by Laura Love
Chapter 2
Occupy Oakland
The next day I took the Bay Area Rapid Transport (BART) train from Oakland Airport to City Hall at Fourteenth Street and Broadway, where I was told the Occupy Oakland Commune was located. There weren’t many people there—maybe four or five tents, and I was disappointed. A young woman with freckles approached me and told me her name was Lindsey. There were a few news vans, but otherwise a fairly quiet Frank Ogawa Plaza. At the time I didn’t know why, but every place the name Frank Ogawa was written, it was either scratched out or covered up by a sign that said OSCAR GRANT PLAZA, or, OGP. I soon learned that the Occupy Oakland Commune had renamed the building to honor a young black man that had been shot dead by a BART officer on New Year’s Eve, two years prior, as he lay facedown—unarmed. I noticed how old and ornate City Hall was, as I began to unpack my Target tent. Lindsey asked me if I’d like help. I started to say, “No, I’m good,” but she’d already begun before I could utter a word. As I reached to assist her, a horde of reporters descended on me like white on rice, thrusting logo-encrusted microphones in my face. I wasn’t certain why, but I think it may have been because I looked so ordinary—even matronly, unlike what they may have expected. And there were very few of us—I was one of only about twenty people in the entire plaza. I was first questioned by KRONTV, then Al Jazeera, the Chronicle, ABC, and CBS. I granted five interviews within the twenty-five minutes it took Lindsey to assemble my tent and place my belongings inside it. Each one asked the same three questions, “What is your message,” “Who is your leader,” and “Why are you here?” None seemed particularly satisfied with my answers which were, “There are many messages and issues in the Occupy Movement, not the least of which are bank foreclosures, destruction of the environment, joblessness, corporate money in politics, homelessness, the military industrial complex, and Wall Street fraud. We are all the leaders, and I am here as part of the Occupy Movement, to demand social, economic, and environmental justice for the 99% from the 1%. We wish to hold corporations, the rich, Wall Street, and corrupt bankers accountable for compromising everything we hold dear. We want to establish a true democracy and wrest power away from those who now influence and control every aspect of our lives in the United States.” My answers seemed to frustrate them, and I was getting the idea they didn’t feel they were “sound-bitey” enough. I shortened them for each successive interview. I wanted to please and give them something brief that their viewers could understand. By the last interview my responses had been winnowed down to, “We’re mad at everything. I’m here because it’s too cold in New York,” and, “I’m the leader.” The minute those words left my mouth, I grimaced. I felt like Al Gore claiming he’d invented the Internet. I decided to either not do any more interviews, or figure out an accurate, but succinct answer (preferably three words or less) that encompassed the entirety of the movement. In my defense, I had been distracted at the end by a random passerby, who shoved a slice of vegan pizza into my outstretched hand, which was extended to emphasize a point I was making.
By Friday, we’d grown to well over a hundred tents. Everywhere I looked, people were putting up tents. I watched a young black man trying to figure it out for about two hours. I can attest to the well-known fact that black people don’t camp—we call it “homeless.” The only reason I knew how to camp was because a white woman I was dating in the eighties dragged me out into the woods where I saw a lot of other white people in REI clothing, who also seemed to be enjoying themselves, though it was raining and windy. I was petrified of being in the wilderness with Caucasians, who may not have heard about antilynching laws, but by the second or third day I had relaxed and was even having an okay time. The woman I was with told me that I was so light-skinned no one could even tell I was African American, and I am not proud to admit that that brought me solace. I have since learned to love camping, but it was not an easy sell at first. Feeling my brother’s pain, I offered assistance, which his ego did not allow him to accept. He struggled for another hour or so alone. I spent the better part of the day helping out in the encampment wherever I could. I bought ketchup, mustard, and margarine at a Smart and Final store from the wish list posted at the kitchen tent. I didn’t know about the “smart,” but I was certain it was “final.” I never buy margarine for myself, so I randomly chose I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. When I got back to the camp I smeared some all over a hunk of artisan bread that a local bakery donated. I tasted the spread. It was awful. I thought, I can sooooo believe it’s not butter. I can’t believe it’s not illegal. I can’t believe I put that toxic shit in my mouth, I can’t believe I ruined that perfectly great piece of bread with that horrible dreck. I can’t believe someone’s not in jail for inventing it.
Sometime in the late afternoon, filmmaker Michael Moore showed up, and said a lot of uplifting stuff like, “Something good will come of this movement,” and, “This weekend will be a watershed moment in Oakland,” and “the Occupy Movement has killed apathy in this country,” as evidenced by the fact that some folks had actually “turned off Dancing with the Stars.” He laughed about having dropped some weight and gone vegan. Then he complained good-naturedly that the news media would glom onto that as the most salient feature of his speech and say nothing about the rest. He recounted how he’d tried to contact mayor Jean Quan (loud boos) with his concerns about recent police actions and tell her how horrified people had been to see what the cops did to Scott Olsen last Tuesday night (October 25, 2011). She’d had a member of her staff notify him that she was unavailable to meet with him, even though he was a movie star and everything. He asked that we give thirty seconds of silence for Scott, and then he congratulated Occupy Oakland for having the courage to come back after what happened. He said millions had been inspired by our return. I felt honored and mentally took the credit, even though I’d not arrived till the twenty-seventh. The fact that I hadn’t seen one police officer since I arrived the day before was both exhilarating and eerie. I prayed they learned their lesson after the global backlash and the media spanking they got from that bad behavior.
