Editor’s Note: a version of this story originally appeared on the Ms. Magazine blog.

“What took so long?” was the general sentiment among those gathered in Washington Square Park in Manhattan last night for Occupy Wall Street’s first ever Feminist General Assembly.

Despite being woefully overdue, May 17 was a beautiful and significant night: Not only was it the eight-month anniversary of our movement, it was also the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia and the 181st anniversary of the First Women’s Anti-Slavery Convention. This intersection of issues created a perfect backdrop for discussing the challenges and importance of feminism to Occupy Wall Street–a movement often criticized for being stubbornly multi-issue.

I arrived to find a diverse crowd of around 300 people. Members of the Occupy Wall Street women’s caucus, Women Occupying Wall Street (WOW), were giving a shout of solidarity to Occupy Maine. The people of Lafayette, Ind.; Bend and Portland, Ore.; Chicago and a handful of other cities were also holding feminist GAs. The Raging Grannies sang  “Evolution is too slow, revolution’s the way to go!” and things were off to a raucous start. I pitched in with a paintbrush to help record the shared values we were brainstorming–“Trust!” “Creativity!” “Justice!” “Humor!”–and, ignoring my friend’s smirk, embraced the consciousness-raising exercise as though I were encountering it for the first time. After focusing almost exclusively on women’s organizing for the first six months of Occupy Wall Street (OWS), I was happy for the chance to just participate. More importantly, I was happy to see so many new leaders and so many of the elusive “unfamiliar faces” we had spent meeting after meeting trying to attract to the movement.

When we broke into smaller groups to discuss feminist goals for the Occupy movement, the fresh spring air had a cleansing effect on issues that felt dusty and spoiled. One young person who had never been to an Occupy Wall Street event and didn’t identify as a feminist shared a concern about not being taken seriously when calling out sexist behavior. A woman in a wheelchair spoke about how her disability had led her on a journey of liberation from societal standards of beauty. A member of OWS’ Safer Spaces group reminded us that:

Ally is a verb. It means more than just saying you’re anti-racist. It means doing something.

Someone with a sign that read “Women against Ableism and Sexism” argued that we can’t be feminists without being against war. We discussed how being a feminist means moving beyond capitalist conceptions of productivity to value things like food and family and fun–and how we can model this in our own lives and in our organizing.

The Assembly closed with a moving performance from the Mahina Movement, and I silently checked “fun” off the list of feminist accomplishments for the evening. As I biked home to Brooklyn with two friends from the OWS men’s circle, which had offered childcare for the event, I learned that they spent most of their time “baby-sitting” disgruntled men who would otherwise have disrupted the evening’s proceedings. Figuring their active allying made up for the shortage of actual children, I checked off “family.” My stomach was empty–OWS lost their kitchen space at the last minute–but I figured that for a first attempt at re-imagining OWS as a feminist community, two out of three wasn’t bad. A new world–a feminist world–was definitely possible.

-Melanie Butler-

Photo by Christina Daniel.

NEW YORK, NY–Showing up at Zuccotti looking for an angle to a story for a film was not easy. There was movement. Tension. Too many TV news and reporters jockeying. All I noticed were lenses. Press passes and mikes. News trucks and generators and satellite dishes.  Everyone seemed important. A lot of talk. Yelling, intensity, and of course a ton of politics. This was great–unless, like me, you are looking for a story to tell. There was too much politics to figure out how to begin. All the meeting s with the GA’s seemed too intense, and how do you film that? Stand there for a long time…

I noticed people running around near the main stream media–live streamers. I started asking questions: who are you? Why are you filming? Where does your work go? Lorenzo Serna explained that he was streaming. This grabbed my attention.  Then, Bill Boggs at the press tent handling PR was loaded with intensity. Then Hero Vincent was doing some kind if Skype chat. I started asking all of them questions. This led to meeting Justin Wedes and Priscilla Grim and Flux and Haywood Carey–and Tim Poole. Of course, Jesse Lagreca made a splash with the Fox News people. I knew this was the angle for my film: the media people. They had  a job to do. Help drive a story. Whether it was filming, editing, getting out a press release or a newspaper, this was new, exciting, living media happening from Zuccotti in the rain, snow. Anybody getting out a story to the world with this feverish energy was exciting, and to me, the first time in a long while in New York City that media wasn’t old, stale and redundant!

I made a 40 minute film that was almost live. I made some good friends and they shared with me some great video that I couldn’t film alone. I needed a team of 5  camera people 24/7 .

