by Laura Love
“I know,” said Nancy. “She’s my mother.”
“Get out of here!” I exclaimed, before launching into, “Turn around and you’re two—Turn around and you’re four. Turn around and you’re a young girl, going out my door.” I, like many others, first heard “Turn Around” as a child when Kodak used it in a commercial for their cameras. Another title of Malvina’s, “Little Boxes,” was the theme song of a TV series called, Weeds, about a suburban mom who decides to grow and sell marijuana after her husband dies without life insurance, leaving her broke. It’s about how people are put into boxes, socialized to conform, and discouraged from raising a fuss or questioning authority. “There are boxes, little boxes, little boxes made up of ticky tacky, little boxes on the hillside and they all look the same. There’s a pink one and a green one and a blue one and a yellow one and they’re all made up of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.” Great lyrics, and great to be sitting there with her charming daughter. We talked some more and even sang together a little bit before exchanging contact information and heading back out into the world.
On the morning of the nineteenth, I packed up my third tent and waited for my friend Penny, who’d agreed to let me stash it in her car. As I crammed it in its stuffsack, I noticed there were several brand new burn holes in the tarp, right next to where my head was while I slept. Oy vey. Penny offered to bring the tent back to me later that night, after I checked out the situation at Nineteenth and Telegraph. First there was a rally to support labor unions scheduled for 2:00 p.m., followed by a long march which was supposed to end up near the new #OO campsite. It started out small, maybe five hundred people, but by the time we got to Lake Merritt there were a lot of us—thousands. We were several blocks long and took up the entire width of the street when we paused briefly to pay our respects to the Lakeside school that was closing in March because of cuts in educational funding. Along the route we also stopped to stare at the marquee of the Grand Lake Theater whose owner, another ardent support of Occupy, had written, YOU CAN’T EVICT AN IDEA WHOSE TIME HAS COME—SHAME ON YOU MAYOR QUAN. From there about five hundred of us turned back the way we came and began making our way to the Oakland School for the Arts at Nineteenth and Telegraph. Darkness was approaching as we reached our final destination, only to find that a chain-link fence had gone up since I’d last seen it days earlier. A group of motivated Occupiers came prepared with bolt cutters and began demolishing the fence as others pushed aside pier blocks and created openings. Soon we were all barging onto the lot, and tents began popping up everywhere. Brian brought the sound truck and from then on the party was in full swing. More bodies showed up to celebrate our new digs and in no time we were up to a thousand revellers as a light mist began to fall. The ground was rocky and wet, but twenty hardy campers set up nonetheless while we danced beneath the sculpture garden that would be our back yard once we were established.
Remember Them, Heroes for Humanity is the Mario Chiodo sculpture that we were all clustered around that night, after we tore down the barriers and tried to appropriate the space for Occupy Oakland. There are twenty-five historical figures in the piece, which was dedicated to the city exactly two months before our arrival. Among them are: Mother Teresa, Sojourner Truth, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Frederick Douglass, Maya Angelou, Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks. Remarkably, the nine million dollar artwork was funded almost entirely by private donations during a time of great economic instability, known as the “Great Recession.” I was calmed by their presence, almost as if they were guardian angels overseeing and protecting us in our own fight for justice. Then I saw the cops. Lots and lots of them were amassing in every direction as it started raining hard on our celebration. I called Penny, who was already on her way, and reported, “Hey, it’s looking kind of dicey, maybe we just keep the tent in your car tonight if that’s okay.” She was just pulling up to our location when she observed several dozen police officers in riot gear preparing to make a move.
“No problem, be safe tonight,” she said, kindly, as I waved her away from the area. Brian was pleading through his sound system for us to stay put and keep our numbers up to defend the encampment as it got wetter and colder by the minute. I hunkered down under a canopy someone had brought and looked up at the balconies of the surrounding apartments. It seemed that every tenant had a cell phone camera capturing the excitement from above. Some also had small children and pets peering down at us from their decks. One young blond woman jogging with her Jack Russell Terrier glowered at me as she passed on the sidewalk to her residence. “Hey, thanks for totally fucking up my front yard with this bullshit,” she sneered as I shivered.
