by Laura Love
Shortly after we set up my tent, we were joined by more friends and Occupy supporters, Penny Rosenwasser, Lisa Vogel, and Terry Lynn Delk, who I knew from having performed at the Michigan Womyn’s Festival. We decided to go out for a meal in the hood before the General Assembly got underway. Just as we were leaving for the restaurant we ran into a trio of police officers who were handing out eviction notices to us which said, NOTICE OF VIOLATIONS AND DEMAND TO CEASE VIOLATIONS. Underneath that headline it said that Occupy Oakland was creating a health hazard and obstructing free use of the park by others and that we were to discontinue camping there. I paid it little mind as I’d seen these warnings before and knew there was a good chance nothing at all would happen to us anytime soon. After dinner, my friends left and I got in on the tail end of the General Assembly, or “GA,” which was to conclude with an address from an Ohlone Elder. She was standing regally before me on the City Hall Plaza stage in her ceremonial dress. I felt the weight of her distinguished bearing which commanded attention and respect. Her beautifully decorated robes conveyed her status within the Ohlone Indian community. I stood in awe of her—the sheer otherworldliness of her ageless, timeless voice undulating like ryegrass on the windblown plain. She had come, she said, to “deliver a message from [her] people,” whose land was stolen over a hundred years ago by whites who had colonized it and occupied it ever since. The gravity of the moment gripped me as she raised an eagle feather before beginning her speech. I waited in breathless anticipation, enduring an interminable pause as the eldress leaned away from the microphone and into the shoulder of another Ohlone at her side, who whispered gravely into her ear. An eternity elapsed before she returned her focus to us and uttered, “A silver Toyota Rav 4 with Oregon license plates left its lights on in the Plaza and is also illegally parked and about to get towed.” Uproarious laughter rippled throughout the crowd before the speaker realized we had mistaken the car announcement for the solemn message we were expecting. Even though she recovered quickly and returned to her original script about how her “long-suffering people stood in solidarity with Occupy Oakland and wished to bless us on this perilous journey,” I took it as a sign to retreat early to my chamber and try to get through the night unscathed. Sleep came easily as it was relatively still in the Plaza and I thought of the Florida panther as I drifted off into slumber.
“They comin’ y’all. It’s a raid! Git up. Grab yer shit—go! They on their way,” came the frenzied call around four o’clock in the morning. I heard groans and swearing issuing from tents as groggy campers tried to come to their senses quickly and wrestle gear into nylon sacks and plastic bags. Bleary-eyed, I switched on my LED light and started stuffing my sleeping bag and other possessions into a rolling travel suitcase. Some Occupiers began preparing for the onslaught by beating out tribal rhythms on makeshift drums and metal cookware. Some women were ululating and whistles were being blown in addition to all the yelling. Within ten minutes I was ready to go and unzipped my tent flap as I emerged, with suitcase, into the foggy Bay Area night. The sound of cursing voices intertwined with rasping zippers began to fill the air as I dragged my suitcase on the damp earth toward Fourteenth and Broadway where others were already gathering. I propped my tired frame against a streetlight across from a Rite Aid and waited for the riot squad to arrive. Forty-five minutes later they got there and surrounded us as we marched in circles chanting, “The System Has Got to Die/Hella Hella Occupy”, and “One, We are The People, Two, We Are United, Three, This Occupation Is Not Leaving.”
Just before dawn the police began projecting their monotonous order to disperse. This time I phoned my local community radio station back home—KTRT, in tiny Winthrop, Washington, hoping to be put on the air live as part of the morning commute. Technically, I guess it could be called, “drive time radio,” but in our town of two thousand residents, it was not a big enough deal to warrant such a title. I called them on the chance that Deputy Don, my friend, DJ, and station manager, might get a kick out of exposing the Methow Valley (which is comprised of rednecks and progressives alike) to the real-life drama of a police raid on a political protest while it was happening. I tried to deliver pithy observations about the Occupy Movement itself, while the cops were surrounding us on all sides and pressing against us with interlocking metal barricades.
The temporary structures served not only to compact us, but also to keep us out of Oscar Grant Plaza as they slashed tents and made off with our stuff. Not only was it reassuring to know that as long as I stayed on the air with Don, there would be audio witnesses if the cops went berserk, it was also interesting to imagine what my friends and neighbors were thinking as one of their own stood in a pre-dawn confrontation with the law, a thousand miles away, in a big metropolitan city with actual traffic lights. It amused me to consider that some of my homies may have been actively hoping I’d be thrashed for taking a political stance they disagreed with. On this occasion, in contrast to others, the Oakland Police Department orchestrated an orderly, nonviolent operation with no arrests. There had certainly been moments of anxiety, but on the whole, the OPD had shown professionalism and restraint while they dismantled the place where we had eaten, taught, provided daycare, clothed, and housed hundreds of Oakland’s poorest citizens for nearly three weeks. And just like that, it was over. The magical, miserable, wonderful, terrifying, Occupy Oakland Commune ended. The fantastic grand experiment that had decreased crime in Oakland by nearly 20% was over.