I made a film that mirrored the days and nights of Zuccotti. Raw, fast and real, I wanted the sound rough. The shaky camera from when I was shoved. Zuccotti was not a glossed-over filtered fantasy. I am a hard New Yorker, and this energy was real. The OWS media team is brilliant. From the Direct Action to the graphic artists to Sophia writing the Spanish paper, I tell  the story of many people. Personal, yet showing their commitment to OWS media, I filmed it.

This is new journalism. They don’t need press passes and insignias to get out a story. This is greatness in action. I’m happy they trusted me to tell the story. And, regardless of criticism, they know how to create a story, and they work hard.

It was a once in a lifetime event in New York. Finally people said “Enough with the bullshit. We are citizen journalists. This is what we do. We will tell our own story.”

I used my energy to capture it.

-Kevin Breslin-

Editor’s Note: You may view #WhileWeWatch in its entirety here at SnagFilms.

Editors note: this was originally published in the Thought Catalog.

–

New York, NY – Surrounded by hundreds of police officers and protesters, I was sitting on the steps of Sara D. Roosevelt Park, on the south side of Houston between Chrystie and Forsyth, eating half of a tangerine. It was 1 p.m., and I was there for a rally that was unpermitted by the New York Police Department and unsanctioned by Occupy Wall Street (whatever that means).

Waiting for the rally to start, I noticed more and more protesters arriving in all black clothing, their heads covered with hoods, masked with bandanas or balaclavas. They were in small clusters of friends, each group seemingly unfamiliar with the rest of the demonstrators and even most of their black-clad peers. The crowd swelled to three or four hundred protesters, surrounded to the north, east and west by a hundred police officers. Banners were unfurled with slogans like “Kill Capitalism, Save the World” and “F-ck the Police.”

At 2 o’clock, the march commenced. A push was made by the head of the march to cross east against a line of police officers. A shoving match ensued between protesters wanting to make their way across the street and the police officers stopping them. Individual demonstrators were picked off by the police, pulled from the crowd into a swarm of hands and batons, pinned face down to the asphalt with knees on their backs, cuffed with thick plastic ties and dragged away. Some managed to get free and dove into the anonymity of the crowd, like calves returning to the herd for protection after a close call with the wolves. In this fashion, the standoff took on a particular dynamic: The front line of protesters crashed against a line of police officers, who attempted to sequester and subdue individuals, who in turn retreated farther back into the crowd while a wall of shoulder-to-shoulder protesters impeded the pursuing officer.

When police officers from all sides — north, east and west — advanced against the crowd, a collective fight-or-flight response gripped everyone: the protesters, the reporters, the photographers, the legal observers. Hundreds of us began streaming back into the park, running south, the only direction not cordoned off by police. We jumped the park rails to the east, rushing onto Chrystie Street against traffic, which came to a standstill. For the moment, we had lost the cops.

Traveling south on Chrystie, we organized again into a march, with banners at the fore and chants picking up. Zigzagging through Chinatown, a scuffle broke out amongst us: a demonstrator wishing to remain anonymous and a photographer cataloging the scene. Punches were thrown, but the two were quickly separated, and we continued on.

We reached Canal Street, overtaking a lone traffic cop and all of the westbound lanes to march through Chinatown. Our side of the avenue was devoid of cars, all replaced with hundreds of bodies. When a chant of “F-CK THE POLICE” was taken up, bystanders sang along. Reaching Broadway, we turned north, the flood of us pouring up in between the stalled oncoming vehicles, shoppers, tourists and department stores.

Throughout the entire procession, there was nothing leading us. There was no parade route to follow nor conductor who decided which direction the lot of us would go. One of us would simply run into the approaching intersection, survey the options and shout back recommendations — “Cops to the left! Go straight!” Their advice fell to whoever heard and was combined with the common wisdom — another shout: “The park is ahead but it’s fenced off! Go right!” — and the unwieldy will of the masses to determine which direction the march should go.

Like rabid dogs nipping at the feet of their fleeing victims, the police would occasionally catch up with us, tearing an individual from the crowd to be collared. They sped up behind us on scooters and sprung out on top of us from undercover vehicles, mostly Ford Econoline vans, Kia minivans and Impalas in white, silver and grey. We told ourselves to stay in a tight formation to prevent being isolated, we picked ourselves up when we fell, we tore ourselves free.

The rear was watched nervously and a cry was raised each time the police approached, sending us stampeding down avenues as far as our burning lungs and raw legs could take us. To cover the rear from encroaching police vehicles, we laid obstacles in the street — things that were easy enough to avoid on foot, but would be difficult for a scooter or car to maneuver around: trash cans; newspaper dispensers; metal barricades that we found stacked on corners around Broadway and Prince by the NYPD in anticipation of a permitted march from Union Square to the Financial District that was to begin at 4.