On Saturday, October 29, many more tents arrived and there was no room to move or walk between them. We were up to 185 by my count. Heavy discourse by people from all walks of life and every skin color surrounded me throughout the day, giving me the sense that we were doing something worthwhile and momentous, however, as our tent city expanded, nights got louder and stranger. Halloween party tourists coursed through Oscar Grant Plaza after the bars closed. One young woman was wrapped completely in white cotton, painted red at the bottom with a white rope dangling from it. She said she was a tampon. A full brass ensemble with drums, trumpets, trombones, and tubas marched through the encampment around 2:00 a.m., but by that time things had become so surreal, I didn’t even bother getting out of my tent to take a look. I couldn’t sleep. Some young men were sharing a joint just outside my tent and laughing that halting, stuttery stoned laugh we’re all familiar with, as they wondered at the size of the rats scurrying around inches from my door flap. “Whoa dude, that fucker was bigger than my mom’s dog … tchuh huh huh huh.” There were arguments breaking out in every habitable space. “Crack Head Corner” was populated by jumpy, agitated black folks who came and went all night. Tragically, men, women, and even mothers with small children came to smoke rock cocaine. A darling, bright, three-year-old, still awake at 2:30 a.m., played with trash as her mom scored. A twitchy black man with Chia Pet hair and glowing road map eyes was blurting out Tourette’s-y sentences, “Fuck you, bitch. Die motherfucker,” and “Pop Pop,” as the child’s mother hit the opaque glass pipe, oblivious to the incredible barking man with the Cujo snarl. I began talking to the little girl as her mom eyed me warily. We were playing high five and patty-cake, when she rasped, “Get yo’ ass over here,” to her daughter. My heart ached. At the opposite end of the encampment, a pale, straw-headed, pasty-skinned man in caked overalls began to argue loudly with an emaciated thatch-haired woman—his signifi
cant other. Another unshaven methed up guy with rotten gums and a Charles Manson vibe started threatening to slice the first guy up if he didn’t stop abusing his “goddamn old lady, man.” I dubbed the area, “Pit Bull Park,” as the amped up, muscle bound beasts heaved, barked, and lunged at everything with a pulse. I strolled casually past their owners, hoping my cameo appearance in this Quentin Tarantino film would intrude enough to make them forget about their petty argument. On my way past them, I noticed a handmade flag affixed to one of their tents, which said, WARNING—DOG IS VERY PROTECTIVE. “Protective” … that’s a nice way to put it. In the background some free spirit started loudly strumming his guitar and singing made up Occupy songs, in unrecognizable keys. A light sleeper nearby offered to bash his guitar, “over his fucking head,” if he didn’t stop playing. The complainer was upset because he’d been “volunteering in the kitchen and working security” all day and it was “fuckin’ quiet time, dude.” This was a night from hell. I walked toward another group of crack-addled black kids who were making a lot of noise and on the verge of coming to blows. I tiptoed gingerly over beer cans and food waste to tell them I’d really appreciate it if they’d take it down a notch and try not to bring police attention to our revolution. I pointed out to them that nothing kills a party like the riot squad. One of them with neon Children of the Corn eyes got in my face to tell me that if he “wanted to meet the goddamn Virgin Mary, he’d go to a motherfuckin’ church.” Another of his skeletal friends with Night of the Living Dead mannerisms and Don King hair, laughed sharply as he asserted that, “We ain’t even the real motherfuckin’ problem anyway. It’s all them goddamn loudass crackers over there and they mothahfuckin’ outta control dogs.”
After spending so much time with potty mouths like that, I am over curse words. Their impact is totally lost when overused, and should be reserved for the most extreme circumstances, and then only to emphasize an important point, such as, “I have had it with these motherfuckin’ snakes on this motherfuckin’ plane!” I sighed wearily, and returned to my tent. On the way I spotted copious volumes of urine pooled in the corners of surrounding buildings and running over cracks in the pavement. I also noted that some more motivated, less high Occupants had strung extension cords from light poles to recharge their cell phones and other electronic devices. Looking back, I question how I ever could have survived without a mobile phone. Just to think that a mere three weeks earlier I’d never even held, much less operated, a “smart” phone. I’d wholeheartedly rejected the expensive technology that required its own “data plan.” I resented the unavoidable intrusion into my life. I feared I’d become umbilically tethered to it—almost unable to function without it—which is exactly what had occurred. On two occasions, I called Mary that night, anxiously detailing the drama playing itself out in every corner of Oscar Grant Plaza. The second call was at 2:30 a.m. “What the actual hell was I thinking coming out here and pitching a tent in downtown OAKLAND! I must have been on crack to think I could pull this off,” I wailed into the receiver.
