Editor’s note: A version of this story originally appeared on Suicide Girls Blog. Part one of the story may be found here; part two is here; and part three here. You can read more #noNATO coverage on Occupied Stories by clicking here.

The day started out so well. We began it with a hearty breakfast (our first sit-down meal in 4 days!), before heading down to the Occupy Chicago Convergence Center. The well-organized facility is located in the basement of Wellington Ave United Church, a branch of the United Church of Christ which is run by Dan Dale, a pastor that is sympathetic to the movement, and has gone above and beyond to help the cause.

By the time we got there, Occupy Wall Street’s Lauren had made herself at home in the Chicago occupation’s kitchen, and was serving up delicious breakfast burritos to anyone in need of sustenance. We spotted many familiar faces from the bus ride from LA milling around in the grazing area/community space, and met up with several personalities we’d conversed with on Twitter and seen on the livestreams over the past few months.

Our friends from OccupyLA’s #BaconBloc, whose mission is to push back against the overwhelming veganism of the movement, were busy planning an action involving candied bacon. We were also introduced to the mastermind behind Clown Bloq, which has been enjoying quite a lot of media attention of late. And while we awaited the bus, which was scheduled to take us to our next appointment, which used 99% Solidarity’s stamps to embellish our dollars bills with the meme “THE SYSTEM ISN’T BROKEN – IT’S FIXED.”

When our chauffeur arrived with his big ass bus, we headed to the back to hang with our new heroes, the Bay Area Nine, who’d been through hell and high water to make it to Chi-Town. Our destination was Homer Park, which served as a staging area for our scheduled protest outside the Ravenswood home of Mayor Rahm Emanuel. Our aim, to exercise the First Amendments rights he’d tried so hard to quash outside his front door.

The atmosphere was jovial as protesters gathered in the park, greeting friends and rehearsing chants ahead of the march. The sun shone and the sky was blue, the only clouds on the horizon where the two omnipresent police helicopters, which hovered overhead.

As our procession made its way through the park, and then the streets of the upper-middle class neighborhood, the rotating chants du jour included, “Fight, fight, fight. Healthcare is a human right”, “Healthcare is under attack. What do we do? Stand up, fight back,” and “Healthcare not warfare,” echoing the sentiments of yesterday’s NNU’s Robin Hood Tax rally, which called for a minuscule tax on trades to pay for, among other things, true universal healthcare. It was indicative of our government’s current priorities, that they spent tax dollars on helicopters to police a march for something that more civilized countries already consider to be a fundamental human right.

While moving through the well-kept suburban streets, we were greeted with a surprising warmth by locals, who came out of their business and homes to watch our procession. Code Pink’s “MAKE OUT, NOT WAR” stickers proved to be popular with the young female activists of tomorrow that we met along the way. Other locals en route that I spoke to told me they thought what we were doing was “amazing” and wished us “good luck.”

There was a large police presence when we arrived a Mayor Emanuel’s home. Most were wearing riot helmets, and were armed with plastic zip ties, batons, and bikes – the latter serving as mobile barricades which physically barred us from stepping on the mayor’s front lawn. Not that we would have. The protesters were very respectful of the fact that it was a residential neighborhood. The chanting had mostly ceased, and the human mic was functioning at a suitably low volume.

Vendors were serving refreshing frozen treats from carts. Despite their clear capitalist exploitation of our political gathering, many protesters, including this one, were more then happy to indulge in their wares. Indeed, the scene was more than a little comical, as battalions of riot cops stood amidst flowering shrubbery, policing protesters who were milling around eating ice cream.

After making our point, the protester gradually dissipated. As I walked back to the train station I saw two ACLU legal observers, who were easily identified by their bright orange T-shirts, thanking a group of CPD officers for their mostly good natured and restrained job. When I engaged the ACLU staffers in conversation, they told me that given the size of the action, which spilled from the pavement and onto the street due to the sheer volume of people, and the fact that it was un-permitted, things could easily have gone another way.

I remarked that this show of restraint was likely prompted, not by the Mayor’s new found respect for free speech, but by the fact that he didn’t want to be portrayed as the bad guy on the world stage. After all, though the mainstream media was conspicuous by its absence at this action, many around the world had tuned in thanks to the feeds pumped out by Occupy’s ever present livestreamers. Little did I know, that in a few short hours these brave citizen journalists would become the prime target of law enforcement agencies.