We zigzagged through Greenwich Village, marching, chanting, waving banners and flags, raising our fists, linking our arms together. Somewhere in the back of our minds, we knew that we weren’t doing much — walking, talking, making gestures, holding up signs, helping each other when we needed it and, of course, running from the police — but those doubts were suppressed by the simple freedom to walk in the streets and say to ourselves “Whose streets? Our streets!” without being penned in on all sides by cops. It was a silly thing to relish, but it was even more absurd that we couldn’t enjoy it every day.

Travelling west in the Village, I had sprinted ahead of the march before an intersection and was suddenly left alone when the entire procession turned north towards Washington Square Park. I kept going west, thinking I would come around the block to meet them once more. As I approached Sixth Avenue, I noticed a grey minivan speeding down the street behind me. When I stopped at a newsstand, it pulled over. When I continued to walk, it suddenly began driving. Unnerved, I ran down into the West 4th Street subway station, through the turnstile and caught a Brooklyn-bound C train that was just pulling in. Standing in the corner of the subway car, I realized that my shirt was soaked through with sweat, that I was panting, that my hands trembled.

After getting off at Spring Street and stopping by a bar to change my shirt in the bathroom, I made my way to Washington Square Park. An NYU-related demonstration was going on at its center, with speeches being made through the human microphone to a patient crowd. I recognized a few unmasked people from the Wildcat rally, who were now sitting at picnic tables, laying in the sun or calmly walking about. Even more uncanny, I noticed people laughing, jubilant and carefree, though with familiar backpacks, worn shoes and steely eyes. The black bloc was nowhere to be found.

-Arvind Dilawar-                                                                                                                                                                     ADilwar.com                                                                                                                                                                @ArvSux

(photo credit: Jessica Lehrman)

Editors note: Read all our May Day coverage here.

Editors note: This post originally appeared On Globetrotting 

–

New York, NY – While living in Europe I was was witness to some intense May Day scenes, from evicted squatters smashing windows in Zurich to lingering tensions from the break-up of Yugoslavia spilling onto the streets of Vienna. From that perspective what happened this May Day in New York City was relatively sedate. Still, the day turned out to be far more violent than necessary. A group from Occupy Wall Street had announced a so-called Wildcat March and promised some shenanigans. Whether that prospect alone put the NYPD response into overdrive, I do not know, but the level of force on display was hardly proportional to the threat the marches actually posed.

Mind you, I don’t want to walk down Fifth Avenue through a sea of broken glass. I don’t condone violent tactics, and forgive my French, but if you start breaking shit, you loose me. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the very tactics NYPD deployed may not ultimately bring that scenario about. After all, actio = reactio, as the old saying goes. And both sides have been ramping up their antics.

NYPD ground troops were observed conducting exercise drills in full riot gear on Randall Island in the days leading up to May Day, while their Intelligence Unit stormed the homes of several organizers on a series of pretenses (More on that here, and here if you like). And finally, NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly deployed his second in command, Deputy Ray Esposito, in person to supervise police actions in response to the Wildcat march. So, whatever happened that day was not only approved, but implemented from the very top of the chain of command.

Occupiers meanwhile showed up with an enormeous “Fuck The Police” banner, goggles, bandanas, and black hoodies. So, what exactly did they expect?

I had tried to meet the march from Brooklyn across the Williamsburg Bridge on the bridge itself, walking up from the

Manhattan side. But I was blocked from entry and made to wait at the foot of the bridge, along with Deputy Commissioner Esposito, Captain Lombardo (more on him here) and 100+ riot cops.

As the march finally arrived, three protesters had already been arrested on the bridge and were brought down first. Later on, about 300 marchers came along, chanting slogans, carrying signs, and generally doing what protest marchers do. Hardly cause to deploy 100 riot cops.

A bike squad was also part of the march, and they gave the scooter cops a good run for their money riding up and down Houston Street, having NYPD quite literally run in circles. The mood until then had been fairly relaxed. Deputy Commissioner Esposito was busy talking on his phone, while everyone else basically waited to see what would happen.

All that changed the moment the hoodies appeared. After a peaceful assembly in Sarah D. Roosevelt Park on Houston Street and 2nd Avenue, a group of protesters emerged in black hoodies and goggles. They barely made it to the street corner, when the first shoving match ensued, leading to several arrests. While the police were making their first collars, and a group of protesters tried to hold them back, the rest of the marchers snuck out the back entrance of the park and started running through Chinatown.