After midnight the order to disperse was sounded, which some freezing, soaked comrades decided to heed. Hours later, we were down to roughly forty rain-soaked souls and a handful of tents. Those of us that remained were tired and miserable. Then, Brian announced that he had to take the sound truck back to the garage because it was too wet outside for the delicate gear, and he didn’t want it confiscated again. He drove half a block, turned left, and was immediately pulled over by the cops who impounded the truck and towed it away, leaving Brian and his crew empty handed and without transportation. Morale took a nosedive when the music died and our misery seemed to compound itself. I saw the handwriting on the wall and opted to leave then, not wanting to be arrested again. I didn’t know how I would make it back to Laura’s house by myself, since she and Lori had flown out earlier in the day to spend Thanksgiving with family on the East Coast. They’d given me a house key and told me I could crash at their place anytime in their absence, which I’d almost refused as unnecessary. My, how things had changed. The BART train was still running, but not as often as in peak periods, so it was very late when I got off, exhausted, at the Fruitvale Station where Oscar Grant died, which was still miles from their home. I hadn’t wanted to be without it, so I was forced to drag my cumbersome rolling suitcase behind me as I navigated the route to their address. Somehow I got turned around and found myself lost at 3:00 a.m., wandering through a graffiti plastered, payday-loan-mart-infested neighborhood featuring malt liquor billboards and Newport signs everywhere I looked. I could almost picture the pale ad executives in tall, glass buildings downtown, conjuring up the slick slogans they concocted to prey on every misbegotten occupant of these hellholes. Perhaps I could have respected them a little bit more if they’d just come out and said what they really thought: “Drink nigger, nobody gives a shit about you. Get goddamn good and drunk, broke motherfuckers—why the hell not? Cash your pathetic little check here dawg—it ain’t enough to live on anyway, might as well give half of it to the man.” The next day I figured I’d walked about a mile and a half out of my way before I learned how to use MapQuest on my phone and get where I was going. Dawn and my back were near breaking when I saw the familiar car in the driveway, signalling my safe arrival to Laura’s place.
On the short plane ride home the next day, I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and let gratitude flow that life had provided me with a warm house, a loving family, and a tiny, unsophisticated police force to return to for Thanksgiving. I’d had enough drama to last forever hanging out in the dirty, desperate city. No more forays into the dark side for me. I did my tour of duty. I’d tried to make a difference by “throwing myself onto the gears of the machinery” and “raising a ruckus.” I had not “waited until the bombs started falling” to blow the whistle on what was being done to my country. I’d occupied for the Florida panther who could not hire a lobbyist, and I’d been knocked around, tear gassed and arrested by the cops for the evening grosbeak. While many goals remained unreached, I was satisfied with the knowledge that I’d at least gotten off the couch and tried to do something.
Chapter 5
Occupy Foreclosure—D6
Thanksgiving was lovely and relaxing. The turkey was tender and moist, my cornbread stuffing ruled, and the green bean casserole, nonpareil. In the days after my return from Oakland, my cat fo
rgave my absence and things began to settle down to a normal routine. Not once had I missed my tarpmate, nor had I longed for the cloying odors accompanying the periodic flick of the Bic late at night. Christmas too passed happily with Currier and Ives landscapes outside my window and holiday sleigh bells affixed gaily to our horses’ halters. We all went out as a family to select the perfect tree from hundreds of candidates among the young firs that were scarcely a stone’s throw from the back door. The wild snowshoe hare reclaimed her annual residence in the barn, delighting us all when she darted between hay bales to show off a new, plush, white winter coat. From time to time, mice would spring unexpectedly from a bale, giving me a start and making me laugh as they narrowly avoided being scooped into the sled we dragged through the snow to feed the horses. Once in a while one of us would spy an owl, bobcat, or even a moose wandering about, reminding us what a wild and special place we live in.
