Nights in Tents

by Laura Love

  After one of their adult children helped them navigate the Internet, they’d sent an email to Occupy Oakland asking for help. Occupy then contacted a woman from a home foreclosure advocacy group called Just Cause, and they teamed up to put together the day’s action, which was to head over to the couple’s bank and demand they find the missing paperwork and process it. We made our way slowly down the block, surrounding the frail duo on all sides. Both of them had silver white hair that framed their creased, ebony faces beautifully and gave them a leonine aura. When we got to the front doors we stopped briefly to caucus and review our strategy, which was basically to walk into the lobby of the small building and ask for an audience with the branch manager. As we strategized, I looked up for a split second—just in time to see a spry employee in a light blue shirt and tie sprinting from his desk with his hands clutching a ring of keys. Before I knew it, I heard the familiar sound of a metal bolt sliding into place, and we were locked out. The bank closed up shop so they wouldn’t have to deal with us. Most of us were in our forties, fifties, and sixties, save for the couple we were assisting, who were both in their eighties. None of us were carrying anything more threatening than a handmade sign, nor were we dressed menacingly. At best, there were twenty of us, yet they’d felt the need to shut down, rather than discuss what happened to the paperwork and give us some idea how to get the ball rolling again. A few among our ranks tapped on the door and tried to get the attention of the employees who were studiously ignoring us, attending only to the handful of customers they were still waiting on. I watched one being walked behind a wall and realized the teller was ushering her to another exit around the side of the building. As I raced to that exit to intercept them, I dug for my Chase card that still occupied my wallet. The week before, I had planned to join the mass exodus of Americans who switched from corporate banks to credit unions, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I managed to reach the door before the customer did, so I snatched off my hat and eyeglasses and stuffed them in my pocket, praying to be unrecognized by the teller. As the door started to swing open, I grabbed the handle and flashed my bankcard to the teller, who squinted suspiciously at it and then said, “Oh good, you’re not with them.”

  “Huh uh, I just gotta make a deposit now before my checks start bouncing,” I lied. I eased past the guy who’d locked the door on us and deftly slammed my body against it to admit my new friends. A tussle broke out between me and the male employee who pulled against the lever as I pushed to keep it open. He overpowered me quickly, but it was too late. Those of my posse who wanted to get inside were already in, while others shied away from the physical confrontation and chose to remain outside. Eight or nine of us from Occupy/Just Cause stood in a semicircle around the perturbed employee, who still clutched the metal key ring, and we asked him to please let us speak with the branch manager. “Look, she’s upstairs in her office and she can’t come down right now to meet with you,” he said, displeased.

  “Well how about you tell her we’d be happy to go on up to her office and talk with her there, then,” countered a woman from Just Cause, who would not be dissuaded.

  “Ummmm, okay, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  He wheeled around to disappear behind a wall while we awaited his return. We could hear him taking the stairs two by two before the room fell silent. More than ten minutes elapsed before we saw him again, this time with the faintest trace of a smile on his face. “Okay, well … she says she will speak with one of you, if you’d be willing to elect a representative, but she does ask that the others leave the building and wait outside first.”

  I bristled at the idea of surrendering the hard won real estate we were standing on, yet held my tongue as the Just Cause staffers considered the proposal. Soon all heads were nodding in agreement after they chose their lead negotiator. Reluctantly, I accompanied the others back out the same door where I’d almost got my arm pulled out of the socket, and we began our vigil. Time slowed to a crawl as I sat beside the wheelchair and struck up a conversation with the elderly married couple that were still on the sidewalk outside. They gave me more disturbing details of the impending sheriff’s eviction, which made my blood boil, and I peered inside hoping not to lose my temper and throw a brick through the window. I didn’t want them to be huddled outside shuddering in the wind with their creaky old bones pressing up against hard surfaces. They’d worked hard all their lives, survived the horrors of racism in America, saved their money, and finally retired after the kids were grown and the mortgage was paid. The greatest hardship they should have to endure in any single day should have been trying to dislodge purring cats from their laps so they could toddle into the kitchen to brew another pot of tea. Yet, here we were. Luckily our delegate returned before I lost my resolve to remain peaceful, and the words were encouraging. The branch manager had made a few phone calls and magically found the errant loan modification paperwork, after which she agreed to meet with the couple and their Just Cause advocates on Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. the following week. Laura Koch and I jumped up and down, hugged each other, and got in line to embrace the couple who were both crying and saying, “Praise God,” over and over.