What followed was a cat and mouse game between cops and protesters with some trash cans and some paint bombs thrown about. I didn’t hear any glass break, but not for lack of trying. Both protesters and police were agitated, one side

trying to get away with taunts and running in the street, and the other side hellbent on shutting down any such action. Also, Deputy Commissioner Esposito did not go back to his office. He rolled up his sleeves and went right in there.

Further up, around the corner of 8th Street and 6th Avenue, the next major melee occured, as protesters tried to run up 6th against traffic – a tactic that had proven successful in avoiding kettles and being herded into unwanted directions. One protester was slammed to the ground so hard, he wound up with a bloody nose. Another had suspicious discoloring on his torso, after he emerged back on his feet, hands cuffed in the back.

Finally, a bit further up the road towards Union Square, four protesters were arrested for “blocking the sidewalk”. After being told all morning that they were supposed to stay on the sidewalk, these protesters walked where they were told to, chanting “We refuse to obey by your laws” and waving a flag. A white shirt cop on a scooter came up behind me riding on the sidewalk and drove up to them. Next thing I know, they were arrested, again rather brutally. And, again, Ray Esposito was right there.

I wondered what he was thinking this display of force might actually achieve, other than further radicalizing a group of protesters already willing to push the envelope. I walked over to the Deputy to ask him, but he was busy shoving a protester. And as I waited for him to finish, I was pushed away by another cop. I looked for Esposito later on to ask him that question, but that was the last time I saw him that day.

Union Square was packed! I’ve never seen so many people there or at any Occupy event I have attended. The atmosphere was festive and the usual diversity of people and ideas was very well present. An odd dichotomy to the past few hours I had just spent running around downtown Manhattan. The oddity of the situation was rounded out when I went into Whole Foods on 14th Street to grab a drink. There was a long line for the restrooms. And after chasing each other through the streets, I found cops and protesters lining up for the same bathrooms …

The march down Broadway included an estimated 30,000 people, protesting for workers’ rights, immigrant rights, and for social justice. About 100 labor unions and affinity groups had sponsored this march, and turned out in force. Jesus and Captain America came along, too.

As the march reached downtown Manhattan, we found Zucotti Park barricaded off from the marching route (30,000 people wouldn’t have fit in there, either), and the procession moved on towards Wall Street. As had been the case during the Liberty Square occupation, the street was barricaded off for any pedestrian traffic. Somewhat odd, given that for the past three weeks, Occupiers had held a 24 hour vigil on the sidewalks and later on the steps of Federal Hall). Consequently, 30,000 people suddenly had nowhere to go, and a shoving match ensued again, as protesters voiced their anger at the protection Wall Street was receiving, both physically and figuratively.

The march finally moved on toward Bowling Green, where several union members held speeches. Afterwards about 1,000 of the Occupiers marched on toward the Vietnam Veterans Memorial on Water Street for a People’s Assembly. The amphitheater behind the memorial wall was packed, as people caught up on events of the day around the country, and started to wind down and relax after a long day of marching. New York City councilmen Jumaane Williams and Ydanis Rodriguez, both plaintiffs in a lawsuit against the NYPD over their forceful tactics (more on that here), were at the assembly.

Councilman Williams urged everyone to “keep agitating, as change doesn’t come quietly.” The memorial however closes to the public at 10pm, and so again, NYPD assembled over 200 cops in riot gear outside the memorial to move in shortly after 10 to close the park. Questions whether NYPD actually had jurisdiction remained unresolved, given that war memorials tend to be federal properties.

Most protesters left before much trouble could arise, but some did get arrested. What followed was the truly saddening part of the day’s events. Admittedly everybody was tired at that point – cops and protesters both had been on 17 hour shifts – but arresting people brutally for no reason has no place in a democratic society. Had causes for arrests during the day been thin at times, at this point they were completely non existent. One man was arrested for walking his bike on a sidewalk. Seriously.

A group of protesters sought refuge near South Street Seaport at the Waterfront, but was driven away again, at which point I called it a day and went home. All in all, 97 people had been arrested that day, many under the direct supervision of the NYPD’s Deputy Chief. I wonder whether he needed to be there to make sure these arrests were happening. Several beat cops looked uncomfortable doing what they were told to do.

A friend later told me that as she was sitting with others in Zucotti Park around 2am, a white shirt cop walked by her and said “Ok folks, you stay here as long as you like. We’re going to bed …”

-Julia Reinhart-

Editors note: check out all our May Day coverage here. 

