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-

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.

PORTLAND, OR-If you were watching at least one or two news stations last night, and if you’ve read the Oregonian‘s website this morning, you might have heard about an aborted attempt to “reoccupy” Chapman Square—the heart of last fall’s Occupy Portland encampment.

I was out there, too, showing up a little before 11 and staying until well-after the cops cleared the park’s sidewalks (no one messed with the still-tender, still-fenced-off replanted grass). And it was a strange affair. (And the Oregonian story, relying on a morning report from a police spokesman, got a few details wrong, mostly in timing.)

The occupation was impromptu, led by one occupier, Remi, who put the call out on social media for reinforcements in hopes of making a stand on First Amendment issues. He brought a sign, his molecular biology textbook, and a backpack. The idea was interesting: Occupy and break park curfew hours without camping—a protest, not a party, etc. Whether and how to reoccupy isn’t yet a clearcut issue for Occupy.

Editor’s Note: This story is excerpted from the Portland Mercury; you may continue reading here.

-Denis C. Theriault-

Editors note: This was written on January 31st, 2012.

WASHINGTON, D.C.-

Mic check.

When viewed through the wall of your soaking tent, every flashing light looks like a
police raid. Every accelerating truck engine on the street a few dozen feet away
sounds like a bulldozer heading your way.

This is the second night like this at McPherson Square in recent weeks, with Occupy
DC’s “de-escalators” keeping an eye out from the perimeter and the Occupiers in
their tents listening with nervousness and dread.

The last time was a few days before Christmas. After a large, drunk, tank-shaped
ruffian kicked an arresting cop in the balls and left him puking in the street, the
camp buzzed with the rumor: Tonight’s the night we get raided.

For veterans of Zuccotti Park, Oakland, U.C. Davis and dozens of other Occupations
across the country, the conditions seemed right: wet, cold, dark, and cops had been
humiliated; it was now personal. Word was that it would happen around 3am.

On that night, our number included Occupy DC’s ambassador of goodwill, a
pipe-smoking man of substantial age who has lived in this park for years, who sits
in a prominent spot and greets every passerby with “Happy Holidays and Happy New
Year!” There’s a guy here who’s got a petition with 1776 signatures that he hopes
will get him–and his waist-length dreads–into the Coast Guard. A genial 50-year-old
unemployed laborer/short-order cook from Tennessee who calls everybody “brother.” A
40-year-old Deadhead who says that this is the best living situation he’s ever had;
he says he’s clueless about the political aspects of this venture, but if he’s truly
lived on the street for as long as he says, perhaps he has a clue even if he doesn’t
know it.

A former journalist who had stopped by regularly to donate food and blankets, I set
up a tent in early December in response to a friendly challenge from a few
Occupiers–“What else do we need? How about your body?”–who encouraged me to sleep
here as many nights as I could, even if I had to leave to go to work most mornings.

Elsewhere in the park there’s a working journalist who’s been here since October 1,
the first day of this Occupation. He’s here for the stories, sleeping here because
it gives him access that other media types don’t have, and because of the high price
of hotels in DC. I’m here for the most unprofessional of reasons: to experience
grassroots democracy in action.

I have long wondered if the people of this country would forever sit passively by
and watch our hard-earned gains in the direction of decency and humanity be reversed
by the Republicans (aided by weasel Democrats), watch as the clock is turned back to
the dark ages of crony capitalism. This group is trying to do something about that.

Mic check.

Sleep for many of us never did come that night in December, but neither did the
police. It was one of very few blessings that brutally cold holiday season brought;
the weather was about to take an even more drastic dip, one that would cost us some
Occupiers.

There are those who say the movement is incoherent. In a way, I can see the
point–the causes cited by Occupiers are myriad, and it’s not being packaged in those
convenient little soundbites that media talking heads prefer. But if you actually
think about it, my erstwhile colleagues–employing your own brain cells instead of
your tendency to lazily regurgitate–it becomes obvious why that’s the case. With so
many powerful people dedicating so much time to screwing up this country for their
own narrow benefit, the fact that one can’t simply hand over a concise statement of
purpose to cover it, says far more about the size of the problem than about those
trying courageously to begin to correct it.

Some say the movement is too inclusive for its own good, that those hangers-on who
aren’t here for a specific political reason need to be booted. But how can you kick
out the already marginalized, many of whom have things to teach you about surviving
in a hostile environment?

Among the hundreds of people who have come to watch the circus, many have clearly
joined it, at least in spirit. A steady stream of messages from the street tell us
how the revolution looks from there.

“Thank you for doing this for all of us. What can we do for you?” A carload of
elderly women stopped at the light close to my tent.

“God bless you from the rest of us. Don’t lose hope; you’re making history.” A
middle-aged Hispanic man, through the window of a battered pickup, to a chorus of
honking horns behind him.

“Go home, hippies. Get a job, dirty commies.” A series of SUVs and sports cars
barreling down 15th street.

If volume is the measure, the wingnuts win; one of their favorite tactics is to park
close by at 3am and blow their horns nonstop to keep us from sleep.

One of the more blatant hypocrisies I’ve heard is “Give us back our park!” I used to
work across the street, so I know that the main users of this park before October 1
were the homeless and the rats–and both are still here.