  She and I had precious time to rest on our laurels because it was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon and we had to sprint to a home near the BART Fruitvale station in order to honor the last commitment of our day.

  Sheila Newcome was an attractive, fit woman, with a hip, short Afro and an engaging personality. She also possessed a master’s degree in Business Administration which had stood her in good stead until the corporation she worked for downsized and let her go, after fourteen years of exemplary service and positive relations with her coworkers and superiors. The timing could not have been worse, as she’d recently finalized a divorce from her husband, the father of both her children, ages twelve and fourteen. They had purchased a townhouse together over a decade earlier, which the courts awarded her in the parting of ways. Her salary was more than adequate to handle the payment on her own, and she maintained an excellent credit score, never being late on that, or any other financial obligation, even after she became a single mother. She was not unduly concerned about the dismissal—being confident about her qualifications and certain that she had an impressive skill set that would quickly land her into something new. Two years later her savings gone, her 401k plundered, she could no longer afford to make the payment on her townhouse, so she fell behind on her obligation. To make matters worse, the tanking economic climate had gobbled up the equity she’d labored to accrue and made the residence worth many thousands less than she’d originally paid for it, years ago. Undeterred, she maintained a dialogue with her lender who was working with her to modify the loan to reduce the principle balance owed, which would be more in keeping with its current value, as well as to secure a lower interest rate, given that those too had plunged in recent years. Throughout all her tribulations, she continued her tireless search for employment, finally landing a good job, which enabled her to begin catching up on missed payments. She was within two months of accomplishing that goal when she received a notice of foreclosure from the bank, saying she had thirty days to vacate the premises, or her possessions would be placed on the parking strip and eventually taken to the dump if she did not claim them. She made a petrified call to her account manager, who assured her there had been some miscommunication and there was no cause for alarm. He told her to disregard the erroneous message and do nothing. Weeks later, she left for work as usual, leaving both her children to get themselves up and off to the school bus in another hour. Sometime before noon she received a call from a neighbor, who said she was caring for Sheila’s two panic stricken children who were still in their pajamas, having been escorted to the curb by a sheriff’s deputy who’d arrived moments after she left for work, and had his men put everything they owned on the parking strip. As they pleaded with him to let them get dressed and call their mother, he had turned a cold shoulder, rebuffing them with the admonishment, “Your
mom should’ve told you we were coming so you could’ve been ready.” They’d looked on piteously as their belongings were piled up before them, unsure of what to do. A neighbor who had occasionally engaged in small talk with their mother, saw the scene, assessed the situation, and asked the children if they wanted to come inside her unit to call their mother at work. Upon hearing what happened, Sheila left her office early, gathered her sobbing children and paid an unannounced visit to her bank. They told her that the employee she’d been working with was no longer with them, and apologized for any inconvenience that may have caused her. Since that awful day, she’d been forced to relocate her family to her parents basement, which had been overwhelming, costly, and embarrassing. When she was at her wit’s end, she called Occupy Oakland and asked if there was anything they might be able to do to help bring attention to her circumstances and perhaps even help get her house back. There were over two hundred of us who walked from the notorious Fruitvale Station, where Oscar Grant died, to the Newcome Townhouse. Someone unfurled a 10x10 banner that read, WELCOME HOME SHEILA, after which another Occupier produced a set of bolt cutters and removed the lockbox that was suspended from the doorknob. A U-Haul truck pulled up and the driver hopped out of the cab to pull out the long metal ramp stowed in back, and with the help of others, began unloading sturdy, attractive furniture. Sofas, beds, ottomans, tables, chairs—even a number of houseplants and framed paintings soon adorned the living space, which was instantly transformed to a cozy, inviting home that looked as if it had been lived in for years. Sheila, whose features reminded me of a young Gladys Knight, (without the Pips) stood in the front yard, struggling to staunch the tears that were cascading from her eyes. One of the event’s organizers circulated a sign-up sheet asking for volunteers who would be willing to put in four-hour shifts, with a partner, to protect the house from a re-repossession. Police vehicles, inexplicably, maintained a half block distance as several law enforcement and media helicopters hovered over us to monitor our activity. Many of us were weeping as we watched her cross her threshold for the first time in a long while. I wanted badly to be able to stay in town long enough to put in a shift, or at least be on standby to receive an alert text, which would be our signal to get back there in a hurry to thwart another eviction attempt. An overjoyed Sheila agreed with us that it would be best to continue spending nights with her children at her parent’s house, in the short term, until we made inroads with her lender to reverse the foreclosure and halt short sale proceedings.