TO BE CONTINUED…

- Nicole Powers -

New York, NY – On May 1st during the March from Union Square to Wall Street, I decide to leave the march to use the bathroom. After my bathroom break, upon my return I tried to rejoin the march via an opening where the barricades were moveable, a cop stopped me and I said to him, ” I want to rejoin the march.”

“Its closed now,” the cop replied,

“But its clearly an access point and its my constitutional right to join the march, you are violating my 1st amendment by not letting me back into the march,” I said.

The cop replied, “Tell it to your lawyer!”

-Anonymous- 

Check out all our May Day stories here. 

New York, NY – I closed my store and marched yesterday, May 1st, 2012, out of respect and solidarity for the International Labor Movement, aware, thanks to an NPR program, that the Haymarket Square Riot of 1886, Chicago, had been acknowledged in Poland and other countries during their own labor and political struggles.

The personal takeaway, having trudged from Union Square, late in the afternoon, to Wall Street, later that evening, was being an active part of history, punching a big red balloon high into the sky, and observing personal solidarity–as well as some interesting fashions (a number of bleached heads on the guys)–with the cadre I was marching. More significantly, I felt it answered a call to an urgent civic duty, and, quite unexpectedly, also gave me a role in ‘compassionate history.’

At one point, as the NYPD muscled our stream of lumpen marchers aside, I felt like a  doomed pilgrim, a Kurt Vonnegut character of sorts, headed for a slaughterhouse chute. Or perhaps even some hungry lions. But I was also reminded that spiritual values, “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” and Constitutional ones, “to provide for the common weal,” were being resurrected. My faith restored, progressive political reform, better education, fair labor practices, fair treatment to newcomers and their first generation American children, and respect for the rights of LGBT, became, in my heart and mind, the pilgrimage and actual shrine to which we were all headed.

After several rewarding, at times, colorful hours, having stopped at the banks to say “get a job,” chant an expletive or two at the powers that be, while also having been flashed many different signs from enthusiasts, and a few detractors, out the windows of our building-lined ‘canyon’ known as Broadway, we finally arrived, end of the line, at the US Customs House near the American Stock Exchange at the Bowling Green IRT [subway] Station. There, the seasoned Occupiers sat down and began to educate. It’s then I experienced the ripened fellowship of Universalism, as if Logos, The Word—or even just, “Word?”—had been made flesh. A pilgrimage the recounting of which only a modern day Chaucer, or perhaps George Orwell, if only, might be worthy.

-James Sarzotti-

Check out our other May Day stories here. 

NEW YORK, NY–When my girlfriend and I arrived at Byrant Park it was cold and raining. Mutual Aid was just setting up a table and the kitchen was spreading out food under an umbrella. The turnout was lower than I was hoping for but the spirit was high, especially across the street at the picket in front of Bank of America.

The rain stopped after thirty minutes but a persistent mist hovered over us and hid the tops of the skyscrapers. We met our affinity group and headed uptown to join a picket in front of News Corporation, but the picket had moved on by the time we arrived. Still, it was exciting to get out into the streets of midtown. I had a sign that read “Another world is possible. STRIKE!”and as we walked we crossed other groups of occupiers and pedestrians that raised their fists and cheered. The groups of occupiers heading to the various pickets became more frequent and we stopped to exchange information about where occupiers and police were massing. It slowly began to feel like the city was ours.

The crowd had doubled by the time we returned to Byrant Park but before long a group announced they were marching to reinforce another picket, and we headed out with them. Hundreds came with us. When I ducked in to use the bathroom at Grand Central it seemed the crowd had once more doubled in the few minutes that I was gone.  The sun was really coming out now.

After picketing in front of Capital Grille and Chipotle restaurant we were back in the park where the crowd swelled to a few thousand people. We ate sat down and shared snacks among ourselves and with strangers. In the background Tom Morello and a mass of other guitarists prepared for the Guitarmy march.

After the crowd left the park and turned down 5^th avenue I crossed the street to get a better view. I had to run ahead four blocks to catch up to the front and stood in the crosswalk on the other side, waiting for the march to catch up.  Other occupiers gathered at the crosswalk with me and started chanting “Cross the street!” The marches on the other sidewalk, across four lanes of traffic, heard them and gathered at their crosswalk. When the light turned red, both groups crossed, met in the middle, then in unison ran down fifth avenue yelling “Whose streets! Our streets!” It was electric. The crowd poured off of the sidewalk and into the street. The police scurried ahead to set up a blockade of motorcycles two blocks down but we went around and poured into the street again. Two blocks further down we did it again at another police blockade. The energy was amazing.