Tonight, the rumors fly again, probably with more reason this time: On Friday, the
Park Police, our nemesis/defender, apparently caving to pressure from a rabidly
partisan neocon congressman from California, issued an ominous warning: after noon
today, they will start enforcing the “no camping” rule. Nobody’s sure precisely what
form that enforcement will take, but it involves potentially arresting those
“sleeping or preparing to sleep.”

Once again, we wait. Will the dreaded crackdown come, and if so, what will happen to
my friends and neighbors who are unlucky enough to have no other place to go?

Mic check.

-Story and Image by Jehovah Jones-

Editor’s Note: A version of this story originally appeared at the Portland Occupier.

Today it was my privilege to sit down with Rose and Pam Hogeweide at Anna Bananas in North Portland to discuss Rose’s arrest on the morning of Occupy Portland’s eviction. They are a dynamic and strong mother and daughter that I first met after seeing proud mother Pam’s Twitter posts announcing Rose’s first court date on December 13. They have been involved in Occupy Portland actions since October 6 and recently celebrated Rose’s 18th birthday in very Portland-like fashion with a tattoo that matches her mother’s.

I briefly visited with the family prior to court and we’ve kept in touch in social media circles. As was the case in many Occupy related arrests, Rose’s charges were dropped. By her account, this left Rose feeling very discouraged and ultimately dismissed, in the same way that she felt the entire Occupy movement was dismissed and disregarded. In the next 90 days, Rose actively participated in several actions, such as Occupy The Ports, with the full support of her family. Still feeling no sense of closure about the initial arrest, they decided that they needed to take further action and filed a complaint with the City of Portland. As a result of this complaint, earlier today [April 15, 2012] Rose participated in mediation with the officers who arrested her . She met with the pair of officers she was handed to after being pulled from the crowd in the following video around the 6:44-8:04 mark.

One of the most important questions Rose wanted answered was: why? Why her? She was 17, smaller than the protesters surrounding her, wearing a knitted hat in the shape of a lion, and as you can see from the video, was presenting no threat. Rose’s question initiated a tactical discussion in which she learned that she was arrested because she was in the “bubble”–the area defined by the supervisor standing behind the line of riot police. Anyone located in the bubble was subject to arrest, having supposedly been notified by the infamous “Ice Cream Truck” bearing the sound apparatus calling out a repeated warning to disperse. Rose stated she doesn’t remember hearing the dispersal warning and was suddenly being pushed forward right in the center of the line of scrimmage, in what was reported by officers as a somewhat tense situation. The police also told her that someone had thrown a water bottle or some small item, and that that was what began the series of arrests.

Simply put, Rose was arrested because she was there. She was detained for a short time, and asked a very reasonable question as she was being processed. She asked if she would still be able to attend college and one of the officers stated “this is Portland, this will help you get into college!” She was also told that she was “the nicest Occupier” they had ever arrested.

On that note, we discussed how her view of the political landscape has changed. She stated that prior to Occupy Portland, she wanted to go to college elsewhere, perhaps the east coast. She really had no thought or involvement in local or national politics. Pam stated that Occupy has caused a moment of enlightenment and a growth process in Rose and it is evident that she both supports and loves this awakening in her daughter. It is apparent to me that Rose began to Occupy as a child, and has emerged a more confident, self possessed and empowered young lady with a very bright future.

Through the past months, as Occupy has grown and progressed, Rose has learned that there is a method by which to express her feelings, and that there are solutions to the problems we all face. It has turned her into somewhat of a celebrity in her school, especially with her political science teacher, who looks to her for an opinion whenever Occupy is mentioned. She has gained a fierce sense of community pride and continues to demonstrate a civic consciousness that makes her mother’s eyes light up. Most importantly, she has found her voice and a sense of empowerment that will serve her well as she heads to Portland State University, to perhaps study political science.

-Angella Davis-

Editor’s note: This is the final installment of a 14 part series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.”

“The illusion of freedom [in America] will continue as long as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.” Frank Zappa

Today was the Saturday before Halloween and we planned a 4 pm march to the capitol
building that continued down dirty 6th street then back to the plaza. As people
gathered about the plaza in preparation for the march, I went around and talked to
my friends I met along the way. Only the most clueless could not smell the coming
fascist assault. I told my young friend Kendall how proud I was of him and all he’s
learned, I thanked Carlos for his sense of humor and unbelievable spirit along the
way, I talked to Larry and hoped he someday finds the money he needs for his dream
of a veterans’ shelter for the homeless, and then I spotted Brighton, standing on
the curb holding a protest sign. Young beautiful peaceful Brighton, who broke up the
argument between the drunken instigator and me weeks before, who had put his soul
into the movement, and now stood there for the last time, his eyes still aglow with
the optimism of a young person who believes all you need is to be on the right side
of the argument, and you will win in this world. I told Brighton how impressed I was
with his bravery and dedication and how much I admired him and all his hard work. My
heart was so full, and the pain was so great, I began to cry unashamed because these
were my people, my friends, and my family, and I loved them. And with each of these
people I talked to, I asked, “How long do you think we have?” And the answer was the
same. Hours.

The march began and went off without a hitch, but when we made the turn down dirty
6th, I noticed the police had abandoned us and were hot-footing it back to the
plaza. It was then I knew the end of the movement as we knew it was nigh. When we
arrived back at the plaza our belongings were being rifled through and piled
willy-nilly to anger and disorient us. As the sun set, the plaza seemed to groan in
pain as rumors flew like leaves in the fall breeze and people confusedly planned
their next move. There were a few speeches to rally the troops, but most were
hunkering down waiting for the impending invasion. The murmurings of the occupiers
began to sound like a family praying over a dying relative. We were just waiting for
the police to come and pull the plug.

