realize that this person happens to be a close friend, and I grab Ryan as we yell “let him go!” and “fuck you!” at the cops. To my right I see another friend get chocked by an officer with a baton and taken to the ground, without any provocation or warning. In an instant, this person went from standing in silent shock, to being kicked in the face, as he lies impotent on the concrete. I stand overwhelmed between two of my friends while I watch their identities be stolen by thugs and turned in to defenseless, nameless bodies.

But I yell, and I do what I can to let my friends know that at the very least, we’re all bearing witness to this attack. For a moment I lose track of Ryan as I see pigs lunge after any bystander within their reach, some run away, some get caught. I step back towards a side street to prevent my own arrest – the cops grope for any body they can get their fist around or bring their baton down on; with this kind of disorganized chaos everyone was at risk for their brutality. A moment passes, and I see Ryan bolt down this dimly lit side street chased by 3 to 4 pigs. It was the first time I watched someone run for their fucking life with the fear that if they got caught, they might not make it out. I find myself screaming “RUN RYAN!” But I stand, immobilized. A second passes, another friend also named Ryan (to prevent confusion this person will be referred to as Ry), sprints around the corner and down the street. I instantly realize he is running to put his body between Ryan and the police chasing him. I begin to comprehend the gravity of the situation: that two people I deeply love are being chased down a dark street by 6 to 8 cops… and my feet move in their direction, just a little… and then I am struck with the disabling realization that more pigs await behind me. What good am I in this situation? How does my certain beating help my friends? Some white shirt runs a few feet down the street and commands “come back, don’t chase them!” No response.

I glance to my right, I hear a friend shouting, demanding that the pigs who are arresting him explain what he has done wrong. They provide no answer. They read him no rights. They simply take him. Another comrade standing near as this is occurring, letting the pigs know what he thinks of them, gets chosen to go down… he manages to out run the fat fuck.

Another moment has passed. I see strange faces with wide eyes all around me. I feel that I am standing in the center of 360 degrees of tumult. I have not moved. I look back down the shadowy street. Ryan is now on the sidewalk. His face smashed against the concrete. There are at least two pieces of shit taking out their dissatisfaction with their lives on his face and body. He is beaten with feet. He is beaten with an archaic bludgeon they euphemistically call a baton – as though they spin and twirl them on their nights off. I am so scared. I am so fucking scared. I think of his little daughter. This beautiful, little person who doesn’t deserve to have to experience the misery and violence of life so early. They pick him up. The very people who chased him down a street, beat him, now have the power to take away all of his defenses and determine his fate. As he is walked up the street, I see his face covered in something and I pray to a god I don’t believe in that it is dirt. I know it is not dirt, but all I can do is hope that what I just saw didn’t actually happen. His stare is blank. He looked so confused. I was the first person he saw but I don’t think he actually saw me. I asked him, “did they hurt you?” Of course I fucking knew they hurt him, but I just wanted to hear his voice and let him know that this person on the sidewalk gives a shit. His voice quivered, “Yes.” One of the pigs is repeatedly yelling, “I fucking showed you respect.”

I watch him be lead up the street and a friend comes out from the shadows and follows behind the three. The same cop who just declared himself such a respectful individual lunges at her, puffs up his chest and shouts “don’t you walk behind me, woman.” She backs up and I start following behind her, up to the main street that only minutes earlier we attempted to march down. As Ryan is being escorted through the crowd, people chant “shame.” And the white shirts start to disperse the crowds.

I find some friends, and we are all in shock. I somehow didn’t see Ry get escorted up the street. I knew what he did, but I can’t imagine how he did it. I don’t have words to describe the feelings I have when I think about him running to help Ryan. I have never seen such love for another person. I have never seen something so full of life. I will never forget what he did that night. I learn that he was also brutally beaten by the pigs. We all know our friends are fucked. They tried to hold on to their autonomy and that is what would most condemn them… later we learned that they were being charged with absurd crimes. How else would the state justify the violence of their paid enforcers?

For those that have never witnessed police violence, I want to make something clear. Nothing about this situation followed the prescription of an arrest – this media image of a “You are under arrest. You have the right…” is not what happens in real life. A friend said it best, what happened Thursday night was some gangsta shit. It was angry, vicious people jumping unarmed protesters and bystanders. It was an attack. It was intentional brutality. They did not follow any procedure of kettling, “less lethal” tactics, etc. Their actions were directly targeting individuals and beating the shit out of them. It was so fucked up.

