How Occupy fails to address (straight, white, male) privilege

Editors’ note: This piece originally appeared at Anarchy Isn’t Easy.

I didn’t think Occupy would accomplish anything when I first started working with the movement. I didn’t think it would last longer than a day. There were individual friendships but no group solidarity what-so-ever at any of those early meetings before September 17th 2011, and in many ways there still isn’t. We didn’t really start supporting one another and working together until the NYPD brutalized us into cohesion last fall and the truth of Occupy is that we consistently stop supporting one another and working together whenever the NYPD stop brutalizing us. The most frequent, consistent and symbolically violent attack made by Occupiers upon other Occupiers within this movement is the ironic demand to “check your privilege.” The concept of privilege as it is used in this phrase refers to the social advantages that certain straight white men enjoy over other individuals of other orientations, ethnicity and genders. This concept also automatically and incorrectly implies that straight white men necessarily oppress other people who are not straight, white and male in order to maintain their privilege. This concept further and even more erroneously and dangerously implies that people who are less privileged than straight white men are incapable of oppressing others precisely because they are oppressed themselves, as if straight white men are the only ones capable of oppression. This essay isn’t about the kind of caucasian, male, hetero-normative privilege that I am supposed to check as much as it is about how the check itself is oppressive and how it ironically prevents an actual redistribution of privilege from ever occurring.

The practice of calling out the privilege of, and demanding that straight, male caucasions step back and give others-that is non-straight, male caucasions-the chance to speak isn’t considered and defined as divisive, exclusionary, let alone as discriminatory within Occupy due to the seemingly widely shared agreement within the movement that “reverse-racism,” or more descriptively perhaps, reverse-discrimination doesn’t exist: a myth which enables those without privilege to use their voice within Occupy to silence the voices of those who are perceived as possessing more privilege as if this’ll somehow enable the voices of those who are more marginalized to be better heard. A privilege check isn’t really a demand to be silent as much as it is a demand for a masochistic confession of guilt from the privileged so that the oppressed might momentarily reverse the hierarchy of oppression and egotistically experience what Nietzsche called the “pleasure of mastery” via “the pleasure of violation.” The chatter of the confession, however ironically, ensures that privileged occupiers wind up speaking more than marginalized occupiers if the bait is swallowed.

My objective however isn’t to argue that discrimination against those who are perceived to benefit from conventional discrimination is still discrimination, or even that occupiers checking each other’s privilege is bitterly prejudicial not to mention discriminatory, as much as it is to argue that privilege checks are an unfortunate, redundant, counterproductive, self-defeating waste of collective time, energy and sacrifice. Devoting all of my time, energy, material resources, and commodifiable skills towards an advertising career, finishing my research and PhD, and/or charming my way into some rich girl’s family would’ve been a more reliable way to have furthered my own privilege compared to working with Occupy over the past twenty-two months. I’ve knowingly ruined my chances at any sort of career in spite of the fact that I’m drowning in student, medical, credit-card debt and IRS. I’ve made a generous sacrifice of blood for the movement last summer in Chicago and I’ve sacrificed a digital strategy job and therefore my home for the past eight years as well I fear in order to work with Greenpeace this summer. I have checked my privilege, my social advantages over and over again.

I’m Oneida according to my mother who I lived with during the school week. A direct descendent of the rouge tribe of the Iroquois Confederacy who had been practicing democracy in America long before it ever became the United States of America. The Oneida are perhaps best known for keeping George Washington and his army from dying of starvation at Valley Forge during the winter of 1777-1778. They were attacked by the rest of the Iroquois after the Revolutionary War ended, Washington set aside some land for them which was encroached upon in subsequent generations, and many of them moved to a reservation in Wisconsin, and from there into the racial ghettos of the city of Milwaukee, from which my family managed to move into a working class suburb of Polish-Americans which prided itself on educating some of it’s children into middle-class workers. The white people of this town neither perceived, nor treated me as white. They would tell me I was Indian as their sadistic children harassed and attacked me in one way or another on what seemed like a daily basis. They knew I was Indian (as opposed to Oneida) because I tried to learn the language, a traditional pow-wow dance style and lacrosse in order to fit in with the sadistic children from the rest and the Indian Community of Milwaukee who would tell me I was white when they attacked and harassed me.

Racially oppressed people of all varieties can and do oppress other people precisely in order to feel less oppressed themselves via ‘the pleasure of violation’ and racial oppression, much like rape, is something which unfortunately occurs between friends, family, and acquaintances more so than total strangers. The police used to beat my step-father long before I became his first son and they would needlessly search through his car and question him in front of his children even after he got too old for beatings. He used to call me “Casper the Friendly Ghost” because of how white my skin is. My mother recalls deliberately ignoring the way he would deliberately neglect to give me anything to eat, not because he hated me or was consciously trying to punish me but because he loved me and because shit always rolls down-hill after it’s been eaten recycled. He would grab my head and fart in my face so often that I grew up under the impression that this was socially acceptable.