After we by passed the second blockade the police retreated and ceded the streets to us and we held them all the way to Union Square where all the clouds had receded. And now, all the decentralized actions around New York City are converging at Union Square for a march on Wall Street. May Day may just live up to my wild expectations. A better world is possible. STRIKE!

-John Dennehy-

Check out all or other May Day stories here.

NEW YORK, NY–A few hours before I was arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge, I met Nicole in Zuccotti Park. She wore dark blue jeans that stretched across her legs, a grey sweater and a blue and white scarf that hid behind her flowing brown her. It was our first date.

Nicole was handing out flyers with legal advice while saying, “Protest is not a crime.

“I work for a law firm so the legal stuff interests me,” she explained.

When Occupy Wall Street began its march the protest stretched back for many blocks as it crowded onto the sidewalk with barricades and a heavy police presence lining our way. By the time we arrived at the bridge the front of the march was already funneling onto the pedestrian walkway, though only a handful of police stood casually at the entrance to the roadway.

“We’re not taking the bridge?” I said to Nicole in disappointment.

“Doesn’t look that way, I guess they don’t have a permit,” she responded.

“That’s such a letdown; the power of OWS is that it doesn’t ask permission to disagree. There’s hardly any police, we should just take the bridge,” I said.

The crowd bulged at the narrow entrance to the walkway and had begun to fill the street in front.

Without thinking, I stepped away from Nicole and into the growing crowd to start a familiar chant.

“Whose streets?” I yelled.

“Our streets!” the crowd answered.

The chant grew quickly and more people moved into the street at the base of the on ramp. The assertiveness and ambition was back, the crowd was alive. One police officer lazily spoke into a megaphone but was drowned out by the crowd.

I shouted “Take the bridge, take the bridge!” and the crowd immediately and aggressively picked up the refrain. It was infectious. I had lost myself in the moment and briefly forgotten about Nicole. I thought my idea of protest might have been more aggressive than hers, but then she caught my eye, smiled and rushed down from the pedestrian walkway toward me. She grabbed me and put her fist in the air. “Take the bridge” she shouted with the surging crowd. We watched as the group of people closest to the police locked arms. Everyone behind them, including Nicole and I, followed their example. It was loud and tense but it all melted away when the first line took a single step forward, their legs all moving in unison, connected as one solid line at the waist. The police turned their backs and walked ahead. They were leading us onto the bridge, we won! The crowd cheered and rushed up the ramp.

Nicole and I held back a few minutes and helped people from the walkway climb onto the road with us. The crowd was thick and excited, and our hands met so we wouldn’t get separated; it felt so natural. Once the crowd spread into all the lanes and gave us space, neither of us let go. I only noticed her hand still in mine because they began to sweat against each other. Confused motorists, stuck behind us, were honking in support.

“I can’t get arrested,” Nicole told me.

“They can’t arrest everyone. I can’t see the beginning or end of the crowd. There’s no way they can arrest this many people; we already won,” I said.

“Okay, good. This is incredible,” Nicole said, squeezing my hand and looking up at me.

“Yeah. I went to a lot of protests in college, but this is different.” I said.

The crowd stopped suddenly then surged backward, pushing Nicole’s body against mine. We couldn’t see what was happening, but the joy instantly transformed into panic. The chants stopped and people started screaming a few rows in front of us in the all-of-a-sudden-dense-again crowd. “The police are attacking, go back, go back!” they yelled. I put my arms around Nicole and held her tight; her fingers clasped behind my back and pulled me even closer.

As some people from the front pushed back into us, others pushed forward, trying to reach the front line to break the police cordon.

“We have to keep going forward! We have to break through!” a man behind us yelled.

“There’s nowhere to go, people are getting crushed up there!” a woman cried, her voice cracking.

A second man with a calm but firm voice started shouting rhythmically, over and over again, “Sit down! Sit down!”

Most people sat down but there were still others pushing one way or the other and stepping on top of people. Dozens on our left, against the inner side of the bridge, were climbing up the scaffolding to the pedestrian walkway above, trying to escape the crush. It was chaos.