Later that day, I toted my bags to the nearest library, where a GA was scheduled so that we could regroup and discuss our next moves. I slept on the grass in the sun for an hour before the assembly began. Over a thousand people showed up from all over Oakland to mourn the loss of our tent city and to voice their continuing support for Occupy Oakland. Speakers reiterated the ongoing urgency of stopping corporate greed and putting an end to bank abuses. Some of the displaced campers spoke of the need to retake OGP, or find another location to set up shop. Overall it was a nice pep rally and a good way to process what had just happened to us, but I felt in my heart that it was over at OGP and that the experience of a lifetime, that I will forever cherish, would never be replicated. On the advice of others who had scoped out a new spot, I relocated to Snow Park where others said they might be heading. The new location was close to OGP, but larger and grassier. Lake Merritt was close by too, which was another plus, but it lacked the sense of community and purpose we shared at City Hall. Lots of Occupy activists who had homes in town went back to them. They had been at OGP for political reasons, not for lack of options. The Snow Park encampment was much less populated and more strung out—mostly made up of people who were there by necessity, not choice. Some refugees were milling about aimlessly, while others checked to see if there were any plans afoot to build a kitchen or serve meals. This place was depressing and had none of the gritty, explosive, history-in-the-making feel that City Hall exuded. This time my lifesaver was Terry Lynn Delk, who showed up with another donated tent, (the third so far) but the rainfly was missing, so I replaced it with an enormous blue tarp someone else had abandoned at the park. The tarp was so large I had to double it up under my tent and extend it out over the top to make it work. It began raining as soon as I finished, so I was immensely grateful for the find that was keeping my new home dry. I lay there in the dark listening to the raindrops plip plop soothingly on my roof, as I tried to fall asleep and hoped other activists would arrive soon and set up house. I wasn’t liking my new residence, but I didn’t want to turn tail and run to a friend’s house to sleep. My cell phone battery was dying which made me feel vulnerable, so I decided to leave the park for awhile and take the BART over to San Francisco, where I saw on Twitter that there was speculation about an impending predawn raid at the Occupy encampment there. I got off at the Embarcadero stop, a few hundred feet from Occupy San Francisco, where I saw that hundreds of activists had created a bustling community for themselves as well. It was fun to note the differences and similarities from across the
bay in Oakland. There was much more of a hippie vibe in San Francisco and I noticed a greater variety of incense permeating the air, along with more types of dogs, mostly wearing bandanas. Also, a higher percentage of the Occupiers were white. The camp had become so crowded that the overflow spilled across the street and onto the wide sidewalk in front of the Federal Reserve Building, where some managed to cram their tents between the walkway and the newspaper vending machines. The place was abuzz with talk of last night’s Oakland raid, as well as strategies for surviving the same plans for theirs. I had only been there a short while before OSF members monitoring police scanners began announcing that there would be no raid that night after all, which relieved me, since I was finally starting to get sleepy. Off I went, back to the BART station and back to the East Bay where my Snow Park home lay waiting.
After I lay down in my sleeping bag, I discovered that in my brief absence, a homeless man had pulled loose my excess tarp and rolled it over himself for shelter. He slept inches away from me, with nothing between us but the nylon fabric of the tent. Perhaps he thought I’d moved out when I left for San Francisco, but not being certain, he’d not completely moved in … just yet. He had, however, made it cozier for himself by pulling some cardboard over to cushion his underside, along with some abandoned bedding to keep him warm as he slept and probably wished I’d been gone for good. The only reason I noticed him there was because I thought I detected an odd, previously absent bulge in the back of the tent as I approached it in semidarkness. After I entered it, I lay there awkwardly, trying to decide what to do. It was too late for me to feel good about calling anybody to come get me, so I stayed, prostrate—stiff as a board—until I began to hear the man breathing softly, as if in deep slumber. I must have dozed off momentarily while pondering my dilemma, but awakened shortly to the sound of the guy flicking a nearly empty Bic lighter about six inches away from my head. Then I smelled something, unpleasant and toxic, burning very close to me. I didn’t relish the idea of forcing the poor lout into the rain, but come on man—really? You can’t just give it up for a few hours so we can get through this fucking nightmare without killing each other? I fumed silently beside the man (figuratively) while he fumed audibly beside me (literally)—our backs touching. He didn’t imbibe for long, and soon returned to his soft breathing pattern. I began to wonder if it might not be heroin he was smoking, instead of crack, which I’d previously assumed was his weakness; but didn’t crack make you jumpy and heroin make you sleepy? Then I began to lament the inefficiency and wastefulness of smoking the heroin, versus shooting it, if indeed that was what he’d been up to. Because from everything I’d ever read, the best way to enjoy it was to inject it, and since I assumed this man wasn’t well-to-do, I began mentally berating him for being lazy and not making the effort to prepare it properly, in order to get the most bang for his buck. Then I started chastising myself for having such a callous attitude toward my destitute brother. After all, I had the luxury of being homeless by choice, him—not so much. I did not want to be insensitive to my fellow man, but neither did I like sleeping with an inconsiderate drug addict guy that I didn’t even know. I’d given that up in the eighties, and I wasn’t about to go back at fifty-one. Worse still, when the space invader drifted off this second time, he wedged himself even tighter against me, dead to the world, as he fell into squawk snoring—accompanied by long pauses that gave me concern for his health—followed by apneatic gasps which bolted me upright as they punctuated the night and scared me shitless.