The means of oppression in my father’s house on the weekends with him, my stepmother and the gay artist she had been married to before he had died of the AIDS virus was a bit less complicated and tended to revolve around spoiling and guilt, privilege indeed more so than neglect and degradation.

I was but I wasn’t Oneida in my father’s house, just like I was and wasn’t Oneida in my mother’s house. I’m too Oneida to ever be white but too white to ever be Oneida. My mother tells me that things have changed and that Oneidas look like whites, African-Americans, Hispanics and even Asian folks these days but my identity will never be acknowledged in the minds of world that can’t think about American Indians without also thinking about head-dresses and whooping calls, and this unfortunately, ironically, includes the #OWS community of NYC, which of course prides itself on combating such ignorance. Being told to check my privilege or to step back and let someone else speak up after throwing on a suit and challenging stereotypes on MSNBC or Fox reminded me of being harassed by Indians at weekend pow-wows even though challenging stereotypes about Indians was something I had to do daily at school.

I wouldn’t have joined Occupy in the first place had I not already been painfully aware, not only of the vast inequities in the distribution of wealth and privilege but also how these inequities ruin the chances of every individual in this society from living out their specific version of a fulfilling life. My critical consciousness and awareness of privilege and oppression is far more advanced than that of anyone in this movement morally sadistic enough to demand anyone else to check their privilege and I am far too outraged to patiently elucidate the ironies of oppression to the hypocrites of this movement, even though I know that I must rise above my rage in order to truly be a change that I would like to see. Anyone who has come to Occupy to listen and to be listened to has effectively engaged in a privilege checking process by virtue of collective participation itself, and any demands made on that individual by another individual to check their privilege while in midst of collective processes is essentially the same thing as halting the movement of the whole heard so as to beat a once lame dead horse.

The first time I was publicly told to check my privilege wasn’t because I talked about Occupy on a few cable news networks but because I found and reported that well over 70% of the followers on occupywallst.org were white/Caucasian and I’ve since seen the same trend not only on follow up surveys on st.org but also on peoplebrowsr gender breakdowns of all the big Occupy twitter hashtags. All the pages and channels I have access to, including Facebook Insights and YouTube analytics, confirm the same trend, and all of this raises an important question relevant to a critical discussion of privilege in Occupy Wall Street. Who is Occupy Wall Street? The individuals who work within the movement and who represent spectra of genders, ethnicities, ages, sexual orientations, and educational experiences and political intentions? Or is it the people who consume the news we produce because they want to know what we have to say? They appear to be overwhelmingly single, heterosexual, white, angry males who can’t earn enough to pay off all of their debts like white males are supposed to be able to.

The answer to this question hardly seems to matter however given that both groups should at least in theory be working together if this truly is a movement of the 99%. Telling predominantly white males, assumingly educated enough to know about privilege, and likely single precisely because they’re broke and in debt that they should check their privilege will only alienate them away from the movement, make it smaller, weaker, slower and prevent the sharing of privilege, or a flow of mutual empowerment from occurring between individuals which in turn will not create any kind of social movement capable of creating the massive redistribution of wealth necessary to abolish the inequalities in privilege by distributing ever more of it to those who have need of it.

-Harrison Schultz-

Editor’s note: This post originally appeared at the Portland Occupier.

Portland, OR-A simple lap around Chapman Square one evening turns into an extended meditation on rhythm, global resistance, and the discovery of meaning in the monotonous.

Friday night. Freshly ejected from work and suffering from a serious case of the Digieye. You know what I’m talking about—dry, cloudy portals glazed over, fighting to readjust to the outside world after extended periods buried alive in brick and mortar coffins, fake-n-baked by commercial fluorescent lighting, swallowed by ethereal electronic matrices. A digital drunk, I spill out onto downtown city streets wondering:

Where in the hell did the day go?

Still genuinely feeling good about the work I do, low-grade guilt surfaces for accepting this digital medium as a centerpiece to my life’s professional rhythms. I get home and claw for an antidote. The demands are simple: Space. Solitude. Movement. Exposure to elements.

It’s late December, and I seem to be particularly stuck on the recent people’s movements igniting all around the world. Egypt. The Middle East. Latin America. Africa. Russia. Occupy Wall Street. I am consumed with this illustration of global congregation, millions mobilizing around the world, the reverberations of a recalcitrant choir exhausting vocal chords by shouting from the rooftops: this isn’t good for us, this isn’t good for the planet. I follow this collective chemical synapse firing around the planet, this orchestral disassociation with our addiction to profit and to ourselves.

So, I decide to take these thoughts and myself on a run.