Nicole tucked her head into my arm as I moved my hand across her back. Our bodies moved tighter, her right leg rubbing between mine while my left leg nestled between hers.

“I can’t get arrested,” Nicole repeated, more desperate than before.

“They can’t arrest everyone,” I repeated, almost as sure.

To our left, where the people had been climbing the scaffolding, police pushed in and set up a net. They immediately walked two protesters in handcuffs down the corridor so everyone could see. They were pushing them hard, making them stumble, and almost knocking them on their face. They were sending us a message: You’re next.

The police pushed everyone off the pedestrian walkway and shut down the bridge. The crowd was tense. We were stuck in a police net, hanging above the East River, completely alone, utterly vulnerable. Rumors swilled though the crowd. “The police cleared the airspace,” someone shouted, and we realized: there were no witnesses. All of a sudden taking the bridge seemed a terrible idea.

We waited, and as we waited the fear left and the spirit of the crowd that had locked arms and took the Brooklyn Bridge returned. People started to mic check, mixing rumor and fact, but the tone changed and each message was more defiant than the last. Each time the crowd roared louder than the last.

“5,000 people are watching us on livestream.”

“A crowd is gathering on the Brooklyn side of the bridge, they are waiting for us.”

“10,000 people are watching.”

“The MTA is going on strike in solidarity.”

“25,000 people are watching.”

Even as the minutes dragged into hours and it became clear that the police were in fact going to arrest everyone they had netted, it still felt like victory. Everyone shared what they had, fruit and water passed through the crowd and people called out of work and cancelled dinner plans with borrowed phones.

Nicole and I still held each other. Long after the crowd thinned and the panic passed, our hands were still interlocked when we sat, and our bodies still pressed tight to the other when we stood.

“Mic check: It is an honor and a privilege to be arrested with you all today. Fifty years from now, when you tell your grandkids about this, you can say that you were a soldier in the Battle of the Brooklyn Bridge!” The crowd roared.
Nicole pulled her head out of my arm and we looked into each other’s eyes.

“Best first date ever,” I said.

She giggled. “This is incredible.”

People were still mic checking, still passing around markers so everyone could write the legal number on their arm, but we were isolated from all of that, stuck in our own moment. Our eyes were locked on each other and our faces pulled together, like magnets finding their mate. Our lips touched, and then opened. When we drew back our eyes were staring into each other again but in a different way than before the kiss. I could tell she was smiling though all I saw were her eyes. I could feel my own face stuck in the same pose. We moved together and kissed again, oblivious to the crowd around us.

It began to rain and the sun disappeared behind the clouds, then fell below the horizon. We had been in the police net for over three hours now and I was getting cold. “Let’s go get arrested,” I said.

“I’d love to.” Nicole smiled.

I tapped someone on the shoulder near the police blockade. “Is this the line to get arrested?” I asked.

He laughed. “Yeah,” he said.

There was a separate line for women so Nicole and I shared one last embrace and kissed one last time.
“I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you forever,” she said.

A police officer slapped cuffs on my wrist then walked me onto a commandeered MTA bus, and when I looked back, Nicole was gone, on her own bus I presumed. All the police stations and holding cells in Manhattan were already overflowing with protesters, so we got on the Williamsburg Bridge and for the second time that day, I headed to Brooklyn. This time, a prisoner in police custody, I made it. The first two precincts we went to were also filled and we finally stopped at the 90th precinct, which, ironically, I could walk to from my home in Bushwick. We were the third bus in line so we waited for the others to be processed first. For more than three hours we sat uncomfortably, forced to sit at the edge of our seat and lean slightly forward to accommodate the handcuffs digging ever deeper into our wrists as the blood collected in our hands and swelled the skin around the plastic rings. All the while, we took advantage of our captive audience and tried to convert our arresting officers who were acting as our guards now.

“The banks crashed the economy, and when the government bailed them out they used the money to give bonuses to the CEO’s and increased foreclosures against families like your own. When it comes down to it, we are all on the same side. You are the 99% as much as we are,” we told them.

One of the officers, the loudest one, never genuinely responded to our attempts at engagement. He would chuckle and say things like, “I think your dreadlocks are seeping into your brain,” or, “what good are you sitting in handcuffs here, why don’t you just plant a garden or something?”

My arresting officer was much quieter but also much more thoughtful.