Mary sounded groggy and irritated on the other end. “Yeah, well Laura, what were you thinking? Why in the world would you expect it to be anything other than this? Is it a surprise to you that homeless people in Oakland smoke crack, publicly urinate, shoot heroin, and sometimes kill each other? Is it a surprise that drug-addicted dog owners in Oakland prefer pitbulls to shih tzus? Gee, who could have predicted that folks might want to stay up later than you, and maybe some of them would get into spats with each other. What, do you suppose, are the odds that the police officers who raided the place last week and broke that Marine’s skull are going to let you stay there for as long as you like? Let me answer that for you, since you don’t seem to have done your research. The odds are zero, idiot. You shouldn’t even be there. And don’t even think about getting arrested in Oakland, Laura. They will throw you into a stinking rathole where everyone you meet is going to be toothless and ruthless. What part of the equation did you fail to consider before pitching your tent there? Either pack your stuff up right now, get on the BART, and come home, or stop calling me, unless you’ve been shot or stabbed, because there’s nothing I can do about it from here. I’ve got to get up, take care of Kristy, and work tomorrow. Remember Kristy? She’s your daughter.”
“Okay, okay … look, I won’t call you anymore unless I’m dying,” I returned, wounded, before hanging up. “She’ll be sorry if I do get stabbed tonight,” I grumbled to myself before reinserting my foam earplugs.
After that terse exchange, I lay there tightly clutching my phone as if it was the only thing keeping my heart beating. That I even possessed such a clever invention was pure coincidence. Just before leaving for the East Coast to tour with Holly I had been fishing on the Okanogan River at the Chilliwist Hole when I’d felt a tug on my line that meant business. Excited that it might be a fine bass, I reeled in as far as it could go, only to discover that my hook was snagged on someone else’s abandoned line. Perplexed, I reached to free my hook when it jerked away from me and began snapping back and forth crazily. It dawned on me that the line I’d ensnared already had a fish on it. Okay, well … no problem—now all I have to do is pull it in. But just as I pondered that, it lurched out of my grasp into much deeper water. I could still see the filament though, and reckoned if I didn’t jump in at that very moment, all would be lost. I plunged into the river with all my clothes on, grabbed the line, and dog paddled back with my prize. I quickly clubbed the fish, dropped to my knees and began to clean it on the warm muddy river bank, just as I imagined Indian women had done for centuries. I was hurling the entrails into the river for other wildlife to consume when I heard something that reminded me of the hissy static my transistor radio used to emit when I tried to dial in a new station as a kid. Puzzled, I patted myself down and looked all over trying to identify the source of the sound. The answer eventually presented itself as my fingers curled around the rectangular outline of my two-year-old, dumb, cell phone. Staring woefully at the dripping, crackling remains, I was forced to admit it was a goner. I gently laid my costly fish in a cooler full of ice, drove myself home, logged onto my computer, and ordered the “ruggedized,” most water-resisting-est phone on the market. And late at night, in my hour of darkness, that magnificent Droid was the only thing standing between me and the abyss. By the end of the week I’d mastered most of the functions my new phone could perform as a matter of sheer survival. It amazed me how facile I had suddenly become at learning the once daunting technology when faced with the alternatives at OGP.
By 5:00 a.m. the ground was thick with tents that blanketed every inch of the dank, wet earth. More people arrived overnight, even as I clung to my electronic lifeline and hoped for the best. My plastic Halloween pumpkin chamber pot with “Trick or Treat Wall Street” sharpied on it was nearly full, and I hoped I wouldn’t accidently kick it over, if I ever did fall asleep. I finally lost consciousness just before dawn, as things quieted down in our busy little corner of the world.
Sunday, October 30. I woke up at around 10:30 a.m. The sun was streaming generously into my tent and radiating its warmth throughout my achy joints. I rose to see that there were rows of clean porta-potties in Frank Ogawa/Oscar Grant Plaza—maybe fifteen in all. I was overjoyed. I gratefully took my orange pumpkin into one and emptied it—so convenient. Going number two would be a holiday in this inviting atmosphere. I smiled to see that someone had scribbled, “99% Occupied” on the door. Last night seemed like a distant nightmare. I overheard a fellow camper saying he’d heard Bette Midler had donated the facilities to us. I didn’t know or care if this was true. Whether or not, God bless Bette Midler. By four o’clock in the afternoon the johns were all full to overflowing. There was diarrhea and vomit on the seats, floors, and walls. I yearned for the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival and all its man-free space. I vowed to either join or form a committee whose sole job was to designate some of the portable units as women only. I was disgusted at the men who did this. They peed everyw
here—on the floor, on the walls, on the toilet paper, in the corners, in the bushes, on their shoes. They even peed on car tires, just like a scurvy dog. I was growing a little tired of the revolution.