The rhetoric of violence vs. non-violence is utterly irrelevant and insulting. My friends disappeared for 24 hours. Some strangers, who were weaponized and free from scrutiny, were deciding what was to be done with them. Pigs and judges have been given the power to determine the course of their lives. There is no such thing as non-violence. There is no such thing as safety. These ideas are complete illusions, and one can only hold on to them as long as one has the privilege to avoid the violence that maintains society. As we participate and live our lives, all we are doing is avoiding repression.

I am traumatized. I am having flashbacks, and the more I try to make the motions of my mundane life the more vivid they become. Work, school, friendly conversations all seem completely devoid of meaning. All I can do is tell the story of my experience and force the people I surround myself with to question the society we participate in. I am so fucking angry.

Editor’s note: This is the tenth 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.

By now, I had lost track of what day it was. The scene at the city hall plaza was very noisy. A man was using the PA to amplify his anger-filled speech that was becoming more obnoxious by the second. Most of the 200 or so people present were
wandering around aimlessly, and you could feel an enhanced sense of chaos. This was due to the constant onslaught of noise from the PA, the non-ending stream of pollution from the passing cars, drunken activity and general trashiness that gave
me a feeling the movement was being assaulted from all sides. The press was accusing us of every crime imaginable and deaths were being reported at various camps around the country from exposure and drug overdoses. There were hundreds of arrests in Orlando, Cincinnati, Chicago, New York, San Jose, Melbourne, and beyond over the last few days. The fascists were striking back hard. News reports from the propaganda machine said we were funded by Socialist billionaires like George Soros. When I heard that, I immediately thought about a recent general assembly meeting where everyone was angry that money was taken from the donation coffee can to buy dog food. I couldn’t shake how forlorn that coffee can looked sitting on the ground in the middle of the GA meeting. It was all taped up with a little slot left in the top so no one could stick their fingers in and pull out a few dimes. That pitiful excuse for a money source represented the lies perpetuated by the fascist propaganda machine being echoed ad nauseam throughout our country with the help of the brain-washed ignorant masses.

As predicted, this propaganda and balls-out fascist assault on our right to protest
and congregate in a public square was becoming a reality. Of course, no one, from
the President on down, stood up for us. And the corporate press is only printing the
bad news, and there is a lot of it. The crowd in the plaza seemed to be getting more
agitated by the minute, except for a group of about 15 doing yoga, which provided an
oasis of calm along the west side of the plaza. Decorum was undeniably breaking down
and once again, the God-damned PA, which had become an assault on the movement by
its sheer presence, was blaring out mindless bullshit, including an awful rendition
of Bob Dylan’s “The Times They are a-Changin” by an older man that would have
sounded much better without the PA. No one could concentrate or converse without
yelling at each other. Everyone was tired and we had not seen any progress over the
past 17 days except watching the descent of the plaza into a homeless camp with
plenty of drunks and speed freaks running amok. Just add a provocateur to this mess
and things will get uglier, if that is possible.

To be fair, plenty of us are still trying to get together for one interest or
another and the GA meetings are still being held among the din of confusion being
created by a crowd that tonight was totally out of control. Some younger hot shots
I’ve never seen are suddenly acting like they are in charge and running over the
old-timers like me. Magnets, those of us supposedly in charge of one thing or
another, that volunteered to do one thing last week, have abandoned their posts this
week. This was creating a chaotic scene where anything goes and all it needed was a
spark to put this night into a real downward spiral. And here it came walking up the
west side of the plaza. Three frat boys wearing khaki pants, blue blazers and red
ties walked out of the sunset with homemade poster board signs that read, “We are
the 1%” and “Get a Job.” I rushed toward them for an interview and stopped them on
the edge of the plaza. I positioned myself between them and the highly agitated and
intoxicated crowd, many of who wanted a piece of them.

When the boys-I say boys because these guys have never done anything to qualify
themselves as men-saw the aggressiveness of the crowd, they realized they had
suddenly jumped into some very deep water without their water wings. They rolled up
their signs and stood stock still, but still granted me the interview. I moved them
back further from the crowd. The trio consisted of a short guy about 5′ 6″, who will
never be any taller, named Chase, a 6′ tall leering half-Mexican with broad crooked
teeth and a touch of gingivitis named Justin, and a stone-faced boy with sharp
features and acne who stood a little over 6′ tall, named Cameron.