“National elections are overwhelmingly decided by who has the most money so they can better spin the narrative in their favor, which gives great power to corporate CEO’s at our expense. The system is broken, and while we may not have all the answers, we need to start creating alternatives, we need to take control over our own lives,” I said.

“You’re right,” he said. “The country is heading in the wrong direction and people need to stand up in order to change it, but I got a job to do. I got a wife and kids so if my CO [commanding officer] tells me to make an arrest, I have to do it. I wish I could be with you guys, but I need this paycheck,” he said.

Finally it was our turn, and the police marched us off the bus and into the station.

Someone yelled my name as I was being walked to my cell.

“Anita?” I stopped, happy to see my friend smiling behind a row of bars next to me. “Hey! You got arrested too huh?”

An officer grabbed my arm and yelled, “Get to your cell!”

I kept forgetting I wasn’t free.

The cells were built for one with a single plank of wood hanging from one wall as a bed, a metal toilet filled with urine and feces and unable to flush, and not much room for anything else. The first thing everyone did was pee. There were five of us, and our urine stirred the thick brown liquid and released an even more pungent odor.

Danny, Craig, Adam and Lucas were my cell mates. We were locked in what was essentially a crowded and dirty bathroom, but it felt like a party. I’ve never felt free as I did when I was handcuffed and forced into a 5 by 8 cell. Given the chance to do it all over, I wouldn’t hesitate a second. But freedom is more than a lack of fear; it’s replacing that with the belief that we can build something better. Though I spent the day inside a police net and then locked in a cage, I saw the beginnings of a community based on altruism, compassion and solidarity, and you can’t lock that up.

Finally, after twelve hours in police custody, we were given court dates and released. It was the early morning and dark and cold outside. Two women were waiting outside to support us and gave everyone coffee and snacks.

My phone rang. “You’re out!” Nicole gushed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m in Brooklyn, where are you?” I asked.

“I’m waiting for you in the park.”

I took the subway away from my house and back to the park. The streets of the financial district were deserted and police barricades lined every sidewalk. There was a steady stream of people rising from the subways, returning from jail. It felt like the city was ours.

I ran into Danny and Craig at the edge of the park and we embraced like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Nicole was sitting on a wall with a blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She dropped the blanket and ran toward me, and we embraced like old lovers.

“You must be cold, take this.” She threw the blanket over me. She had enormous energy considering the hour.
Nicole brought us to a group lying on an air mattress. Though it was already crowded beyond what seemed comfortable, they cheerily made space for us. They were all drinking coffee and soon after they got up to welcome others returning from jail, leaving Nicole and I alone in their bed.

We never slept. We barely even talked. We wrapped our arms around each other and touched our lips together. It warmed better than any blanket. A few hours after I was released from jail, the darkness began to fade. On all sides the park was hemmed in by skyscrapers creating an empty shaft of air reaching toward the sky. The sun filtered between the walls of concrete and through the honey locust trees above us, bathing New York City in a new light.

It was the brightest sunrise of my life.

-John Dennehy-

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.

I boarded the World Trade Center-bound E train on March 17th (M17) not knowing what to expect when I got out on the other side, a few blocks away from the now infamous Zuccotti Park. It’s been a long winter for Occupy Wall Street. The past few months have seen the movement deal with increasingly violent repression and evictions nationwide, as well as – at least in New York City – a lot of internal bickering and debate on everything from nonviolence to funding sources to housing of occupiers. Many occupiers have been referring to winter as an “incubation” period. The mainstream media pretty much considers the movement dead. Whatever it is, it is vastly different than the Occupy Wall Street of 6 months ago. Or at least it was until M17, the movement’s six-month anniversary.

I spent most of the train ride to Liberty Plaza (Zuccotti’s reclaimed name) conjuring the many nights of elation and frustration I have had in that park – the countless general assemblies, free meals, cigarettes, stimulating conversations, rain storms, arguments, marches and finally, the brutal eviction that brought it all to a screeching halt. Since the eviction, the park had been empty. Or maybe barren is a better word. A cold (literally), lifeless slab of concrete in the valley of the gargantuan buildings surrounding  it. Whatever vitality we brought to that place had long been replaced with barricades, security guards, and an eerie stillness.

When I emerged in Lower Manhattan, I was hit by a wave of déjà vu. I could hear the drums and chants inside the park reverberating throughout the neighborhood. I realized that even the sound of the neighborhood had changed since the eviction. A flash flood of warm familiarity washed over me. On the six-month anniversary of our movement, I was transported back to its beginning. I picked up the pace and almost sprinted to the park. When I arrived, I found it once again brimming over with occupiers and police.