—

Chapman Square, the retired site of the Occupy Portland camp, sleeps. For two months this camp served as an urban settlement for modern miners panning the muddied creeks of capitalism for truth. In solidarity with Occupy Wall Street, the camp served as one of the largest occupations in the U.S. outside of New York City.

Discussions. Idea-sharing. Public demonstration and protest. Workshops and seminars. This was the home for a collective decision to uncover the casualties of our government’s dirty affair with profit. To put into question our illusory binding contract owing allegiance to a shortsighted corporatocracy directing how we treat the earth and ourselves. The encampment was a distribution center of smelling salts to an unconscious populace waking up from a fitful nightmare, to break away from the subservient zombie and towards the wild wolf.

I wonder what is happening there tonight, so I decide to take my run downtown and check on the state of Chapman Square, post-eviction. Pinning an orange Go Collective Occupy patch to my jacket, I head out into an evening of octopus ink, guided by the faint flickering of city lights.

—

Downtown is buzzing. Urbanites abound, all decompressing from a week overworked and unfulfilled. Happy hour gives way to lavish meals, more alcoholic lubrication and uninhibited social games. I feel feather-light in stride but weighed heavily by this sort of judgment. Whisking past a young, drunk couple playing dress-up—corporate playboy and frail girl balancing her bones upon the highest of heels— I wonder if these two ever fumble with our catastrophic global condition or engage in their own personal agencies of change, to review the ways they are governed, how they live, consume, treat others, themselves, the planet. Might they aspire less to the affluent than to the activist?

Foot to sidewalk, I return to my breath and continue.

Lap 1.

Approaching Chapman Square, I notice huge fences around the perimeter of all three blocks. To avoid stoplights, I decide to take a one-lap tour around the central Chapman park block. On this first revolution, I pass by two police officers in yellow jackets guarding the park.

“Passing on your left.” I announce, approaching them from behind. No response.

Peering through the chain-link fortress, my mind navigates nostalgically through the communal kitchen that once was, peering into the library tent where books and workshops were available. I float above the labyrinth of tents and tarps, the crazy eyes and animated conversations. My nostrils recall the filth and dirt, the panhandling parades of grime. Though I never slept a night there, I find myself curiously homesick for the void of such a raw, inclusive, community gathering-place.

After a full lap around Chapman, I begin a second. Then a third. How about 99 laps, to pay homage to the 99%? Quick arithmetic makes this task achievable in a few hours, so the decision is made.

Lap 15.

The night is serving dinner ice-cold. Older couples walk the streets after enjoying holiday performances downtown, holding each other close as the warmth from Shnitzer Hall flees quickly from their thick coats. I wonder how these elderly view the state of things. What inhabits the frontal lobes of such weathered minds, those having potentially experienced a World War, Nazism, nuclear deployment, the Great Depression, Korea, Vietnam, the Khmer Rouge, the civil and environmental movements of the 1960’s and 70′s? I become obsessed by all their eyes have seen and their hearts have navigated, while curious about their responses to the recent revolutionary surges.

I find this urban lap to be flat and uninspiring, as running repetitively around a 1/8-mile square of cement is demanding less on the body than on the mind. I begin to understand how such monotony offers some interesting meditations in movement. Sure, the unpredictability, irregularity and aesthetic of mountain foot travel are much more preferable, but I realize here that a flat road, track or even treadmill (yikes) certainly has some benefit, if only for cultivating mental fortitude. “Everything is practice.” To work on finding peace in rhythm, anywhere you are. 24-hour races. Sri Chimnoy’s 6 and 10-day Transcendent Races. Satish Kumar’s 8,000 mile walk protesting nuclear proliferation. My 99 laps certainly pale in comparison to such accomplishments, but I begin to understand the power of finding meaning in the monotonous.

Returning to breath, I continue.

Lap 33.

I have to pee. I take this opportunity to visit the Occupy Candlelight Vigil at City Hall, to ask where they go to relieve themselves. I find five street kids sitting with their dogs, bandanas and face tattoos, all laughing and smoking. Wary of a runner approaching them, their eyes wander to the Occupy patch pinned to my chest and tensions ease. Still confused.

“You guys know of a public bathroom around here?” I ask.

“Yah, there’s one in the parking garage,” the larger one responds. “Probably closed though, man. One about six blocks away that might be open, likely not though. Honestly, I would just hop in them bushes right there and go for it.”

Pudgy, greasy fingers point towards park bushes across the street, then he retreats quickly behind dark glasses. I strike up conversation with the others and mention my impromptu experiment of running 99 laps around Chapman tonight, paying tribute to civil disobedience and contemplating the future of this movement. They are barely impressed. As though my words had to first ricochet off nearby buildings to reach their ears, one guy finally responds:

“Shit, I may be able to run 99 feet!”