When I was growing up in Lincoln, Nebraska, my family was very poor—at times we were homeless, which was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever known. On a few occasions, my mother, sister, and I would all share a bed in the homes of strangers, who’d answered the call to help from the Catholic Church. Once we stayed in the City Mission for weeks, picking our way past pedophiles and alcoholics, who asked horrifying questions of my eleven-year-old self, like, “Have you ever been kissed between the legs before?” I vividly remember ducking out on grammar school chums who were accustomed to walking me home after class, and making lame excuses to ditch them before we reached our old apartment, where we’d been evicted, unbeknownst to them, for failure to pay the rent. Once, I’d gotten all the way to our old unit with my best pal, who I was hiding my shameful secret from, and almost had to shove her to the ground to get her to leave before I had to reveal that we no longer lived there. It was humiliating beyond description, to have friends discover we were destitute and I’ve never forgotten the despair that overtook me when we lost our apartment. The recent foreclosure crisis reminded me of those hideous times and proved unbearable to watch on television, as a prosperous adult, from my own palatial abode. Story after story about families being cast into the streets by indifferent financial institutions filled me with a sense of helplessness and blinding rage every time I switched on the news. Bank CEO salaries and bonuses were going through the roof, while millions of people, who’d had the audacity to get sick, hurt, laid-off, fired, or divorced after the economic collapse of 2008 were, literally, left out in the cold. The banks themselves had been largely responsible for the national disaster, what with all the bundling and selling of bad loans to unsuspecting investors as secure investments, yet when the inevitable happened and those who were sold subprime loans found themselves unable to pay, it was all, “Out you go—see ya … buh bye.” Slamming the dinner plate onto my TV tray was becoming a regular occurrence as I watched the nightly news and saw the carnage. For the sake of my own mental health, I knew I had to do something. I booked a commuter flight from Seattle to Oakland to put me in the East Bay on December 6 for an event called, Occupy Foreclosure, which I learned about on Twitter. There were three distinct actions that my friend Laura Koch and I wanted to attend, so we hit the ground running early that morning to get a good start.
The first was a foreclosure auction that was to be conducted on the steps of the County Courthouse, for properties whose owners had fallen into arrears on payments. We arrived on scene to see a couple dozen faces, all whom I recognized from past actions. During my weeks at home, I’d been asking questions of local realtors and county clerks, to be informed that it is often the case that those bidding on the parcels are unaware that the occupants are still residing in the home, having nowhere else to go and no one to turn to. How crappy would that be, I thought, to get a great deal on a foreclosure, and then find out it’s your job to toss the previous owners, along with their furniture and pets, into the street? Some bargain. In most cases, the banks had already agreed in advance to take whatever money the auctioneers could raise, regardless of the balance due on the mortgages, in order to stem their losses. Ironically, this happened routinely in cases of bank foreclosure and it galled me to learn that most lenders steadfastly refused to extend victims the same terms as they readily accepted from buyers at auctions. I learned too, that homes in the East Bay had been particularly susceptible to being “underwater,” as whole neighborhoods of minority buyers were sold subprime notes, then evicted—leaving those who stayed behind to fend for themselves in half-empty blocks of crime-ridden wastelands, where the few lucky ones that had been able to hang on discovered their dwellings were worth only a fraction of what they owed. In fact, banks had preyed disproportionately on people of color, funneling them into higher rates, and less-favorable terms, even when they qualified for much more desirable “prime” mortgages. Those who tried to wait it out until the market turned around were left holding the bag, while once-safe communities turned into havens for drugs and prostitution. A jolly black man emerged from the courthouse, smiling, clipboard in hand, and called out to ask if anyone on the steps was there for the auction. Five or six older white guys raised their hands, along with a young black man of about thirty-five. “Okay, then. Gather ‘round so you can hear me and let’s get started.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Are you the auctioneer?” I asked.
“Yeah, what did you expect?” he chuckled. “A cowboy or something?”
I didn’t admit it, but that’s exactly what I’d expected—not some ordinary, run-of-the-mill guy wearing a navy blue utility jacket. He didn’t even look like he could walk fast, let alone talk fast. At least that’s what auctioneers looked like where I come from. Turquoise and silver bolo ties, fancy Resistol hats, shiny rodeo belt buckles, and polished pointy-toed, leather boots. I liked him, though. He was friendly and had a good attitude, so I almost regretted what we were about to put him through.