 It was wonderful to see the park electrified with people power again. That powerful feeling of remembrance and recognition continued to surge through my body like a kind of muscle memory being reawakened.

As soon I walked into the park, I witnessed someone being arrested by the NYPD. The mood was tense and rowdy. I was surprised by the number of police, all with a dozen or so zip-tie handcuffs hanging from their belts. I saw a few old friends and gave and received many hugs. We talked about the insane tug-of-war in which we are constantly engaged with the NYPD. They show up with batons, handcuffs, guns, and riot gear and raise the tension level in the park, then put the onus on us to deescalate. There were a few other arrests, and the police shouted at us where we could and couldn’t stand and what we couldn’t bring into the park.

Throughout the day, different marches left the plaza and came back to cheers and raised fists. It was as if we were in the midst of a mighty stretch after a long slumber. As afternoon turned to evening, the overall mood of the park shifted and the police presence seemed to taper off a bit. The chants going around and the drum circle in full swing filled the park with that familiar cacophonous buzz. There is something amazing about chanting and dancing around with complete strangers. One of the more popular chants of the day was taken from the Spanish Indignados and proclaims simply and rhythmically: “Anti-capitalista!” It was refreshing to hear so many chant that radical declaration. Even through the winter, we had kept our radical roots.

At 7pm, as customary, we had our general assembly (GA). This was my first time attending a GA in a good while, and by the time it was over I was re-enamored with direct democracy and twinkling fingers. There were hundreds in attendance – probably our biggest GA of the year. It was also surprisingly lacking in rancor or squabbling, except for the traditional begging of the drum circle to keep it down or move away from GA. We consensed on signing on to a letter calling for a federal investigation of the NYPD for spying in Muslim communities and broke out into discussion groups to talk about our ideas for May Day. There was a palpable spirit of camaraderie and solidarity in the air, and many OWS veterans commented to me that they felt truly transported to “the good ol’ days” before the eviction and even before the tents went up at Zuccotti, fighting with drummers and all.

After GA a large march which included Michael Moore and Dr. Cornel West arrived from the Left Forum. Suddenly there were over a thousand people communing in the park, some playing games, some doing interviews or making media, others just talking and smoking. There was a Capoeira circle, a mic-check speak out, and of course plenty of drums and dancing. The mood was jovial in spite of everyone’s noticing that the police presence seemed to be increasing as the night went on. At one point, a barrage of bag pipes could be heard on the southwestern corner of the park. This being St. Patrick’s Day, a small Irish marching band had either purposely or by coincidence found its way to Liberty Plaza, equipped with bag pipes and snare drums. The crowd in the park erupted with cheers and applause and ran to the park’s northern perimeter to greet the band. In a confused scuffle (at least from my vantage point) the police moved in, forced the band to stop playing and moved them to the other side of the street. One officer told me they feared the band would “cause a riot.”

Suddenly an orange net appeared. Usually, this means that you have been kettled by the police and are about to go to jail. But this orange net had the words “Occupy” and “99%” stenciled on it. A group of protesters were extending the net and creating a barrier between the police and the occupiers. I admit, being surrounded by that net gave me a creepy feeling , even though I knew it was ‘on our side.’ Yellow OWS caution tape started to go up all over the park too, tied on the trees and cutting through the crowd in odd angles. I wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I could almost sense the tension in the park boiling over. An exorbitant number of police were amassing on the northern side of the park. I stood on one of the benches in the park to try to get some perspective, and I saw what all the fuss was about. A group of occupiers were erecting tents in the center of the park. The net, the tape, all of it, was to protect the tents. A light came on inside the first tent and the words stenciled on its side became visible: “You cannot evict an idea whose time has come.”

I watched as the tent was hoisted into the air and cheered with the crowd, but I knew that what had been a glorious and rejuvenating day would have an ugly ending. We paraded around with two tents for a bit, all of us enjoying what we knew were the last exquisite moments of our resurrection. Then, as if someone hit a fast forward button, we jumped from reliving those first amazing months of Occupy to November 15 – eviction day. Much like that night, the police lined up on the Broadway stairs and announced that the park was closed. They told us that being in the park was now an arrestable offense. And so those who were willing to risk arrest moved to create a human wall on the eastern end of the park, a few meters from the line of police officers. I moved toward the middle of the park and stood on a bench to see the NYPD march in and start arresting people. After about half an hour they had moved everyone out of the park and began erecting barricades around the park’s perimeter. After being pushed and shoved out of the park, those of us who remained stood on the sidewalk, most of us bewildered by the brute force we had just witnessed. We were on the western end of park, isolated from the far greater brutality happening on the eastern side. In the background I could hear people calling for a march.