About 10 pm, the blue monsters began massing in the parking garage beneath the city
hall and another group formed a solid line along the western side of the plaza. You
could walk right up to the line, get inches from their face and look deep into their
eyes. It was breathtaking to see the entire history of the world’s oppression
encapsulated in their emotionless orbs. The steady stream of Halloween revelers that
passed through our camp on the way to the bars downtown appeared as grotesques while
we awaited our execution. As another line of police formed on the east side of the
plaza, I looked at the protesters. I watched fear turn to courage, then courage to
solidarity. I can only hope one day everyone experiences the part of the human
condition when everyone sticks together armed with only their faith, while
surrounded by the enemy armed with guns, tasers, mace, and batons ready to hurt,
imprison or possibly kill them. And to see all the brave women in the mix was
unbelievable. It was a deeply religious experience. I witnessed the shimmering
beauty of God in all its glory. Once people walk into this realm, they will not go
back until justice is served. Maybe, that is what the fascists are really afraid of.
That once we form the solidarity only seen in a battlefield, solidarity so strong
even death cannot destroy it, the fascists will be doomed. Fear not, my brothers and
sisters, for we have seen the light and the light cannot be extinguished by the dark
blue uniforms of the fascist machine.

There were a few more discussions on whether to move the food table as requested in
the rules passed out by the Police Chief the day before, but after a while it was
obvious the food table was going to be our Raison D’être and wasn’t going anywhere.
There was a short standoff about midnight as the pigs got into a “V” formation, then
at 12:30, they moved in from both the east and west sides of the plaza. The cries
and sound of breaking hearts was so deafening you had to cover your ears so it
wouldn’t overwhelm your sense of judgment and make you attack the pigs with your
fists, feet or whatever weapon you could find. Our core supporters and leaders
locked arms around the food table, but they were quickly subdued and bound with
plastic handcuffs. “Why?” everyone asked. “Why are you doing this to us?” There were
cries of “Shame” and “The whole world is watching,” but the fascists were
undeterred. As the table was dismantled and carried away, the pigs walked into the
crowd and grabbed people they had identified as leaders of the movement weeks
before, who were not doing anything but what the rules had told them to do. When it
was over, 18 of our people were taken down. About 3 hours later, the power washing
crew came in fronted by a another police line that grabbed 20 more people who either
refused to move or were still disoriented from the first raid. By then, I had
already moved on to take a walk and cool off. The plaza was not a place to be
another minute for someone with my temper. And the sight of seeing people I loved
being demoralized and carried away because a bunch of fascist pigs decided a picnic
table should be over here instead of over there made me nauseous.

The ridiculous display of overwhelming might used to wrest a picnic table from a
bunch of rag-tag folks who are trying to tell the world, “This is what democracy
looks like,” kept playing over and over in my head, and although it was about 2:00
a.m. and the bars were closing, I decided to stroll down dirty 6th street to lose my
thoughts in the Halloween celebration. What I saw was shocking. When I entered dirty
6th from Congress Avenue, the entire street was completely occupied with stumbling
drunks and humans behaving at their worst. I saw indecent exposure, public
urination, fighting, slick piles of pink, orange and green vomit, people treating
each other terribly, plenty of illegal drug use and needed to only glance down an
alleyway to see a sex act performed by two men in the wide open. It was all there
and ignored by mounted police whose tongues were hanging out as they looked only at
the women’s skimpy Halloween costumes. As I walked through the crowd, I laughed
openly and loudly while tears ran down my face. Was this a dream? Did I just witness
100 policeman destroy a tiny group of committed sober adults who were making a
statement about the theft of our country from the powerful fascist machine by
arresting them over an 8 by 2 foot food table? Did I just walk five blocks east and
see a hundred thousand people doing everything we were accused of, and getting away
with it, because their mission was to get intoxicated and find somebody to fuck
while pissing and vomiting all over everything? Oh that’s right-they were spending
lots and lots of money. And when you spend lots of money you get away with
everything-even the murder of thousands of innocent people. So here was the bare
truth in all its painful glory. This is what we’ve become. This is how America
really works. An old food table used to feed the poor and unarmed equals bad.
Reprehensible behavior while you spend lots of money equals good. And if it takes a
billy club to beat that idea into your head, so be it. This is America God damn it
and that is how it operates. Any questions?

I went back to the plaza and tried to sleep between a boulder and the bricks of the
city hall. I could hear the voices of lonely men and abandoned women as they
gathered under street lights somewhere in the distance trying to make a final deal
before dawn. Zero-eyed people rolling on ecstasy or geeking on stimulants walked by
looking deep into my eyes to see if I had anything to offer. I had a fitful sleep
and was up as soon as I saw the first sign of dawn. I rolled a cigarette, and
watched life begin to stir among the tattered battle scene as the sun rose over the
plaza. The survivors began rebuilding the camp straight away, but this time it had
an air of Austin funkiness, because everything was broken and had to be patched
together. Unfortunately, most of the core supporters and strategists of Occupy
Austin were now not only in jail, but banned from the plaza for at least a year.
While this was an unmitigated setback for the Austin occupation, it gives others the
chance to step up and hopefully get the movement going in another direction. As I
walked around the plaza asking questions about the state of affairs, you could see
many in shock from what happened the previous night, but also plenty of street
people waiting around for a cigarette or slice of pizza to arrive, oblivious to the
disaster that had befallen our camp.