They all laugh and twitch nervously, and I join them. The laughing, not the twitching. I tell them my idea to complete 33 laps one way, then turn around and do 33 more the opposite direction, then a final 33 the original way, just to mix things up.

“Wait a damn second!” says another kid, cigarette limply parsed between cracked lips.

“Wouldn’t that be like only running 33 laps? ‘Cause once you turn round and run 33 the other direction, it’s like going backwards, like goin’ right back to zero. Then if ya turn round and do 33 the original way, your total laps run would only be 33!”

He was impressed by his math, and I equally amused by his imagination. The street kids wish me luck and promise me they’ll call 911 if they look over to see someone on the ground crawling or crying. I thank them for their kindness and cross the road to relieve myself, into the darkness of the park’s dying urban flora.

Then I return to my breath, and continue.

Lap 45.

Fog infiltrates the city, shrouding the surrounding skyscrapers. The haze joins an eerie blue-green light on top of the Wells Fargo Building to create a severe laser beam effect, an authoritative eye scanning its subjects below.

The two young policemen return to again walk the parameter and, this time, I am running towards them. As I do, I catch one officer taking a glimpse of my Occupy patch. Finally! Only takes 50 laps to get some attention around here. Excited by an opportunity for dialogue, I begin to formulate an answer for any interrogation, but after passing them three additional times over the next five minutes, I realize they still have no interest in me. I however, develop an interest in them and, in each passing, I tap into their conversations, dominated by two topics: Girls and Music. One of the guards holds his head up to an iPhone blaring bad hip-hop to pass the time.

I realize here that, despite our glaring differences, the officers and I both share a common rhythm of repetition, monotony and humanity as we venture into this cold night of Mystery together.

Returning to breath, I continue.

Lap 66.
Over two hours circling Chapman Square, legs begin to feel heavy from the impact on unforgiving cement. I disrupt my urban orbit and begin running the opposite way for the last remaining 33 laps. It is 11pm and several policemen now filter out of Central Precinct for their night shifts, orange shotguns and riot gear in tow. To Serve and Protect Profits.

I wonder, despite some of the good work they most certainly do, why these policeman agree to blatantly suppress peaceful demonstrations which raise awareness for wealth inequality, corrupt banks and corporate interests running U.S. politics, all of which undoubtedly affect them? I try hard to cultivate empathy for the police, as Plato points me in the right direction:

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

They too are good-natured humans, like us. Full of veins and brains. Blood and guts. Anxieties. Family or none. Victims of abuse. High cholesterol. Car payments. Mortgages. They could be full of love or empty entirely of it. Regardless of their personal narratives, I still expect them to inquire about whom they are actually serving and have the courage to reject such a blatant repression of expression.

Returning to breath, I continue.

Lap 80.
Low point. Tired of this cold, boring loop. Want to go home. Wondering why I decided to do this. No one cares. Nothing changes because of this, not that that was even the goal. What was the goal anyway? Right, to meditate on the current waves of civil unrest around the world. To pay homage to past efforts locally and contemplate new possibilities for the future. Our future. The human and the non-human. All of us. A recalibration of responsibility to stand up for what’s best for the Earth. To conduct a small, human-powered experiment of endurance for a bit more insight into our potential. Nearly three hours of running city squares begins to mirror the perseverance needed in our fight for global justice, trudging relentless forward through times of darkness and uncertainty.

I am reminded of the initial discomfort appended to any experience pregnant with change. Traveling from womb to world. Growing pains. Confronting an enemy. Moving past old relationships. Quitting a job to pursue your passion. Confronting death. Waking up to a system that’s required absolute submission and saying, “Nope. No way. Not anymore.” Dropping old habits, products that poison the Earth. Food and clothing produced from the sweat of the forgotten. Exploit Other. Exploit Earth. Exploit Yourself.

I gather this loose kindling and set it ablaze, regaining control of the fire that burns inside me. Any temptation dissolves to return home early, to feel silly for this experiment or wonder what anyone thinks as I complete my 90^th revolution around Chapman. This contemplative exercise is for me, for everyone, for all things and for no one at all.

Resting blissfully in this realization, I return to my breath…and continue.

Lap 99.
Reaching the final lap, I playfully imagine something tripping me, a fleeing rodent or missing sidewalk chunk. Perhaps the sprinklers will turn on, signaling some celestial cheerleader applauding my effort. Maybe I’ll get speared by one of the officers dressed in yellow, clandestinely counting my laps only to foil the experiment at its last possible moment. Nothing so dramatic unfolds as I take four familiar lefts and make it back to my starting point.

Then I stop running.