Though I’d gotten precious little shuteye, I arose the next morning and walked over to OGP, hoping to join up with other demoralized Occupiers. I detected a small group and wandered over to stand among them and commiserate. There was a foul-smelling muddy pit where our vibrant revolutionary community had stood days before. We loitered, dolefully watching the sprinkler system drowning all remaining life in the plaza. We surmised that Mayor Quan had really, really not wanted us to come back, since she’d put tons of little flags and signs everywhere on the lawn saying, KEEP OFF THE GRASS, and RESTORATION IN PROGRESS. She also had twenty or more cops doing nothing but walking up and down the sidewalks, yelling at anyone who even looked like they were thinking about stepping off the concrete—much less pitching a tent. By the third day the sprinklers were still running full blast and the grounds in front of city hall were inundated with three inches of standing water. The historic oak tree, whose well-being the mayor had originally cited as the main reason she objected to the encampment, was now swimming in the pool she created. We named the new body of water, “Quan Lake.”
On November 15, instead of spending another evening at Snow Park with the lazy, inefficient drug waster, I decided to support fellow Occupiers on the campus of Cal Berkeley. They too had their tent city violently dismantled by campus police, days before. The students of Occupy Cal were hopping mad at the excessive force campus cops had used on them during a November 9 protest. After that encounter, many of them uploaded YouTube videos showing police shoving, pushing, pepper spraying, baton thumping, tent-slashing, and kicking students as they linked arms and tried to resist them. Their campus Occupation was largely a response to planned tuition hikes, as well as growing anger and discontentment with their situation as college students in the new economy—unable to afford tuition without going tens and even hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, unable to find adequate jobs, unable to move out of their parent’s homes. Many complained that they now found themselves attending a university with little ethnic diversity and a decreasing quality of education. I went there that day hoping to support their Occupation as well as to ease my depression over the deteriorating state of Occupy Oakland.
I boarded a campus-bound city bus on that bright, sunny day, opting out of the miles long solidarity march I heard that Occupy Oaklanders had planned to make from OGP. The bus driver let me off three blocks before my scheduled stop because another driver had radioed to tell her the demonstration was much larger than expected and that if she drove all the way in she’d be trapped for hours. I liked hearing that so I hopped off and looked around for the parade.
Half an hour later I’d still not seen them and walked dejectedly to Sproul Hall, legendary home of the Free Speech Movement. In 1964, Mario Savio had caused a commotion by leaping atop a police car that held Jack Weinberg, a former UC student who’d moments earlier been sitting at a table he’d set up with materials from CORE (Congress on Racial Equality) to support the Civil Rights Movement. The cops had come to shut the table down and arrest Jack Weinberg and Mario had jumped up on top of the car and just sat there, in order to stop them from hauling Jack away. Then he’d made a rousing speech to the gathering crowd of Cal students which began a thirty-two-hour sit-in that began the Free Speech Movement. Later that same year, on the steps of Sproul Hall, Savio gave his now famous speech where he said, “We’re human beings! There’s a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can’t take part. You can’t even passively take part. And you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you’ve got to make it stop. And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you’re free, the machine will be prevented from working at all.” Reading about Mario and the sacred ground I stood on jumpstarted my heart, and even though I couldn’t find any Occupiers to share it with, I was way into being there.
Ninety minutes later, just as I was turning to leave, I looked to the left and saw a snaking line of thousands, chanting, waving flags, and wielding signs as they poured into the plaza. People started running out from the student union and surrounding buildings to greet them by sending up a resounding cheer for the returning heroes. I yelled myself hoarse as humanity kept streaming in until there was someone occupying every nook and cranny as far as the eye could see. The jubilant crowd swelled to over ten thousand as a speaker’s podium was erected at the top of the steps in front of
the door to Sproul Hall. Hope and expectation were palpable as former Secretary of Labor under President Clinton, Robert Reich, approached the microphone. He’d already been scheduled to speak in a campus auditorium for a paid event, but decided that the overwhelming presence of the Occupiers afforded him a unique opportunity to express his support for the Movement, so he took it.
The audience gave him rapt attention as he delivered a startling analysis of income inequality and co-opted government, which struck a nerve with the crowd that hung on his every word. He gave a clear, concise timeline that described the journey that lead us to this point in history where banks and corporations run everything and ordinary people are left with nothing. His spontaneous speech wasn’t long, but hit a crescendo of boisterous, cheering, applause as he concluded that we all needed to get out into the streets and “raise a ruckus,” to stop what’s being done to us each day we do nothing to oppose it.