I stood back and looked at the remaining occupiers. What I saw was many of the bums
that gave us a bad name in the first place, who avoided jail by just laying there,
the same way they avoided everything else in life, and many of the people who worked
very hard to make the movement work, but were now packing things up and milling
around waiting for rides to somewhere-anywhere but the plaza. By mid-morning, the
plaza had the look of a busy bus station or the last day of summer camp, where
everyone is saying farewell and waiting for the winds of fate to scatter them hither
and yon.

By noon, the police presence was once again gaining steam. It occurred to me the
protesters inhabiting the camps throughout the US, who are now completely surrounded
by uniformed fascists, have actually built their own prisons in which they will
suffer mightily in the coming months. Since I am interested in fund-raising and
public relations for the group, I asked around and finally found someone who might
know a little about the financial side of the movement. I asked her where the money
we raised would best be spent. She said to get more food and water for the occupiers
at the plaza. At first I thought, you have to be kidding me? Aren’t we done here?
Then I thought, yeah, we can rebuild, and we will rebuild. Are we going to fail
because the fascists thought we would go away because they stole a broken down food
table? Hell, no.

Yes, we all felt like frogs in a cauldron, where the fire was turned up so slowly we
didn’t know we were cooked until it was too late. But we learned about the
psychological control of an angry mob by the fascists, and as the saying goes, “We
won’t be fooled again.” But we have a choice; we can fight them like dogs, or work
within a system that unfortunately favors them. But as I said before, we must be
smart enough to take the fight to them on their own turf. We sat in the plaza for
four weeks and allowed the fascists to bring the fight to us, while we became an
easy target for their horrid and demeaning tactics. They have everything they need
on their side to keep us under their thumb, we know that. So we have to work smarter
and be tougher in order to win this fight. At this point we have two choices, go to
jail, or freeze to death, of which neither of those am I interested. But I am very
interested in promoting the core beliefs of the occupation movement and will never
stop fighting for what I strongly believe. And if some of our brothers and sisters
want to tough it out on the plaza until we see change, then I will support them to
the end. But myself, I am going to work on getting somebody with money involved in
the movement so we are no longer a broke-ass joke. And if that somebody happens to
be a liberal billionaire, so be it. When it comes to beating or pepper-spraying
billionaires, the fascists tend to freeze up. They are funny that way.

That Sunday afternoon, Police Chief Acevedo, true to his passive-aggressive form of
mind-fucking, made a statement quoting Gandhi and MLK before releasing the
protesters, who cannot reenter the plaza for two years. I went with a small group of
angry and passionate survivors marching from the plaza to the police station to
welcome the prisoner release, but most folks didn’t want anything to do with the
cops, and especially didn’t want to go stand around the police station. The release
was still an emotional moment for those who went. While I recognized some of the
folks being released, some of them must have shown up Saturday night for no other
reason but to create chaos and get arrested, because they were completely new faces,
to me anyway. Meanwhile, back at the plaza, the police presence had become
overpowering. By Sunday night they outnumbered the remaining protesters 2 to 1.

I thought about the speech I wanted to give on day one, when I wanted so badly to
express my thoughts and exercise my freedom of speech in a public plaza to a group
of like-minded people hungry for change. Now I know, if I stood in that plaza right
now and gave that speech, in which I implored the police to stand with us instead of
against us, I would be immediately arrested, and indeed there was an arrest of a
young man who attempted a rallying speech in the late afternoon. Over 5000 people
across the country now have police records from this nationwide protest, and not one
of the war criminals, war profiteers, investment banks CEO’s or hedge fund managers
that caused the financial collapse in this country and the deaths of hundreds of
thousands of people have gone to jail. Obviously, this is a fascist police state we
are now living in. To some of us, it’s plain as the nose on our face, while others
just don’t “have time to think about these things.” Or maybe they don’t understand
what freedom of speech means. It is the ignorant people who taunt and laugh at those
attempting to exercise one of the basic tenets of our democracy that frighten me the
most. While they talk about our troops overseas fighting for our freedom, they don’t
have the slightest clue what freedom really is because they are imprisoned by the
straight-jacket of fascism and corporatism.

I thought back on Saturday’s march to the Capitol, before the camp was raided. While
marching down Congress Avenue, I caught up with my friend Carmen, who I met on the
island only a few weeks before. When I spotted her, she was trying to manage two
large cardboard signs while clutching a list of protest chants she had written in
blue ink on a scrap of folded notebook paper. They read, “Whose water? Our water!
Whose food? Our food! Whose land? Our land! Are we afraid? Nooooooooo, we are not
afraid.” She was trying to get the few protesters at the back of the line to go
along with them, but was frustrated because her small voice, with its beautiful
Puerto Rican accent, was not being heard, and the tall folks in front of her, many
in Halloween costumes, had relegated her to the back of the line.