With little hesitation, I find myself moving yet again, destined to complete one final loop for the remaining 1%. After all, no one is left out of this revolution. No one escapes the challenges we face. There’s no division. No Other. Just a floating vessel of blues and greens and browns, all traveling into the vast Mystery together. Together. Together. Together with the greedy CEOs and child sex offenders. Together with Chinese, Chileans and Canadians. Together with lovers and loathers, bodhisattvas and border patrol. Together with devastating earthquakes and radiant sunsets, great blue herons and scorpions, the Serengeti and the Sierra Nevada. To think our minds and hearts separate from anyone and everything is our Supreme Illusion. We are one singular unit making this work…or fail. A great revolving system taking deep, collective breaths together. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Fiercely empowered by this thought, the last lap feels like the first.

—

Hobbling the remaining 3 miles back home, I return hungry, tired and irritable. It’s past midnight when I get back. I plop into my chair after preparing a simple quesadilla and with zero ambition to process the evening, return to the womb of my warm bed, haggard and deeply satisfied with the effort.

The 99 Revolutions.

- Nicholas Triolo -

Photos by Igal Koshevoy

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: 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-

OCT. 16, 2011 - I arrived in New York City Wednesday morning on a one-way ticket from Chicago. My goal: to join the Occupy Wall Street movement. I came prepared to camp out in the occupied space, Zuccotti Park, also known as Liberty Plaza. I knew it was going to be cold and rainy for at least the first few days I was there. I knew that this would make camping out all the more difficult. And I knew that this would be a fitting and ironic baptism by “fire.”

With the help of fellow protesters, I set up my sleeping area that morning near the perimeter of the park. They provided me with two plastic tarps and recommended I take some cardboard for “cushion.” So I laid down the first tarp, placed a broken-down cardboard box on top of it, laid my sleeping bag on top of that, and then spread the second tarp over the top. At first, I just tucked the ends under the bottom tarp, like a bed sheet, but I realized that this was probably not going to be an effective water barrier from the rain. So I found someone with packing tape and they helped me tape the two tarps together, encompassing my sleeping bag in a waterproof pocket.

Or so I thought.

After a wonderful day of talking to a number of amazing individuals and the two-hour General Assembly in the evening, I was pretty well exhausted by 10pm (especially considering that I had not slept at all the night before). With a full heart, I climbed into my sleeping cell. The ground was hard and I didn’t have much room to move around, but it was surprisingly warm in my little cocoon. I was also embraced by a comforting sense of safety and solidarity with the people around me. In my area, some were already fast asleep, while others chatted from their sleeping bags. In other parts of the park, there were soap-box discussions, committee meetings, a small drum circle, and other activities interspersed between tarp-covered bodies. This calm murmur of human activity was like a spontaneous community lullaby. The intermittent drizzle of raindrops against my tarp was the crisp harmony complementing a soothing melody.

Soon, the rain began to pick up speed and force. I felt myself become the drum against which nature hammered out her emphatic crescendo. A peaceful energy surged through my body. I felt at one with the world. I felt grounded, solid and true. It really would have been the perfect lullaby, if only the tarps had held out. But once my toes sensed frigid rainwater seeping into my sleeping bag, I knew it was over. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep in the park that night. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep at all.

So I spent the rest of the night wandering around the financial district of New York City, umbrella in hand, pausing beneath awnings every so often. I sat in a late-night Mc Donald’s for an hour or so until it closed, then rode the subway around until it opened up again just before sunrise. It struck me that this night of sleepless transience, a temporary and chosen experience for me, was, quite disturbingly, a persistent, involuntary reality for the homeless citizens of this planet. This realization was jolting. This realization was more chilling than the rain. This realization was a humbling welcome to the long, hard fight I came here to join.

Stavroula Harissis

This story was originally published at The Portland Occupier

The following is an open farewell letter to my local Occupy movement.

An open letter to Occupy Medford:

Before Occupy, I spent countless hours dreaming of being involved in helping to change our country. At times I thought in extremist absolutes about how to make that happen. At other times, my trains of thought were more humble. But in the end, these revolutionary theories were just words and I was coming to realize that unless I did something, anything, that my words were worthless. So I started to look for something locally that I could volunteer for and support. And that’s when Occupy happened.

I initially saw Occupy very differently. Another protest, another cause… another group of well intended people holding cardboard signs at people on their way to work. Of course, I was wrong. Whether it was the tactical beauty of a 24/7 protest or just an energy that had been building in people over the last few years, Occupy spread like fire from New York across the country. Within two months protests and encampments could be found all around the world.

From afar I watched and read news coverage of hundreds of protests, all crying out for change. Up close I participated in local protests, marches, the port shutdown, etc., and knew these events were replaying themselves all over the country. In the wake of the Arab Spring uprisings, with thousands participating and millions sympathizing, I thought our country was in for a drastic and sudden paradigm shift.