New York, NY – Well, it’s been six months since my last adventure in NYC with OWS after slugging it out with Occupy Muskegon all winter, fighting for the clean-up of a local paper mill that is being demolished, demonstrating with and for a slew of local schools that are closing, attending inter-occupy summits around Michigan, including a wonderful retreat at Circle-Pines—a co-op activist family campground—and starting up a local, community-based newspaper with fellow OM members—OMNews (www.occupymuskegon.net/omnews), in addition to attending more city and county board meetings than I can fully remember and volunteering once a week at the Muskegon County Museum of African-American History.  In that same time, my wife and I joined a community garden,  have been working to form strong alliances with other active groups in the local area, and I have also started interacting with a few poetry groups, as well. I have a family and novel that’s just begging to be revised, too!  Fortunately, I taught myself how to juggle a few years ago.

I left late in the day Sunday, around 4:30, with a questionable truck, limited funds, and a load of revisions piled up in my classes at WNMU, in addition to a pile of grading at Everest.  Cranked up on coffee and good music, I drove as far as mile marker 78 in Pennsylvania and crashed in the back of my truck at a TA Travel Center with the parking lot lights shining through my tinted windows.  The next morning I drove the rest of the way into Brooklyn, found a spot to park after a bit of driving around, and spent the rest of the day at Milk & Roses trying to return grades to my students at Everest with a laptop that refuses to connect to the internet.  After four hours of slugging it out with faulty internet, I was tired of sitting on my ass, so I swigged down a glass of wine, packed up, and headed back to my truck to take it easy before the May Day General Strike the next day.  Sitting in my truck, imbibing on the few treats I’d brought with me, wondering what the next day
would bring, full of hope for a massive showing, but also filled with anxiety that the day would be small, splintered, and the movement dying, I couldn’t help but think how odd it was to find myself there, sitting in the back of my truck, back in Brooklyn for OWS, without my cousin, Joe.  (You sure missed a beautiful day, Joe.  I wish you could have been here…)

I couldn’t get over to Manhattan until I moved my car to the other side of the street, so I slept in a bit, killed some time having a cup of coffee at Julie’s—a great gal who’d befriended Joe and I when we were in town last October (I haven’t seen the older lady, Alice, who lives next door, yet) and took a quick shower.  (Thanks, Julie!)  A few minutes to 1 pm, I moved my truck and headed into Manhattan.  I was hoping to link up with the Guitarmy to sing along with them as we marched.

In Manhattan, I found my way to Bryant Park.  There was a large group gathered there to be sure.  Teach-ins were taking place in various pockets around the park, a large group was meditating on a set of steps with an Occupy Wall Street banner, and the Statue of Liberty puppet was there dancing to the drums.  The air smelled of sage and the crowds energy filled me with happiness.

I walked around and dug Bryant Park, checking out the protestors, the teach-ins, the literature being passed out, the signs and flags waving in the air, even the spectators watching from their tables.  The crowd was smaller than I’d hoped, but still large, alive, and kicking.  I also knew from the schedule that many groups were out and about the city protesting at various locations.  Many of the unions were off doing just that.  Soon enough, a march started, leading the way to Union Square, where Tom Morello, Immortal Technique, and many others were to perform.

The march to Union Square was fairly tame. We took the streets a few times, but the cops continually pushed us back onto the sidewalks.  The police presence was large, but nothing like we’d see as the evening progressed.  At one point, I actually came across my old professor and mentor, Anne Waldman, who I was thrilled to see.  We chatted it up on the street for a bit before she ran off, away from the bus fumes blasting our direction.  The most beautiful moment in the march was once I caught up to the Guitarmy and we were trapped by a traffic light away from the rest of the march.  We had an enormous group of marchers behind us, and we ended up at the tip of a triangular median, playing and singing, “This Land Is Your Land.”  We marched and chanted to Union Square, and then the marchers diffused into all directions around the park.

I had no idea how big the group was at Union Square until I saw an aerial shot later that night online, but you could feel it as we were often pressed against each other with nowhere to go.  The police brought in an army of mopeds then, literally a platoon of cops ready to run you down—there were so many of them!  The police who were not on scooters formed human barricades in addition to the metal barricades that were up everywhere you looked.  They did an annoyingly good job at compartmentalizing people and squishing us together.  People were getting irritable and claimed the police were trying to incite a riot.  I think that has a lot of validity from what I saw and felt.  We all wanted to kick those barricades down and push those cops back just to breathe.  There were women with strollers who grew more and more concerned as people were pushed into the park and not let out.  Finally, after the crowd continued chanting “Let us out!  Let us out!” the cops opened a barricade and let a group of tens of thousands of people file out between them and their barricades like a bottleneck.  It was aggravating to say the least, but we kept the peace, showed our strength, patience, and simply marched by them.  All day, all night, I saw no signs of violence and somehow missed the group of Vets and clergy who were arrested defending our GA at Battery Park later in the night.