The interview was difficult because a Goth guy known around the camp as “Comrade”
kept pushing me out of the way as he was trying to stream the scene on his laptop,
and a young guy wearing those hipster Erkel glasses, named Nathan, who I had not
noticed the entire time I’ve been involved in the occupation, wanted to get in their
face. I told him to buzz off-that I had the interview-and he could talk to them in a
minute, and he screamed, “Who are you!” and “What are you doing here!” So apparently
Nathan didn’t believe anyone should be there but himself or have a right to say or
do anything. When he announced to the frats that his Dad worked at Chase bank and he
could have worked there if he wanted, I realized Nathan was no better than them, and
was exuding the spoiled brat ethic of mine-mine-mine that he was about to accuse his
college-attending counterparts of having. So now it had come to this, where someone
can come in and immediately start making their own rules, which in Nathan’s case
consisted of trying to indoctrinate a group of frightened frat boys into a chaotic
mess that was supposed to be a peaceful protest, but had descended into the image
the frat boys’ families (and the press) had handed them on a silver platter. But I
was still happy I got the scoop.

As it turned out, all three of the frat boys were freshmen at Texas A&M University,
which is where all the hicks in Texas with money and high enough high school grades
can go to college. It’s overwhelmingly white, and very conservative (GW’s daddy’s
presidential library is there.) It is located nearly two hours away, in College
Station, so the frat boys drove a long way just to agitate a few hippies. I wondered
what their conversation was like on the way there, and if they giggled like mean
little girls in anticipation of hurting someone they perceived as weaker than
themselves. I also wondered how brave they felt as they marched into the plaza
hoping to provide a beachhead for the next generation of right-wing doofuses.

I asked the boys what was in their heart that made them want to come down and do
this. Chase-the little one, said, “We are just concerned Aggies,” which is a slang
term for A&M students, “And were concerned why anyone would just want to sit around
and not have a job, not participate in the American dream, work hard and be at the
top of the totem pole when you are 50 or 60.” I thought, boy, did they get sold down
the river, but didn’t comment. So I asked, “Then you have a job?” Chase said he was
not working now. Justin said his first job will be as an intern this summer at an
oil and gas firm and Cameron worked as a lifeguard at a country club during the
summers during high school. So I confirmed that, “None of you has a job right now?”
and they all agreed.

Realizing they were already looking stupid, they begin to stammer while holding
tighter to their rolled up signs which were now the circumference of a nickel. They
said they were freshmen in college, so they didn’t need to work. The nauseating
smell of daddy’s money was emanating from their pores. It’s a familiar smell. It
comes out after spoiled kids get a few drinks in them. It is pervasive as patchouli
in Austin, and overwhelms the olfactory system such as when you witness a University
of Texas student who is not afraid of letting the cops know, “My daddy owns you!”
when he is being arrested because he is so drunk on daddy’s money he can’t stand up,
or when you are sitting at a downtown bench minding your own business, and a
hiccupping sorority girl, so drunk she’s lost one of her shoes, informs you that you
are scum and have no right to just sit there like that.

All the frat boy provocateurs agreed they were from wealthy families, and when I
asked, “So you’ve never had to really struggle for anything, have you?” They all
said no, but the little boy, Chase, said this was more of a symbol, “because the
protesters represent the 99% that doesn’t want to work, while we represent the 1%
that does.” I asked him, “So all these people out here make you sick, is that
right?” And he said, “Yes, for the most part,” as he eyed one of our women. This
sent the crowd around them into a feeding frenzy, and I had to yell the last few
questions and use my elbows to keep the crowd at bay.

Then I asked, “So when you get out of college, do you think you have a better chance
than other college graduates to get a job?” They all said, “Yes.” Then I established
that not one of them had any college debt and didn’t need it. They all claimed to
have some scholarship money, but it was the type daddy’s business friends swing your
way when you’re rich. I established that everything else came from daddy, they drove
there in the car daddy bought for them and they were wearing clothes daddy bought
too, and daddy’s money even bought the poster board and sharpies for them to come
all the way to Austin to show their ass. You know daddy was so proud. The insanity
of the whole fascist assault on the occupiers that was being played out in the press
could be explained in this little scene. None of these guys had a job or even needed
a job because their road was paved with daddy’s dollars as far as they could see and
their signs demanded that we, not them, “Get a Job!”

Sadly, the system is rigged for them. They won’t leave college in heavy debt, and
will have a leg up on everyone else because they got daddy’s money and no heart,
obviously. There is no reason these little pricks should have it better than anyone
else. None. Fuck them and their daddies and fuck the system that created those
little monsters.