As Occupy Medford started, either by luck or ability or both, I found myself becoming a facilitator and an organizer. Suddenly I was running meetings, planning and attending protests, writing press releases, and giving interviews. Simultaneously I had just started a new full time job and was finishing my associates degree. Needless to say, it was a hectic first few months. Of course, I didn’t do any of it by myself. But despite the time crunch and not always knowing what to do or what to say, I loved every minute of it.

But it has barely been six months and Occupy has slowed down. It’s impossible to say exactly why Occupy hasn’t been able to maintain its momentum. I think there were a few factors involved. Occupy lost almost all of its permanent encampments, decreasing visibility and synergy between protesters. Organization and rules for a direct democracy movement became a tiring process for a lot of people. After all, we aren’t used to all having a say and a voice; usually we have the “luxury” of leaving that up to someone else. And there was always the question of goals. Of course the corporate owned media was wrong on this and always detrimental as a whole to the movement. Occupy always did have clearly-stated goals. We just had a lot of them, and it was hard to narrow them down enough to bring focus. But regardless of what happened, it’s very clear that Occupy looks a lot different today than it did just a few short months ago.

As I’m getting ready to move, and having scaled back on my involvement in our local Occupy movement, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on Occupy. What have we accomplished and where does it go from here? And in between old feelings of overwhelming optimism and now some lingering pessimism, I’ve reached a personally satisfying answer for now: Occupy has and will continue to change the world.

To have a meaningful revolution, we need a society that is educated and self-aware and treats its citizens with respect and compassion. Without this kind of revolution, all we are doing is temporarily changing the power structure. I think that working toward fundamental change is exactly what Occupy has helped do. Thousands of older generation activists have been able to get new energy and momentum; thousands of young people have been changed in some way by this movement. By becoming more involved in both Occupy and the dozens of other work groups, campaigns, and social causes affiliated with it, Occupiers are helping to change the world. In this light, Occupy has already won.

Occupy Medford and the people in it have definitely changed me and have given me the direction and the voice I was looking for. It showed me that my generation is capable of mobilizing, of giving of ourselves and recognizing that we can change things, even if only a little bit. As a whole, and as individuals, if we can continue to do that, by occupying, by protesting, by organizing, or by volunteering: then we will change the world.

Thank you Occupy Medford…

Much love,

-Benjamin Playfair-

19 September 2011, New York-A group of people, no more than one hundred, had congregated in Zuccotti Park two days before amidst the almost total indifference of people passing by.

No journalists, no television, no microphones—only their voices and faces.

These portraits bear witness to the beginning of Occupy Wall Street in Zuccotti Park. They regard dreamers who believe in an idea.

No one could have imagined that in the space of a few weeks, those involved in Occupy Wall Street would have entered people’s homes all over the world through newspapers and television.

-Daniele Corsini, photographer

View a selection of images on our Flickr page, or the full photo series at Corsini’s website.

Editor’s note: This is the twelfth 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.

AUSTIN,TX - Today, the sun rose on more news that occupy camps around the US are being raided and
harassed and the pace of the fascist assault is quickening. In Denver, the fascists
attacked the camp with a hail of rubber bullets, shooting people out of trees,
tear-gassing them and beating them with clubs. Pictures of hideous wounds from the
actions of the fascists were posted across the internet. In San Francisco, an attack
was called off at the last minute. The fallout from the latest attack on the camp in
Atlanta continues, and across the country occupiers are beginning to dig in for the
winter. With the occupy movement only a few weeks old, and the fascists reacting so
badly, it makes you wonder what the future holds.

In Oakland, the blame for the disastrous attack on the protesters is being shuffled
between the mayor and the chief of police. But isn’t that what the fascists always
do? Keep shuffling the blame until it goes away? I got bad news for them. It’s not
going to work this time. We are not going away until the fascist system that has
created a one-sided casino where a few win while millions starve is destroyed,
demolished and ground into the earth never to return again. There will be no more
lobbying, no more payola to congress and no more fascist control on the local, state
or federal level. There will be no more corporate citizenry that carries no
responsibility to any laws whatsoever. No more commodity indices that drive up the
cost of food. No more unregulated financial instruments, and no more free loans to
investment banks. There will be a fair tax system that stops the vacuuming of money
off the streets so it flows directly to the fascists, who then use the money to
decimate the laws that are supposed to protect us from them. And for God’s sake, we
demand the fascists stop using the police to beat the crap out of us-or kill us. If
anyone dies from the outrageous actions of the police, who are now protecting the
thieves, the streets will run with the blood of more and more victims because the
fight is just beginning. America, which was once a shining beacon on the hill for
the whole world to see, will collapse upon itself. When we rebuild, we will
inoculate every politician that enters the arena against the scourge of fascism, the
horrible crippling malady that spreads by contact with a dollar bill. And we will do
it with the threat of the same punishment the fascists dish out to the innocent.