By this point, I was both mentally and physically exhausted from this behemoth roller-coaster of a day, but I just couldn’t tear away. I ran through the gamut of emotions and questions we all ask ourselves in moments like these, trying to balance my sense of duty and solidarity with the sheer terror of the situation at hand and its possible outcomes. Do I want to get arrested? Or beat up? Is it worth it this time? In truth, I had to fight off the urge to wave the white flag and go home. But I was angry, dejected, and so was everyone else. In the end, I decided to march with my comrades.

A few hundred of us wound our way through Lower Manhattan, flanked all the while by police in scooters and squad cars. We turned sharply down side streets a few times, which seemed to confuse the police, but definitely caused confusion amongst the marchers. I found myself running down the sidewalks and streets with large groups of other occupiers just to keep up. This, plus the sheer volume of the police response, made for some moments of pandemonium. We took the streets several times throughout, prompting arrests and batons. Police smashed an occupier’s head against a glass door. We passed a least one broken store window (though it was unclear if it was broken by Occupy) and at one point on a side-street in the Village, some protesters emptied several trash receptacles into the streets to block the police. It worked, to everyone’s excitement. I saw several police scooters with trash and plastic bags caught in their wheel wells.

When the march reached E. Houston shortly after that, I decided to hop on the nearby F train and make the trip back to Queens. I wanted to stay, continue the march, be with my comrades, express my anger and my joy – but I just had to break away. I knew that things would only get uglier, and I was already delirious with a cogent mix of exhaustion, frustration, and the high of marching through the streets. It felt as if I had lived the whole history of occupy in the span of 10 hours. On the train ride home, I found myself thinking that despite its dystopian ending, M17 had been a success. It was a re-ignition of our imaginations; a reminder of all the beautiful things we built from scratch in that small park, and all the hardships that came with them, and how easily it can be wiped away.

Spring has definitely sprung at OWS, and it’s only the beginning.

- Danny Valdes -
Contact the author

Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin: Chapter 8

Editor’s note: This is the eighth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s forthcoming 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.

NEW YORK – My son and I arrived in lower Manhattan to march over the Brooklyn Bridge.  We jumped into the line and marched slowly in a most peaceful crowd.  This experience was life changing in a number of ways.  In all my years of visiting New York, I have never been with such patient, kind and friendly people.  There was absolutely no pushing or lude behavior of any kind which is wrongly expressed by Fox news.  No one was drunk, unkind or out of control in any way.  As we approached the top of the bridge, we had the good fortune of meeting Chris Hayes from MSNBC.  He was very friendly and polite.  We then met up with the mobile book library and donated several books in spite of the police taking over half of the library’s books while purging Zuchotti Park then not returning them.  We arrived in Brooklyn to a great deal of celebration and just in time for the General Assembly meeting.  Overall, by far the most enjoyable time in New York City in a very long time.  We cannot wait to return!

-Maureen Purdue-

Like many people I was disgusted by the Zuccotti Park raid that took place Tuesday morning.  So when I heard about the Brooklyn Bridge march on Thursday night I felt compelled to act.  I was impressed by how many people came out to show their support at this critical point in the movement.  But what really caught my attention was the overwhelmingly positive reaction we received from the drivers on the Brooklyn Bridge.  In a spontaneous gesture of solidarity hundreds of drivers slowed down, honked their horns, waved their fist in the air and cheered us on.  I imagine the last thing many of them heard about Occupy Wall Street was the nationwide crackdown that culminated in the Zuccotti Park raid.  Many may have assumed that would be the end of the movement.  For those, I believe it was especially important and uplifting to see thousands of people from all walks of like marching in defiance of brutality and in support of social change for a better society.  And this all took place in view of an amazing guerrila light show on the Verizon building.  It was quite a galvanizing moment.

(((video from the bridge)))http://www.youtube.com/embed/-ZL27BXh_AU

-Tate Harmon-