I hollered, “Carmen!” and she was happy to see me and thanked me for the profile I
had written about her on my blog. I asked her what was going on and she explained
her disappointment that she couldn’t get anyone to chant her demands. So I took a
look at them, gave her a big smile, and then Carmen and I chanted in the loudest
voice we could muster, “Whose water? Our water! Whose food? Our food! Whose land?
Our land! Are we afraid? Nooooooooo, we are not afraid!” We chanted the lines over
and over and louder and louder and let the voice of freedom ring out and echo
against the glass and granite of the downtown buildings. Our cadence rang down the
hollow side streets and the alleyways where the downtrodden sleep and newspapers
blow on cold and lonely blue-gray dawns. It rang over the capitol building, where
the Lady of Liberty looks over manicured avenues where the mentally ill wander
aimlessly in search of help, and it rang over the din of expensive cars and city
buses filled with those too blind to see. It was freedom ringing and it was ringing
for us, for you and for all the folks in this fight who are jailed, shot,
humiliated, tasered, beaten and maced because, like Carmen chanted, “Are we afraid?
Nooooooo, we are not afraid.”

At one point, Carmen was confident enough to stand in front of a group of bewildered
diners sitting at a sidewalk cafe while she chanted her list of demands. I was
immensely proud of her. After we made it a few blocks, and were out of breath from
exercising our First Amendment rights to such an extent, Carmen looked at me with
her beautiful face so full of life, kindness and excitement. The bright autumn
afternoon sun slanting into her exquisite brown skin made a tear in the corner of
her eye glint like the most spectacular topaz ever seen. She joyfully exclaimed,
“Boy, did that make me feel good! Thank you, Jim!” And I hugged the tiny fragile
body of this beautiful woman, whose only mission on earth is to express love for her
fellow man, and replied, “Thank you, Carmen.”

Afterthoughts:

What you just read was a true first-person account of the birth of the occupy
movement in Austin, Texas. Although it flows in fits and starts, the movement is by
no means over and will continue as long as dedicated people see the truth and stop
believing in the lie America has become. Because I am proud to be part of the
movement and a passionate believer in the cause, I encourage everyone with a voice
to stand up, get involved and be heard. We are the 99%! Carry on brothers and
sisters. I love you all more than you know. We aren’t perfect, but we will prevail.
For more information on Austin Occupy, please visit: occupyaustin.org

In Solidarity,

Jim Gober

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-

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 at occupiedstories.com/submit

Spread the word! Check out these free, downloadable posters.

And check out these stories we have already received:

Occupy is Everywhere: A Small Town Occupy Shares Their Plans for Spring

Civil Disobedience on Wall Street

A Dispatch from OWS Street Medics

Editor’s note: This is the thirteenth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin. The final installment will be April 25th.

Today was Friday October 29, 2011, the day we found out APD Chief Art Acevedo is just another slime-ball, like the rest of the fascist ilk. His slick speech on Thursday night about how he supports us, blah, blah, blah, was met today with what was basically an eviction notice. He came around and personally passed out the fliers himself, with a big smile plastered on his thick skull, of course. There were so many rules, they would be impossible to follow. For example, everything has to be moved once a day, such as the food table, so it is not a “permanent” structure, and any sign not being held when they show up to fuck with us will be confiscated and tossed. Then the power washes will resume three times a week which means the freezing cold plaza will be soaked with water between 3am and 5am, and don’t think you can evacuate to the Island across the street, because the park curfew is now enforced there after 10pm.

Then there were enough other rules to keep the GA meeting arguing until late in the night, with some vowing to do nothing but stay there and Occupy-which is unfortunately not a radical idea, but creates the danger we may lose our core supporters. It’s funny that no matter how hard I rack my brain, I don’t remember one Tea Party protester ever being evicted from anything, even the town hall meetings when they did nothing but disrupt the entire meeting while a Democratic senator was trying to speak about delivering affordable healthcare to everyone. But look how many OWS protesters have already been forcibly removed from every meeting, park, plaza or “town hall” for just standing up to complain about their desperate plight, which is real and not manufactured by the propaganda machine. The police brutality forced on the innocent people who can see through the fascist lies is unspeakable.

I was beginning to feel our little sideshow may be about over, and may be over in much of the country. What is amazing is how Acevedo managed to move us along. It never occurred to some of us (including me), that have never experienced the psychological part of crowd control, only brazen force, exactly how it was going to be used against us. But this was a typical fascist technique we should have recognized: smile while you fuck ‘em over good. Now we have a choice: to physically engage them, which will last for about 5 minutes before we get beaten and gassed and handed a police record the fascists can use to forever lock us out of the plaza and society, or we can get worn down by constantly moving our shit around, to appease King God Acevedo, until we finally get fed up and leave on our own.

Meanwhile, as the fascists are having us move things about, the billionaire Koch brothers will spend billions to defeat Obama, and once that’s done they will install a fascist dictator into our government, which we are only a presidential election away from having. This news comes as dirty tricks by the GOP will prevent 25% of African-Americans from voting in the next election, and the fascist money flooding to the corporate media will brain-wash us into believing that having our throats cut by big business is good for us. Do you really think the corporate media, from Rockefeller Center to Main Street USA, that stands to make millions from the corporate “citizens” in the upcoming election cycle, will be on our side? Hell, no.