After writing all morning, I arrived at the plaza on the last warm and balmy
afternoon of the season as October was drawing to a close. The mood at the camp was
subdued, and of course the local press was out hoping the 25 or so occupiers hanging
around in the middle of the day were going to try and burn down a tree or something,
because they were angry at the pig-headed attempts to destroy freedom of speech and
assembly across the country. The news clips of people being brutalized didn’t cause
the press to throw down their cameras and join us, it made them come to the plaza
and hope upon hope they would witness their fellow citizens being brutalized in the
same way. I wandered over to the welcome booth and took a picture of the welcoming
committee, Carey, John and Melanie. I interviewed Carey who’s been with the scene
since the first day. He said he is optimistic because the general assembly is
functioning well, people are working together better and the goals are getting
solidified. His optimism was contagious and it was great to hear some optimism at
this point. But others I talked to were more concerned, and the prognosis from most
of the old-timers was we had about two weeks.

Then, Austin Police Chief Art Acevedo arrived on the scene in a business suit and
made a statement to the press: “Out of all the people out here, most are exercising
their first amendment rights, but then there are the few who step off and do things
inappropriate. Quite frankly, most of the arrests that are made here are made from
those drinking in public and causing fights or what have you.” He did not seem
irritated, but every time he looked up at the mezzanine, which sits above the wide
steps most people use for sleeping, meeting and storing gear, he looked concerned.
The press has reported only one or two arrests, but today, according to the folks I
spoke to, there had already been seven. The police department was obviously lying to the
press about the number of arrests, and the press being the press, were too lazy to
verify the truth. Something was going on that didn’t smell right.

So I had a question for the press. I caught the attention of a news reporter from
KVUE-TV who just finished covering the Police Chief’s statement. It was an old
friend named Shelton, who was wearing the most beautiful burgundy guayabera shirt
you ever saw. I asked him to tell me about the biggest challenge he has covering the
occupation. He expressed frustration on finding someone to talk to who is in charge
of this leaderless movement, so he could sort out the truth, because he hears
something different from each person he interviews. I was pleased to see the
maddening effect we were having on the press, especially when I’ve watched them go
out of their way to interview the most fucked-up person they could find over and
over again. While at first frustrating, the search by the press for the most inept,
had unintentionally become an integral part of the guerrilla war against the media
we are waging in which we use the lack of relevant information and leaders to
confuse, obfuscate and keep them guessing what we are going to do next. We didn’t
even have to work hard at it, because the press, in their race to the bottom, were
driving themselves mad by cherry-picking the least informed and vacuous people they
could find hanging around the plaza. There were plenty of lucid people who knew what
was going on the press could interview, but now our attitude was to go ahead and let
them to interview the slacker. Why should we care anymore? The press isn’t going to
give us a fair shake anyway. But since Shelton was my friend, I suggested to Shelton
that he talk to Sylvia, who is our official media person, and he said he did talk to
her. Sylvia told him the press should only talk to her and that anyone else was an
impostor. Then Shelton pointed at a man in a pink shirt who told him he was the
media contact and Sylvia was an impostor. You could see Shelton’s frustration
manifesting itself in beads of sweat along his brow, but I told him to talk to
Sylvia anyway and he thanked me before I took off. Later in the day, I saw Shelton
interviewing Sylvia and he didn’t look quite as harried or alarmed. The next day, I
learned Sylvia was relieved of her duties and another media specialist named Carl
was chosen. I laughed thinking about poor old Shelton scrambling around looking for
a scoop among the chaos, when all he, and the rest of the press had to do from the
beginning, was treat us with professional respect.

So I went up to the much-maligned mezzanine and talked to Sandra, who was relaxing
on a bedroll. I asked what brings her here and she said, “At first I was with the
occupation, but recently it’s got crazy, so I’m just here to sleep. I enjoyed the
meetings and signs and thought we were for something, then it became a big slumber
party and people came in to destroy the place, fight and do drugs. Everyone is just
kind of here.” I asked her how long she thinks this will continue. She said, “The
security comes out at 7 am yelling at everyone to move their stuff, and looks for
little things to hassle or arrest people. Even if you make a comment or refuse to
get up when they tell you, you will be arrested. One guy, who was sleeping on the
mezzanine every night, was arrested yesterday.” Sandra went on, “The city officials
are walking around looking disgusted and talking to the cops and are just trying to
run people like us off. We work with carnivals and our daughter needed money so we
couldn’t save enough this year, and here we are on the street, and I know cold
weather is coming. My husband is out right now looking for a job, but good luck with
that, you know?” There are so many people like Sandra, who’ve been hurt by the
system, and really want to work and contribute to society, but society has no place
for them. She was right about the suits walking around looking disgusted. You
couldn’t look across the plaza today without seeing at least one suit with a glum
face looking down its nose at us.