The group surrounding them was out for blood at this point, and things were rapidly
breaking down. Nathan, with the Erkel glasses, wanted a dialogue that consisted of
him getting in my face and claiming that I surely must agree with them because I
wasn’t being aggressive enough in my interview. I told him to stop hassling them,
and me, and let them walk through the plaza if he really wanted to see some
fireworks, which Nathan refused to do. I said this is a still a free country, and
Nathan screamed, “Free Country? What do you mean?” His attempt to convince these
idiot frats who never had one trial in their short lives, to come over to our side
by screaming in their face and trying to create a pissing contest because, as Nathan
loudly pointed out before, “My daddy works at Chase,” was sickening to me. The funny
thing was this was literally an argument that a beer bust would quickly solve. And
to tell you the truth, I would rather have a few beers with the spoiled frat kids
than Nathan, who, in my opinion-was acting dumber than the frat rats.

Then I noticed a late straggler from the frat rat group who arrived with a young
lady. She was dressed for a Saturday night in Austin, not for this scene of
wild-eyed rag-tag protesters who’ve been living outside for over 2 weeks. Her hair
was already imploding and the look of disgust on her face for the shit-storm she had
found herself in was hilarious. I asked the guy with her, who stood just far enough
from his buddies so he wasn’t exactly with them, but still was because he had the
same uniform, “What is going on?” He said, “I ain’t really with these guys, we’re
just hanging around,” which he was taking pains to show, as he slouched a bit and
smoked a cigarette, in an attempt to slum with the hoi polloi. I asked if he agreed
with what his friends were doing and he said he didn’t really understand what all
the fuss was about and why the protesters were even here. I said, “All we want to do
is to diminish the power that money has in our political system so all Americans can
have a voice,” And get this-are your ready for his reply? Wait for it…here it is:
“You mean like Socialism?” I replied, “No, like Democracy.” And these are college
students who are supposed to be running the show in 20 years? Is this what we want?
If not, you might think about getting with the occupy movement right now, because
the propaganda machine is now crossing generations and you are about to get it in
the ass even worse than before if you don’t start working for change right now.
These guys do not have a soul or a heart, and this next generation of fascists will
make the current one look like a quilting bee.

Then I talked to Victor, a lively protester who has been there since day one and he
reminded me that the positive overwhelms the negative and that love will prevail. He
whipped out a nice crystal and waived it about, then lit piece of a shaman’s stick
known as Palo Santo, which is a natural wood incense used by the Incas to cleanse
the air and get rid of evil spirits. It has a divine citrus and frankincense smell,
and I really did feel better after talking to Victor and getting my air cleansed.
Plus I got a good hug from Victor, who is quite the character and a lot of fun to be
around, but doesn’t have much to say about the occupation other than it’s a lot fun
right now.

Then, to add to the chaos, a drunken homeless 23 year old pulled out a knife at the
food table about 8:30 pm to settle an old score with another homeless idiot, but was
quickly subdued after Turtle and Dimples kept him locked in the bathroom while the
man’s 200 pound girlfriend beat them around the head and face with her fists.
Although the police were within shouting distance, they sauntered over as if
enjoying this mess we had made of ourselves. While most don’t agree we need a strong
police presence, it would be nice to see a little more enthusiastic response to an
obvious life or death situation. As I looked around, I noticed there were much fewer
police than normal, even though this was becoming a wild night. Where did they all
go? Were they off planning their attack? This was a night they needed to be there to
do their jobs. To not only protect the occupiers from each other, but even those
idiot frat rats from A&M. If those boys would have arrived an hour later, I’m afraid
they wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests today.

-Jim Gober-

OCCUPIED UNION SQUARE, NY - Four NYC Parks Enforcement officers stand on the outskirts of the sidewalk as the low rhythm of hand drums blend with a smooth Jazz saxophone. The crowd, about 300 strong, is relaxed and chatting. It feels like the old days again. As I walk amongst the crowd, familiar faces and new smiles greet me and I decide to sit and chat.

The now infamous yellow Occupy Wall Street banner, designed to replicate caution tape hangs high and proud over a group of occupiers. Pillows, blankets, brothers and sisters converge under its framework. Telling stories of the long winter, countless hours spent laying the groundwork for what is set to be a monumental spring, our humble beginnings in lower Manhattan and how much farther we must travel on our journey. Food donations have already begun pouring in only reinforcing that feeling of nostalgia. The spirit of the Occupy Movement that seemed all but lost not long ago has burst back to life since the six-month anniversary and subsequent raid. It feels like coming home.