  When Laura and I returned to her home that evening, we were beaming with pride as we told her wife, Lori, what we’d accomplished. We got there just in time to catch the top story on Channel Two’s eleven o’clock news, which happened to be the auction disruption we’d caused earlier. We jumped up and down with excitement as we picked ourselves out of the small group, and the anchor related how the sale would have to be rescheduled for a future date. Then they cut away to another short video clip of us standing outside bearing signs, which accompanied the story of how we’d shut down a local Chase Bank branch and demanded to have an elderly couple’s loan modification processed. “Oh my God, there you are again!” Gasped Lori. The station then broke away for a commercial, followed by a zoomed-in videotape, taken from a helicopter, of us unloading furniture into Sheila Newcome’s house, with the “WELCOME HOME Sheila” sign hanging in the front. “Look, we’re in this one too!” I squealed, unable to wipe the silly grin off my face. Best day ever.

  Chapter 6

  Occupy the Rose Parade—J2

  Occupy Congress—J17

  Occupy the Supreme Court—J20

  January 2012

  January promised to be an action-packed month, chock-full of opportunities for arrest and incarceration. Reclaiming Sheila Newcome’s home, getting a commitment from Chase Bank to begin the process of renegotiating the elderly couple’s loan, and stopping the foreclosure auction were victories that lifted my spirits and energized me for the ambitious schedule I’d crafted for the next few weeks. After landing at the Burbank airport, I picked up my rental car and began to navigate my way southeast on the freeway to my host house. God bless Mapquest. I’d once more beaten the bushes of my social media accounts to find a home stay right in the heart of Pasadena, at the residence of a liberal couple who somehow, despite their political bent, had done well enough in life to own a beautiful stucco home in a safe, well manicured, upscale neighborhood. Their place wasn’t far from the Rose Parade, which was where we intended to make a big splash this New Year. Dave and Louisa Fertig were Facebook friends of mine who had, years earlier, helped produce a fiftieth anniversary concert I played in Los Angeles, for the now defunct Ashgrove Concert Hall. The venue had earned its place in history by featuring legendary musicians who were also political activists during the Civil Rights Movement. Ed Pearl, owner of the old Ashgrove, was in his late seventies when he asked Dave for a hand with the details of the show. That’s when he and I first met, and I’m guessing I was well behaved enough then, for him to offer me a room in his house, years later, during the city’s high profile annual shindig, The Rose Parade. My purpose was to help orchestrate the Occupation of the nationally televised production, which was as American as apple pie, and to give viewers an alternative perspective to life in paradise.