From there, we marched and marched and marched.  It’s a bit of a blur, really.  We danced in the streets, chanted, sang songs.  I ran all over the place taking pictures and videos until a guy marching next to me asked if I’d push his bike so he could take out his drum and join the drummers.  I obliged him long, long after it was necessary, as it turned out he was the best drummer there.  Finally, after dusk had turned to night and we’d passed by Zuccotti Park, which I thought was our destination, I gave him back his bike by the bull and the crowd of tens of thousands of us stopped.

Each time the police stopped the march, people would think it was over and trickle off.  We started a sit-in in the middle of the street, but the drums were still playing and all those thousands of people in the back couldn’t see or hear what was happening.  We were halted for so long, we lost a lot of people then.  Finally, after the sit-in communication failed and the police bowed to the crowd and let the march continue, we headed to Veterans Plaza for a GA.

Veterans Plaza was packed.  It was there that I really reflected once again, on what an honor it is to be here, to be part of this, to be with these people.  We talked about the fact that the police were surrounding us and had cut off a majority of the march back on the other side of the street.  The GA filled Veterans Plaza, but many thousands were not able to be let in, due to the police and the size of the park.  The more people announced the police surrounding us, the more people would trickle away, until finally there were maybe a couple hardcore hundred who stayed and talked about the tactics we would use to defend the park.  As more and more police formed around us and more and more people trickled away as we neared the 10 pm curfew, we decided the risk was too futile, so we tapped back into the crowd on the other side of the street to march to a 24 hour location.  Unfortunately, by then, our Vets and clergy had been arrested defending our GA and much of the thousands of people had splintered off.  Some headed to the waterfront, I later learned, but I never did see that group again.

The rest of us marched, noting how small we were by then, considering the tens of thousands we’d started out with.  The police planning to splinter us off from each other and continuously herding us around through barricades, scooters, and their own bodies, worked fairly well.  In the end, after trying to take Wall St. through any crack we could think of, including the subway underpass and cutting through a large store, always meeting with more barricades, we did a temporary sit in on the street to discuss our next action.  In the end, we opted to go home to Zuccotti, where only a couple hundred of us, if that, gathered.  There we went through park defense training, talked about how we would hold the park down, and waited for the folks from the waterfront to show up before the cops raided the park.  As midnight approached, there was no sign of the crowd from the waterfront, and though a few more police showed up, the park was largely free from officers compared to many other nights.  Last night, they were scattered all over the city.

After a small GA to discuss if and how we would try to hold the park, we all waited around to see if we would be kicked out, or if our reinforcements would show up.  Around 12:30, seeing no reinforcements and no raid from the police, watching more people trickle home, I decided to head back to the truck in Brooklyn and catch some z’s.  My legs were stiff and it takes a while to get back to Brooklyn at that time of night, so off I went.  Today is largely uneventful for me, unfortunately.  I haven’t checked the schedule for OWS yet, as I have to sit in this coffee shop and get some writing done for my WMNU classes.  I will have to do the same tomorrow, but if I get up early I am hoping to make it over to Manhattan for the night’s activities after I help Julie move a refrigerator up from her basement apartment in the evening.

-Dylan Hock-

Editors note: Inspired by Occupy Wall Street and angered by the mass arrests on the Brooklyn Bridge, Dylan drove to NYC to join the movement last fall. Read about it here.

And read the rest of our May Day coverage 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–After being at Bryant Park for about four hours, some of my group and I stopped for a minor snack break. In the midst of our meal we watched a stream of other protesters leaving the park, passing by us down 6^th avenue, turning eastward on 40^th street and up 5^th Avenue and towards Grand Central.

We didn’t know exactly where the march was headed—there was so much scheduled to happen, and it was difficult to find pickets we attempted to visit earlier in the morning—but we decided to get in on the action. Overhearing the name “Grand Central” from someone ahead, we initially thought the station was our destination until we passed it; crossing the streets, a line of NYPD officers on their motorbikes attempted to stall the march by threatening (and trying) to ride through us as we crossed. But the march went on, stopping first outside the Capital Grille on 42^nd street before 3^rd avenue. “One, two, three, four, don’t go through that restaurant door!” we chanted as we circled around, “five, six, seven, eight, until they don’t discriminate!”