In speaking with some friends I learn that OWS has once again found ourselves a loophole. We are quite resourceful for “dirty hippies”. Our latest occupation, now in day three, is allowed to stay for some very interesting reasons. Union Square Park is patrolled by Park Rangers or Parks Enforcement Officers during hours of operation. This means the police have no jurisdiction over the park unless Park Rangers call them in to handle a situation AFTER the park closes at midnight. Ironically, the exterior of the park, where we have set up camp, is mandated to remain open 24 hours as a major subway station is located in the square. However, the NYPD can’t enforce anything other than open flame/noise violations or the congregation of more than 25 people having a single conversation (thank you NDAA ) because the Park Rangers go off duty at midnight. It’s almost poetic justice. As I continue to scan the perimeter I see a few “white shirts” and the occasional patrol officer but as before they remain removed. No barricades or wrist band clad monsters lurking, not a single mainstream media source in sight.

As the evening continued rather than the numbers dwindling, the crowd seemed to have increased, spreading itself out along the south side of the square, mindful to remain in small groups to protect the occupation. We played sports, sang, danced—spring training in full effect. Sidewalk chalk turned the once gray paving stones of Union Square into a canvas reminiscent of just a few days earlier in our “starter home” as remnants of the once sprawling OWS Library are set up on a staircase. Six months and two evictions later it seems we have a new place to call Occupied.

A relatively uneventful evening progressed at the new home of Occupy Wall Street and I decided it was time for me to depart. I had to work very early but promised friends, old and new, I would be back tomorrow. My faith in Occupy and my brothers and sisters continues to be renewed with each action I attend. As I sat down on the subway for my short trip back to Brooklyn a smile comes across my face. I take a huge bite from my fresh boston crème donut, courtesy of The Peoples Kitchen and hum to myself, “this occupation is not leaving!”

-Nicole Pace-

CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA -

 

I remember when the park was just a park

With no tents, no signs, no campfire, and no spark

Just a place dogs go to play and poop

As their owners try to hide

What they decide

Not to pick up

I remember eating lunch there

Sitting on a bench in my own solitaire

Friendless, helpless, but hopeful for change

Wondering when my life will cease to abide

Wanting to decide

For something more

I remember that cold rainy day it was said

To come support the 99% under a big white tent

There were cameras and umbrellas

A whisper of hope in the air

A defiant “we are still here”

A first meeting of radical strangers

Well, it took three hours of conversation

With much patience and most people’s undivided attention

It was decided to occupy the nearby park

So bring your tents,

Bring your signs and blankets

But most importantly

Bring your beating hearts

I remember when the park was filled to the brim

With tents, bright eyes, and an occasional hymn

The fire pit became the hearth of our self-made dens

A place I called home

Where strangers became lovers

And where I found my long lost friends

People were well fed with food and new friendships

Energized by lively discussions and beautiful mic checks

Meeting every night under the changing moon

People knew my name

As I claimed My Voice back

Not a moment too soon

After speaking our words of truth, hope, and love

We were abruptly evicted from our revolutionary abode

After eleven o’clock the police came

To take my friends away

A part of me died that fateful night

Along side any hope for my government

Since I was not allowed in the park

I cried tears on the sidewalk

And felt a familiar emptiness for days

Now when the sun is up

I still eat lunch in this graveyard park

With no tents, no signs, no voices, no campfire, and no spark

As I look around these pieces of earth

I remember all of those who stood with me

Like stepping on unmarked graves

It is like a ghost town to me today

As I eat no one talks to me now

Because no one knows my name

Next to that stupid statue

Dogs still poop and play

Their owners still don’t clean up

The messes they’ve made

Not much has changed to the untrained eye

But as I look down I see proof of what once was

What I see is new grass, growth, and rebirth

I see new grass growing where tents once stood

I see new green where the fire pit once burned

I see new life in those places once barren

With so much movement and many footprints

This park was filled with spark

And full of life each night

Truth be told,

The proof is in the soil

The earth remembers our presence

Even if no one else does

I see growth in the hearts of those who courageous stood

Up for equality, financial stability, and the right to be heard

I see progress in the connections we’ve made

Complete strangers turned into good friends

And the people we know now

Are the names we call out

When we are in need of help

Instead of reverting to old destructive habits

I see rebirth from the ashes of despair

People once isolated and alone

Prove their worth to themselves

Once dim candles find the fire within

The tears I cried on the sidewalk

Was a necessary part

Of universal transformation

True change is only birthed

When there is a release

A letting go

With a renewed sense of self

Such beauty comes from birth, death, and resurrection

How fitting to see the new grass grow as a sign of strength from within

Proving the cycle of life never dies, only changes form

And if you wait long enough

It will always come back

And better then before

As memories play their part and build on each other

My life is forever changed

By the experiences felt In this tent city

As we protested for change on a broad scale

We found a kinship of misfits

And started with the only thing you can truly change

And that is, very simply, yourself

 

-Flora Lark Baily-