“Okay folks, we’re gonna start with item number one on Jackson street … the opening minimum bid is fifty thousand … does anyone want to …”
And all of a sudden we brought out the signs, bells, klackers, whistles, kazoos, tambourines, shakers, and hand drums we’d been hiding beneath our clothing all morning. We began shouting nonsensical gibberish to create a cacophony that would prevent anyone from hearing the auctioneer. One apoplectic guy in a suit raised his hands in the air and began screaming at us to, “Shut the hell up and get the hell outta here!” I could see every capillary in his eyes and it pleased me that he had a dyed comb-over and sort of resembled Donald Trump. The auctioneer tried valiantly to be heard over our clatter, but to no avail. I began singing, “The hills are alive, with the sound of music,” operatically, which actually got him smiling a bit after a brief period of grouchiness. Another guy in a Gore-Tex ski jacket, started kicking the brass plate of an exterior door to get the attention of a security guard inside. “Do something about this!” he screamed through the glass at the guard, who finally stepped outside, after shrugging a few times, apologetically. “Well sir, I can understand how frustrating this is—but they’re actually not doing anything illegal, so …” he trailed off, looking as if he was suppressing laughter.
“What the fuck do you MEAN they’re not doing anything illegal?” he shouted, gesticulating wildly. “They’re stopping us from conducting business here!” I began to compose a song to his rant, “What the fuck do you mean—they’re not doing anything illegal,” I projected, in a vibrato infused soprano voice, to the tune of “Climb Every Mountain,” from the Sound of Music. Soon my fellow protesters tapped in to the fun of singing, versus shouting, gibberish, and someone else began yodeling, while another sang, “High on a hill was a lonely bidder, lay ee odle lay ee odle lay hee hoo.”
The decibel level reached earsplitting volumes as many of us tried not to roll on the floor laughing with the hilarity of the scene. I noticed the lone black bidder, slowly slipping away from us, shaking his head. One of the older white guys followed suit, leaving only three incensed buyers, who
were now screaming hysterically for us to shut up and scram. The auctioneer, who never really did talk any faster than you or I, finally cupped his hands together and screamed, “This auction is cancelled!” and wrote, WE’RE DONE. GOODBYE, on a blank sheet of paper attached to his clipboard, which he held overhead for all of us to see. I caught up to him as he climbed the stairs to an office somewhere inside the building.
“Hey, you were really a good sport out there today, and I want to thank you for not going off on us. It really wasn’t anything personal.”
“No, I didn’t take it like that,” he replied, with the same good humor he’d demonstrated earlier. “I can respect what you all are trying to do. This job is just a temporary gig. It doesn’t pay enough for me to kill myself trying to scream over you guys. I used to make good wages … had a good job. Then everything went downhill and my wife and I lost our house too. I got four kids and I wouldn’t want to see anyone else go through what we went through. I really do hope you get some things done.”
I thanked him and ran down the stairs and outside to meet back up with Laura, who had stopped to talk with the young black bidder that was still standing on the edges of the courtyard, probably hanging around to see what would happen. He listened intently to her as she tried to answer his main question, which had been, “Why did you all come down here and do this?”
Apparently her reply moved him, because when she was done, I saw him bend down and give her an appreciative hug. But I was already off and running up the block to where I could see people holding signs and gathering around an elderly woman who was standing behind a man in a wheelchair, who looked much too fragile to accompany us the three blocks we intended to walk to reach their Chase Bank branch. The man was reaching up from the back of the chair to clasp his wife’s hand as she told us that she’d prayed for a miracle and gotten it when we answered the call. “My husband and I lived in that house for over fifty years and we didn’t know what else to do but call the Occupy when they tried to put us out of it. We had that note paid off for fifteen years before he got sick. So we decided to go over to our bank that we’ve done business with all these years and take out a small mortgage to help us pay our bills. They told us the payments would be low and there wouldn’t be any risk since we still had a lot of equity in the place, so we said okay, and they were low for awhile. But then it adjusted and they doubled, and we just weren’t able to keep up. We didn’t even know it was gonna go up till that happened. We found out later that we had qualified for a fixed rate that we could have afforded, but they didn’t even offer that to us. We had good credit too. Well, then we asked them if they would give us the better rate that we should have gotten in the first place and they said they would. But after that, we could never get ahold of anyone to get the paperwork started. Finally we did find someone to help us fill out the forms, and now they say they can’t find them. We just got an eviction notice in the mail and we’re supposed to be out by next week. So that’s why we got ahold of you.”