All of this news about a bunch of rules that amount to nothing more than hastening the demise of the Austin occupy camp follows on the heels of more arrests in Nashville, where the camps are being cleaned out, and the order in New York for the protesters to give up their generators and gasoline, which provide power and heat. So the camps, which just yesterday thought they were getting a reprieve, and also thought the fascists were backing up because they had hearts, are today getting demolished. For some reason, this passive-aggressive tactic is even more demoralizing than outright confrontation, and causes the protesters to seethe with anger even more than if we had our day in the ring with these jerks. Today, in America, niceness is a weakness and is there to be plundered, and now we felt like we were hogtied and about to be raped.

In reality, the camps could not last forever, and as I said before, to be seen is to be heard in America, so they had to be cleaned up. The fascist state cannot tolerate anyone making a complaint or wandering around homeless and upset because they’ve been picked clean by our system. But true to what a grass roots movement is, the anger is stronger and will only grow. Cut us off at the top and the roots just get deeper. This is real grass roots, not the astroturf of the Tea Party. I believe the camps should be allowed to remain and dissolve on a consensus vote by the occupiers, which is coming anyway, because most of the people involved in the camps have little or no real-life management skills. I had to laugh last night when I heard one of the young protesters say the reason the number of protesters was thinning out was, “people were afraid to come and learn from our young minds.”

The idea that a certain group of people with no experience and little education are in control, or are “smarter” than everyone else, has a corrosive effect on America, and I presume will destroy the occupy movement. For example, older workers, which these days includes anyone over 50, are now pushed out of society to fend on their own. They are considered too dumb for even the most basic work, even when they have years of experience doing it or advanced college degrees. Half of the problem has to do with the healthcare expense burden older workers place on American companies, while the other half has to do with a marketing machine that convinces everyone in a society that dumb is smart and anyone who questions anything is an idiot. It reminds me of the dumb kids who bully the smart kids at school because they make the lazy dumb kids look bad. It also reminds me of how every progressive idea in America is piled on by the fascist press until it disappears under a pile of right-wing bullshit. Americans must stay dumb. The carousel of stupidity must continue to spin, so the fascists riding on it can wear their pretty bonnets and waive at the poor folks, who fought tooth and nail to get a ticket so they could ride along and pretend they were rich too, but for some reason, the carousel never stops to let them on. Really smart people don’t dump their money on dumb products or believe hollow slogans which mean nothing. But it is America’s innate ability to follow the slogan that is causing us to follow the fascist ideal as well. This is an ideal where we harshly judge each other and get apoplectic because someone isn’t going along with what the voice on the latest electronic gizmo tells us to do. Like lemmings, every living generation in America is now rushing to see who can jump off the cliff first simply because we can’t think for ourselves.

But to be fair, the Occupy movement has generally been inclusive of everyone, including the older folks, but you could see from last night’s meeting the youngsters were in charge, and were making it known they’ve successfully pushed out many of the older people who made the process work until now. Maybe it’s because, like the young man believed, the old people are afraid of learning things from all those “young minds.” But in reality, too many of those young minds at the plaza are not in control of anything due to an absolute inability to get anything done besides spout off a lot about a system in which they don’t have a voice or real knowledge. Add the cold weather and even the true protesters, who braved the cold the night before, had left much of it to the “brains” of the outfit that weren’t coming up with any solutions, were splitting into cliques, and were also getting bogged down in the new rules set out by the police.

Once Friday evening rolled around and the deadline of 10 pm to move or rearrange our belongings neared, I noticed many of the original protesters had magically reappeared to lend their support. But I worried too, because these were our leaders and a raid followed by arrests would permanently remove them from the camp. They should have stayed home. The clouds of doom were gathering on the horizon, and you could see the mighty ship we worked so hard to build listing frightfully in the cruel waters of history. Still, there were some incredible, passionate rallying speeches, including a beautiful one by my young friend Kendall, who had soaked up the philosophy of the movement like a sponge, and of whom I was so proud. Hopefully, he will go on to college in order to flourish in this world, even though it will mean taking on massive amounts of debt that will put him way behind his peers, most of who will become cogs in the wheels of the fascist machine. But Kendall, if he holds true to his values and keeps an open mind, has great things ahead.

I started thinking that this is the time we need to think about digging deeper into the movement instead of simply occupying. It is time to join the different groups and become involved in not only the Occupy community, in which I still strongly believe, but the community at large. As of today, the occupation brand of civil disobedience is pushing us further to the fringe where we can be ignored or taunted. Just today, a man about 30 years old stomped up to the steps of the plaza and demanded everyone take this crap off his city’s property. Then he stormed off. This man is the type who would stand by while our skin was being stripped off by a pair of pliers. One would hope people like that don’t outnumber us, but they do in the media and other places where money makes the rules. So we must work against the fascists on the national stage, on their turf, with intellectual arguments, which they will never have on their side. Something tells me we will never accomplish anything by wandering aimlessly around a makeshift camp hoping for the world to change.

But believe me when I say there are heroes in the local movement that existed on that plaza-especially the women, like Jamie, who leads the night marches every night at 9:30 and is constantly coming up with ideas to get more people to the plaza. I can still hear her chant and never again will I hear a call to action that carried more conviction and came from deeper in the soul than when Jamie shouted, “This is what democracy looks like,” over and over until she lost her voice. And other women, like Michelle, who worked the welcome desk all day, then was disheartened to see the food line of hungry homeless form faster than she could get across the plaza to get a slice of cold pizza. People like Michelle and Jamie and a host of others did without a lot to keep the scene together. And to all those folks, I am deeply indebted. But when our main focus becomes dancing around a bunch of rules made up by disgusted fascist suits-rules designed specifically to trample on our right to peacefully assemble-one has to question: What the fuck are we doing? Oddly many people in our society want to see us hurt, even though we are fighting for them. I suppose mean is ingrained in our culture and has been since the days when the Puritans believed that if you were sick or poor, it was your punishment from God, and you did not deserve help. And if you didn’t fit into their rigid view of society, which changed depending on who was in charge, you were burned alive at the delight of the others. Sound familiar?