  When I first laid eyes on their place, I knew I would be comfortable and safe, which was in marked contrast to my challenging tenure at Occupy Oakland. And I owed it all to Dave, who had, some time in his youth, realized there wasn’t much money to be made playing blues harmonica and smoking pot, so he decided to go back to college and become a lawyer, which was his day job. The restorative effects of country living had massaged my senses over the holidays and brought me back to reasonable health. The constant hoarseness, coughing, wheezing, asthma, and sore throat that plagued me ever since being gassed in Oakland, had mostly vanished and faded into the background as each day passed without incident. Invariably, pastoral quietude had given way to the niggling doubt that my country was never going to wake up, right itself, and get back to taking at least minimal care to feed, clothe, shelter, employ, and educate some of the non–rich people who also live here in the land of plenty. And that reprehensible fact was due, at least in part, to my own apathy. Down comforters, flannel sheets, all-wheel drive minivans, data plans, and vacations to Hawaii aren’t what it takes to light a fire under soft, well-fed asses like mine.

  So, this was Pasadena—palm trees, clean, bum-free storefronts, landscaped estates, and plenty of obedient, polite, hard-working Mexicans to keep it that way. I was more than lucky to have found free lodging so close to Rose Bowl Stadium and the parade route. Bonus—Dave was a gourmet chef and loved nothing more than throwing together fabulous healthy meals, chock-full of fresh organic ingredients on a moment’s notice, any day of the week, for anyone in his company. Added bonus; Dave liked to drink expensive, delicious booze—thinking nothing of uncorking stunning, complex, rich, peaty, sixty-year-old bottles of single malt scotch and pouring ample portions into a heavy highball glass, even for the likes of me, who would have been just as happy with a paper sack fifth of cherry Thunderbird and a pickled pigfoot. God Bless America. Dave was also a great, clever conversationalist, in addition to being kind and generous to a fault. Yay.

  Louisa handed me an ornate antique house key before I left to meet with OTRP (Occupy The Rose Parade) planners, and said I could come and go as I pleased, even bemoaning the fact that I’d rented an economy car instead of allowing them to lend me their gorgeous 1962 baby blue Jaguar “that hardly ever got driven,” and was parked “all by its lonesome” in the three-car garage behind the house. What a difference a month makes. They gave me the option of either, joining in whatever they were doing, or not engaging with them at all and giving my full attention to the cause. They even told me I could bring OTRP organizers over and have meetings at their house if I wanted. How in the world had such good-hearted people done so well in such a mercenary, dog-eat-dog world. Not only had
they both landed squarely on their feet in this shi-shi habitat, they still gave a shit about those who hadn’t fared so well. How rare is that. One night after I distributed leaflets for Occupy, Dave (who was the more gregarious of the two) told me of how he’d grown up poor, aimless, and without many extra groceries in his household, before he met the love of his life—Louisa. She had been his salvation, he confessed. She grew up an only child in a stable, well-to-do family and had somehow seen the hidden potential in her inauspicious classmate and fallen madly in love with this intelligent, but ambitionless boy from the wrong side of the tracks. I detected the trace of a smile on her face from the corner of my eye as she quietly knitted, listening to his story. Though lavish parties, extravagant gifts, riding lessons, and sailing trips to exotic places had never been his reality, she had seen beyond her own privilege and chosen him to be her life partner. She readily admitted that part of his allure was the exotic nature of his bohemian world. Her mother wanted, as all mothers do, only the best for her daughter, however, possessed the extraordinary wisdom to go with the flow of this unexpected curve ball and make lemonade out of the lemons that were Dave. Her parents had, in fact, cared so much about Louisa, that they graciously put Dave through law school, employed him in the family business, and gave their cherished daughter their blessing to marry him, only after he had proven his mettle through hard work, dedication, honesty, and sacrifice to the family. So visionary and forward thinking were her parents in predicting the unstoppability of this union, that they had gone to great lengths to groom and make something of this bright, but nowhere-bound lad before they passed into the hereafter, and left the couple the bulk of their estate and this rockin’ crib.