We backtracked the path we took to get there—more crossing streams of police on bikes, more crossing of streets—converging at Chipotle across from the New York Public Library’s north side. The march quickly became a picket for farmer and immigrants’  rights as a wall of NYPD officers watched from the parking lane, the public standing across the street with their cellphones. We were welcomed back to Bryant Park, which held a relaxed and celebratory atmosphere—confetti, music and art as the day continued.

-Joe Sutton-

You can check out more of our May Day posts here.

CHICAGO, IL – Despite numerous arrests and previous dismantling of tents, the occupation at Woodlawn Mental Health Clinic on the southside of Chicago continues.  In its second week, Occupiers and mental health advocates opposed to the closure and privatization of half of the city’s remaining clinics began more formalized use of the space.  On Saturday we held a health fair open to members of the community.  On Sunday I brought a selection of books from the Occupy Chicago library out to distribute to those occupying the space and people just passing by.  And Monday saw local clergy come out to bless and pray with the occupation, as well as advocate for the clinics.

I want to take a minute to make a confession.  Before this occupation began, I don’t think I had ever visited Woodlawn before in my life.  It’s easy to say that I simply haven’t had any reason to; I live on the opposite side of the city, 20 miles away.  Except that the reality is I never wanted to visit Woodlawn before.  It’s a place I’ve only heard of in passing as the site of tragic shootings.

Dancing at Saturday's health fair. Photo Credit: Marcus Demery

I wasn’t sure how the people who live and work in Woodlawn would feel about someone like me setting up camp on their front lawn, to be honest.  But the reaction to our presence in the neighborhood has been overwhelmingly positive.  I couldn’t begin to count the number of people who have thanked me for coming down and spending some time with them, fighting their fight.  They’ve been welcoming and kind.  I don’t know if it’s the recent gentrification, the ever-present police surveillance, or my fellow Occupiers, but I feel safe there.  I would sleep there at night if I could.  Plus, it’s a lovely drive down the lakefront and through the heart of the city.  It’s so easy to become ensconced in the parts of the city I’m familiar with and forget how far it stretches, and what a beautiful place Chicago really is.

While occupying on Sunday, I heard more detailed plans for the clergy event, including the intention to set up tents again.  This time, each tent was named after a clinic being closed by the city.  It was a win-win situation; either the city arrested us during a prayer service with some prominent local religious leaders in our midst, or the tents stayed for a while.

I was still working when the event began, but made it down to Woodlawn by 8pm.  There were about 60 people present, speaking out in the form of a prayer circle.  They gave testimonies about themselves and loved ones who struggle with mental health issues and need this vital resource to continue being available.  They told of friends and family members who lost the struggle, and the horrifying consequences.  It was poignant and heartbreaking.  There is a heavy stigma attached to mental health problems that makes hearing them spoken about so openly truly inspiring.

Dancing at Saturday's health fair. Photo Credit: Marcus Demery

When the tents went up, before I arrived, police presence increased and threats of arrest were made.  But by the time I got there, only a couple patrol cars remained parked across the street.  The atmosphere was charged, but in a positive way.  Nobody doubted the police would be back, but for a time we were free to discuss exactly what is at stake when public clinics are closed or privatized.

As the prayer circle concluded, I wandered between groups of friends discussing the movement and speculating about what the night would bring.  A small group went to collect firewood and marched it back through the streets, chanting.  We built up the fire and stayed close for warmth.  Someone brought a guitar over and started singing in Spanish.  It was the most relaxed part of my day, despite sensing the squad cars (many unmarked) circling ever closer.

The calm was shattered by the sounds of sirens as two fire engines and an ambulance pulled up to the retirement home next to the lot we have been occupying.  As it turns out, this was a dry run for what was to come later.  But as the fire engines drove past us on their way back to the station, they honked and shook their fists in solidarity, eliciting cheers.

A while later, some of us went to a nearby church which has given us a key in order to use the bathroom.  On our way around the block, we noticed an unmarked car with plainclothes officers watching the encampment from a distance.  On the way back, three more unmarked cars were congregated.  We knew something was going to happen, and soon.

Arrests being made. Photo Credit: Marcus Demery

Sure enough, at 10:30pm (conveniently timed for when the news broadcasts all go off the air), a legion of police vehicles descended upon us.  The street was completely lined with them, all points of access blocked off.  We were given 30 minutes to clear out before eviction.  We all took to our phones to call, text, and tweet for supporters to join us.  And then the signs and banners came out, and it became a protest again.  That struck me as odd, how it had felt more like a friendly campfire sing-along until the authorities showed up and turned us back into the angry protesters you see on TV.