The Occupy movement has changed me as a person. I am enlightened, tolerant and genuinely love the people I’ve met, who enjoyed exchanging ideas with me. For the first time in years, I had conversations with people who had open minds and not minds moldy from age or slammed shut years ago because of some prejudice or another they are not even aware they have. I enjoyed talking to people interested in what I had to say, and also being interested in what they had to say. We let our ideas soak in and not just roll off all the layers of preconceived notions. The Occupy movement is and will continually be fun and interesting, but to be effective we must change our tactics. That is what political movements are about, and like it or not, this is a political movement.

Today, I brought a sleeping bag donated by my neighbor to the plaza and gave it to Buck, a middle-aged African American man who has become my friend, although he occasionally asks me if I am going to kill him, which I assure him I’m not. Why would I waste my tobacco and a perfectly good sleeping bag on somebody I was going to kill? His troubling questions aside, he was still very appreciative. He has nothing except the clothes on his back and gets cold and lonely at night, just like everyone else. Just like you. But tonight, there was no room for comfort. You could hear the rot-infested fascist tide on the march. Soon they would arrive to throw us into the streets in a desperate attempt to separate us from our right to free speech and assembly.

I thought no matter what happens tonight or tomorrow, I’ll be attending every organized march until I can no longer walk or crawl. And I will continue to put my energy, money and time into this cause, which has risen haphazardly without the use of millions of dollars of dirty money from the propagandists such as Fox News, the Koch brothers or Dick Armey’s Freedomworks. We are the people, and the Occupy movement will continue. Who knows how long the plaza will be occupied? But I’m afraid the camp and accompanying sideshow is drawing to a close, because we cannot waste our time and energy sitting in one place surrounded by the police. It is time to bring the fight underground, where we can work and think without trying to survive the elements or having some drug addled or mentally ill individual screaming about someone stealing their whatever.

Once the end comes, it will be up to all of us: the older and educated people with experience, who can put a professional face on this movement and begin to work through the established power structure, as well as the young idealists who have the energy and optimism essential to any political movement. But there has to be some guidance and organization. I have seen so many young people in this movement try to reinvent the wheel, unaware the US has a system to be heard, albeit confusing and complicated. And while it doesn’t cost money to break windows, it costs a lot of money to change opinion through a structure that, like it or not, includes working with the corporate press and reaching a wide audience with sane arguments instead of haphazardly planned events that only illustrate how angry people have become. Everyone in America knows what is going on now and everyone is pissed. We need to channel that anger into reform. So we have to raise money. That is how America works. At this point the occupy movement reminds me of someone sitting on the roof of a car instead of the driver’s seat and getting upset because the car isn’t taking them anywhere.

As I walk through the plaza tonight, I know this movement, which came into the world kicking and screaming like a child born in the darkest part of the forest, will grow up and walk into the sunlight and become a powerful force that will conquer the fascist demons that have pillaged the countryside. But to make it work, we must roll up our sleeves and stop sitting around the plaza waiting for food to arrive without even taking the trouble to hold up a homemade, worn out and illegible protest sign. And it is disgusting to see everyone grovel at the feet of the fascist police so they won’t run us off, which they eventually will do anyway.

At this point, the movement on its surface seems to be faltering because many in the US like to see people in pain, especially when the power structure those people dared to challenge crushes them. This allows the coward to say, “See, I told you so.” But oddly, while Americans look at pain and torture as a source of satisfying entertainment, they sit in their homes scared to death they will be the next victim. I’m sure there is a psychological term for that, but it escapes me-oh yeah, fear manufactured by the fascist corporate media. It keeps you in the house watching the TV so you’ll watch more commercials and buy more crap. That’s how a cult, religion and even a controlling spouse works to control you. They keep you afraid so you won’t leave the fold. The bogeyman, or devil, is waiting just around the dark corner. The sheep will always fall in line once the big scary sheep dog starts nipping at their haunches.

One thing I’ve been amazed at is the number of people who laugh at, criticize and taunt the homeless and sick in our country. And I’ve seen it all now. But I have also seen the light, and I am not going back. I am a warrior for what is right and what will be right for our democracy. My personal and spiritual growth experienced through the movement is amazing and life-affirming. I was dead inside and now I am alive again. I love everyone I’ve met and I know together we will make a change, but now we need to move to a bigger battlefield that is not surrounded by the slimy police, and away from people who occupy the camps that do things like vandalize city property or steal from each other. And for the young people involved in the movement who are hanging around the plaza and the occupy movements throughout the land and not doing anything: Read some damned books.