About that time, the plaza was flooded with a group of people protesting the body
scanners recently put in place at the Austin airport. There was a series of fiery
speeches by both men and women alike, and they brought along their own PA system.
They questioned why we can’t use some other less invasive means of checking for
bombs such as bomb-sniffing dogs rather than a photo of your naked body. This went
on until dusk, when I began to chat with a man in the crowd, about 55 years old,
named Dan. He was a right-wing talk-show fanatic who insisted “the Greeks, Jews,
Europeans and Americans all learned to write in the same year 6,000 years ago.” He
also claimed that we should put all Muslims in concentration camps like we did with the
“Japs” in WWII and that the Koran was the devil. He claimed that never in history
were people tortured or killed to force them into Christianity like in Islam, and
the bible is not a collection of stories passed down by word of mouth before people
knew how to read or write, it was written by God and it just appeared out of thin
air. I thought about how this man, who ordinarily would be a kind gentle soul, had
become a card-carrying member of the fascist propaganda machine because he, like us,
was afraid of his future and was looking for answers. But instead of finding the
truth, he had become a Frankenstein’s monster of the information age who espoused
every stillborn idea ever perpetuated by talk radio and Fox News. He had become a
fascist extraordinaire who would sit by and let an innocent man be strung from a
tree because Rush Limbaugh said it should be so.

Thankfully, the general assembly started and today was the first day I noticed a
sign language interpreter. The discussion was generally about how to get control of
the mezzanine from the undesirables. I thought about Sandra up there listening to
the young people, who all had homes to go to, discussing one more way to make her
life inconvenient or evict her from her spot in the universe. But we all know it’s
not Sandra we wanted out of there, it is the people who insist on disrupting
everything, like the no-talent asshole named Jackal who followed me around the
entire day banging on a drum every time he saw me trying to record an interview. I
have never heard such a bad drum player-even three year old kids have better rhythm
than that guy. And what was the point except to disrupt and be a jerk?

But that is what all the occupiers, with all their good intentions, are learning in
every camp across the country: Some people hanging around the Occupy movement just
need to clear out and find another place to go if they want to help the
movement. What some of us also didn’t know, and are now unfortunately finding out,
is how many people in our society are completely sane, but are incurably lazy
spoiled bullies that take up space someone more productive could easily fill. This
awakening is going on throughout the occupy movement. And it is causing us to fall
back on either time-tested means of control, like asking the police patrols we hate
so much for help, or doing what the fascists want to do to us, which is beat the
crap out of the ones taking up space and hope they go away. It is at this point
where Occupy is in danger of becoming a farce. That is because we are fighting
against a system of government we despise, but need its structure and protection to
survive. Then, throughout the movement, and especially in Austin, there is the same
political infighting and me-me-me crap that goes on in every organization. I see
people trying to gain power, be it from who is on top of the mezzanine to who is in
charge of the donation coffee can or the PA system.

A new and disruptive development is an influx of feminists exerting their muscle by
playing the victim at every turn to gain power. For example, one enormous and
spiritually malformed trouble-making feminist, who was new on the scene, was loudly
complaining that a gay man with a southern accent had called her “Sweetie” when he
asked if he could help her move a pile of wet brochures and newspapers. She was
proud that she and a couple of other women had now formed a women’s group and were
making YouTube videos not trashing our fascist enemy, but the men of occupy who they
felt were somehow a threat to every woman that ever lived. Their stated mission was
to, “loudly confront every nuance of sexism either in public or online.” And part of
their regular meetings were to be held in secret. So you can imagine the endless
possibilities to wreak havoc. All the men of Austin Occupy were so liberal, this was
a disturbing development. I never heard one misogynist statement the entire six
weeks the movement was in existence. I couldn’t in all reality figure out the reason
for the feminists’ hatred and intense desire to create havoc and split everyone
apart. They wanted the men on this side and the women on this side, then the women
and men they approved of on this side, and the men they didn’t like on that side.
Then, they began to spread rumors and innuendo to pit one group against the other.
And no one had done anything wrong. When I see new people like this come in and try
to kick Occupy Austin to pieces, I get discouraged. I thought about the words of the
famous Texan Sam Rayburn: “Any jackass can kick down a barn, but it takes a good
carpenter to build one.” What we lacked was a few good carpenters, because it was
becoming apparent we had an entire corral of jackasses.

The day ended with a march to the capitol followed by a candlelight vigil in support
of the Oakland protesters who were injured a few days before. And true to form,
there were provocateurs in the crowd, but it was a candlelight vigil and they
sounded stupid when they started to act out. Whoever had the idea for the
candlelight vigil was a genius. It was a beautiful and poignant moment and brought
us together one more time to fight one more day. And the real fight was on its way.

-Jim Gober-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Jim Gober-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Jim Gober-