When the police came to make their arrests, most of us had moved to the sidewalk.  Two patients told their stories via megaphone as the supporters standing with them were cuffed and taken away.  Then they came for the patients themselves.  Have you ever seen a man arrested with his walker?  It’s not something I’m likely to forget.

The tents came down, and still CPD occupied our lot with officers numbering close to our own 40 or so people left.  They said we had to keep moving or we would be ticketed, so we marched in a circle, still protesting.  And then we found out what they were waiting around for as our new friends from the fire department returned, sirens blaring.  Several

Thanks to CFD for keeping us safe from the warmth of this grill. Photo Credit: Marcus Demery

firefighters jumped off the front engine and put out our grill fire in less time than it took to read this sentence.  It was the funniest thing to me, that they would call the fire department out to douse our small, contained grill fire.  An Occupier standing near the engines asked why they had given us thumbs up as they drove by earlier.  They said they support the occupation and were just following orders.  Their jovial attitude made it clear they felt those orders were as ridiculous as we did.  Then they pulled away, honking and waving in solidarity.

The cops left, with 10 of our friends in the paddy wagon.  What was accomplished?  The tents are down, but the space remains occupied.  Our fire was restarted within minutes.  Surely this whole operation, complete with semi-staged arrests on shaky legal ground, cost the city.  How much is it worth to afford us less of a visible, permanent status in the community?  And when will they learn that we don’t give up so easily?

The Woodlawn occupation is not leaving, and neither am I.

-Rachel Allshiny-

Spring Training, every Friday until Mayday

NEW YORK – I have come to three ‘Spring Training’ marches now—but today [April 20th] was by far the most exciting. The weekly marches on Wall Street have become increasingly well-organized and effective at getting occupiers in front of the stock exchange for the closing bell every Friday.

The marches are designed as a fun way to practice new protest tactics before May Day. The police stop us blocks away from Wall Street when we march in a group, so we have developed different tactics of going “civilian,” breaking into small groups to penetrate the police lines that circle the stock exchange before reforming the protest on the other side. This week, when we began to arrive, there were many occupiers already there who have been occupying the steps to Federal Hall since they got pushed off of Wall Street earlier this week. The police had barricaded the steps and control access to what they officially refer to as the “first amendment rights area.” Seriously, they really call it that. In addition to the NYPD, there were counter terrorism, federal park police and SWAT.

As the crowd swelled the police began making arrests and clearing the sidewalk. The police pushed aggressively and isolated everyone who had just arrived from the group that had been occupying the steps to Federal Hall, arresting at least three. Tension was high, but the crowd calmed before the people’s gong—our response to the closing bell of the stock exchange. We mic checked to the people behind police lines on the barricaded steps and celebrated together before breaking into the familiar chant, “A – Anti – Anti-Capitialista,” this time in the very heart of capital. There were police barricades and lines of officers keeping us apart, but there were a few hundred of us dancing right across from one of the most potent symbols of power; the energy was high.

A mic check broke our chant.

“Ten occupiers are laying down on the sidewalk right now, they know they will be arrested and wish to go peacefully!”

Two weeks ago a group began sleeping on the sidewalk, following the exact specifications for legally sleeping on the sidewalk as a form of protest from the the 2000 U.S. district court decision Metropolitan Council V. Safir. The occupation grew larger each night until last week, when the police started arresting people. The occupation shifted half a block to Federal Hall, which as federal property was beyond the jurisdiction of the NYPD. This was where the “first amendment rights area” had been set up. Direct Action had video cameras in place to film the occupiers laying down in accordance with the law, then immediately getting arrested for it.

“Mic Check! Next week we are going to invite everyone to come lay down!”

It was powerful. The NYPD has tried very hard to prevent us from growing roots anywhere in the city. The last few weeks have been filled with arbitrary arrests, sleepless nights and scant media coverage, but for the first time in a while, it felt like the tide was turning today; it felt like we were winning.

- John Dennehy -

Editor’s note: This is part of series of stories detailing how different occupies are getting ready for May Day. Read what other’s are up to and tell us what’s happening where you are.

Editor’s Note: In the run-up to what promises to be a May Day to remember, we are collecting stories from the people who are pouring their soul into making it happen. Are you involved in planning for May Day in your occupation? Have you been to any of the actions building toward the general strike? Tell us about it! You can find a collection of our May Day stories here.

NEW YORK, NY–Waiting for fellow Occupiers outside of the courthouse at 100 Centre Street in lower Manhattan, Justin Young explained the role of the OWS Street Medics, also known as the Red and Black Cross, and updated us on how they’re preparing for May Day.

Click PLAY to hear Caroline’s interview with OWS Street Medic Justin Young

-Caroline Lewis-