Whose street? Our street! Remember that? The plaza was our boot camp. We must follow our hearts and tell people every day to do their part to stop the fascists from rolling over us. There is no second act-this is it. Move your money to a credit union, shop locally, support local farmers, and don’t buy anything made in China. Look who is behind all the propaganda you hear. America is in no danger of becoming a socialist or communist state like the propagandists want you to believe. But we are in danger of becoming a totalitarian fascist state run by billionaires-and we are on the edge. That, you can believe. Let’s all work for the better of each other and this country and stop trying to strip others of dignity and then laughing when we do. Do you want to continue to be that country? Do you? If that is the case, may God have mercy on us all.

-Jim Gober-

NEW YORK, NY - Unseasonably warm air filled the streets of Manhattan as I climbed the stairs and exited the subway. I approached the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street, glanced to my right and knew I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I had found my comrades on the stairs of Federal Hall.

Generally, I enjoy taking some time after I first arrive to write, gather my thoughts or maybe even spin a hula hoop for a bit but I was greeted by a familiar face almost instantly. We shared our thoughts with each other until another familiar face began to mic check.

A group had been discussing their plan of action for the night and wanted to open that discussion to the rest of us. We openly discussed tactics ranging from breaking out into small groups and sleeping in packs around the financial district to surrounding Liberty Park and sleeping on its perimeter. It’s always so encouraging to be a part of these discussions. Our sense of community grows stronger as the days grow warmer; a true testament to the impending American Spring.

Inspiring speeches and playful ways to remember our rights echoed on the human mic following a brief “know your rights” teach-in where we all wrote the NLG [National Lawyers Guild] number on our arms, even though it has been etched in our minds for so long. 212-679-6018. All seemed quiet on the steps when out of the corner of my eye I watched a middle aged woman in a fancy coat and string of pearls drop off a small food donation before hurrying away. I smiled in hope that perhaps the metaphorical walls that separate us were beginning to come down.

That optimism quickly changed when around 9pm federal officers climbed the sides of the stairs and formed a line at their peak. It seemed we may have worn out our welcome. I along with many others stood our ground as journalists and livestreamers swarmed to document what seemed to be our imminent doom. Tensions were running high and things could boil over at any moment when in true occupy fashion we broke into inspirational song.

What began as the group joining together singing the same tune quickly changed to what I can only describe as a round, each of us singing/chanting something different but all in time with the original beat. The magic of our voices sent shivers up my spine until I heard hateful slurs in the distance attempting to overpower our peaceful message.

I looked away from our group to see another middle aged woman, again in fancy clothes. Only this time rather than helping her fellow man she was screaming profanities and flipping us off, looking more like a monster than the lady I’m sure she claims to be. As I scanned the rest of the opposite sidewalk I noticed other obviously disgruntled members of the affluent community. It was clear by the Blue Wall between the two groups, that had grown from about 20 officers to more than 50 seemingly instantaneously, that the powder keg was about to explode.

And explode it does as not 100 feet away from me I witness a resident of one of the neighboring buildings assault an occupier. Pushing, hitting, even grabbing and destroying his clearly threatening cardboard sign all while screaming profanities at this peaceful individual who does not fight back. This is the cue the boys in blue need to justify the horrors to come.

As the police simply pull the assailant away from his victim, they also use it as an opportunity to swarm in, grabbing people left and right for being on the sidewalk, singling out people doing NOTHING wrong, people trying to organize blankets and signs, slamming them onto the pavement, ripping their arms back and cuffing their wrists with the ever popular zip-ties. The residents continue to stand opposite us, seemingly protected by their Blue Army, chanting, screaming, clapping and laughing as the NYPD spits on the First Amendment in front of them, almost at their command. The visual is sickening and will stay with me for the rest of my life.

photo credit: Stacy Lanyon

We continue to respond to their taunts with peace as we cry and hug, mourning those wrongfully arrested. We begin to sing, soft at first, choking back our tears until we overtake the hateful slurs and our love resounds—“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!”

I turn in response to a tap on my shoulder, it’s my roommate. We embrace on the steps of Federal Hall, glad to see each other safe after the chaos. She is headed home but wanted to make sure I had memorized her number so she could be there for me if I were arrested. Moments like this reaffirm my faith. We are on a good path; we have love in our hearts, always.

Short bursts of calm litter the next few hours as we wait for midnight. Still on the stairs we regroup & whisper songs and thoughts of hope to one another but when anyone attempts to amplify their voice above speaking volume they are immediately a target for arrest and mobbed by “white shirts” for speaking their mind, for daring to have a voice. The police climb the stairs of Federal Hall, in the shadow of George Washington and remove occupiers by force.

But as it draws closer to midnight the tensions ease. The rowdy neighborhood residents are gone, apparently we are no longer affecting their slumber and they don’t care to taunt us further. It’s just us and the cops. Federal Officers remind us that sleeping is prohibited but our presence is not and the “blue shirts” assure us that “everything is cool.”

I spent the next few hours consoling a friend whose brother was arrested. The three of us had been chatting earlier and I had tried to calm him then, warning her to keep a watchful eye on him. Sometimes no matter what we do, these situations cannot be avoided. We embraced as she wept on my shoulder. Wishing I could offer her more, knowing this was all she needed. Someone to listen, lighten the load, share her pain. We were all in pain.

I said my farewells around 5am, recording another sleepless night in the books for a good cause, knowing I would be back shortly. Oddly, as I walked back to the subway some 12 hours later the air felt warmer that it had in almost seven months and not from the spring sun beginning to fill lower Manhattan but from the love and loss we all shared on those steps.

-Nicole Rose Pace-