Nights in Tents

by Laura Love

  “Oh, is it not legal to take pictures here?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

  “I’m asking you the questions right now, and you need to tell me why you’re taking pictures of me and not the building.” Another of the several officers within view strolled over to us and stood beside my interrogator.

  “What’s up?” he asked his colleague.

  “This lady’s taking pictures of me and I was just about to ask her if she was with the protesters we’re supposed to have coming in today.” My stomach churned as I watched a tiny smirk pass between the two of them.

  “Well, are you going to answer him?” said the second officer, hostilely. I hadn’t anticipated having two men cradling assault rifles putting me through a battery of questions concerning my political affiliations and intentions before even reaching the South Lawn of the Capitol. Part of me wanted to proudly proclaim my alliance with Occupy Congress, while the other envisioned being blown to bits on the spot and bundled into a vehicle which would whisk me away to swim with the fishes at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, if I admitted it. “Oh, is there a rally or something going on here today?” I asked, innocently. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Lady?” came the sarcastic response from number one, reminding me how much I hated to be called, “Lady,” by anyone, for any reason. “Look, you can go, but we better not see you later with those Occupy protesters—got it?” I swallowed my fury and my pride as I answered, “Got it. Have a nice day fellas.”

  Once I put some distance between us and stopped shaking, I decided to go have a cup of coffee somewhere, before making another stab at congregating on the South Lawn. I vowed to break my habit of arriving early to big political protests. As a single person, I’d be a lot better off waiting until more people showed up before I made my entrance. It was 10:00 a.m. before Twitter and Facebook convinced me the crowd was large enough to venture out again. I’m sure the owners of the cafe were glad to see me go occupy something else besides the two-top I’d monopolized for the last two hours. I dropped some ones into the tip jar as I headed out for the South Lawn.

  West Coast homies were a welcome sight as I drew near the congregation on the South Lawn of the Capitol Building. FUCK YOU MCCONGRESS was painted across the face of a sixteen-foot banner being hoisted by a rebellious brigade of youths. Many like sentiments were in abundance on the signage being carried around the grounds. By early afternoon a row of cops lined both sides of the concrete pavillion that led to the steps of Congress. Those who had “legitimate business”(as determined by the police) inside the building were permitted to walk the gauntlet between the protesters who lined both sides of the walk. Some brave souls made a stab at crashing through the human chain of officers in order to reach the wide set of stone steps leading to a long row of entry doors at the top.

  Guy Fawkes mask–wearing demonstrators yelled at police to let us into the Capitol, which they argued, was “ours anyway.” They were shouting that our business was just as legitimate as that of the lawmakers, whom we elected into office, and were not doing the job we appointed them to do. “You work for us, jerks,” and, “Who do you protect- Who do you serve?” came the frequent taunts. A group of twenty or so agitators did manage to break through the phalanx of cops and they bounded up the stairs, only to be turned away by a row of admirably restrained, black shirt patrolman at the top, who brought all but the most combative back to the group unharmed. One of the local organizers of Occupy Congress took that opportunity to mic check the crowd and school us on regional differences in policing practices.

  “I know that there are lots of people here from cities like Oakland and Chicago.” (Repeat). “Who are used to getting the living shit beat out of them on a daily basis.”(Repeat). “But please know that our cops in DC, have actually been pretty decent to Occupiers.”(Repeat). “As a matter of fact, they’ve allowed us to have two encampments right here in the city.”(Repeat). “For which we are very grateful.” (Repeat). “So … let’s not make this a personal vendetta against the cops today—”(Repeat). “But rather, an indictment on how fucked up our government has become.” (Repeat). An outburst of applause, hoots, and twinkle fingers erupted all around me. “So let’s remember—It’s corporate greed and the co-optation of our elected officials that brought us here today.”(Repeat). More riotous applause. After that, all three thousand of us downshifted to low gear and reined ourselves in throughout the rest of the day. I got up and sang some songs, while some folks went to the offices of their home state senators, only to find that most had either purposely bailed on Occupy, or were otherwise indisposed and unable to meet with their constituents. Although, one Republican Senator from a Southern state had been caught completely off guard by a group of Occupiers who had stormed past his quaking intern and asked him a barrage of questions about why he hadn’t done more to stop foreclosures in his state and protect the environment, amidst a barrage of other accusations. “Who in God’s name let you people in here?” he roared. “I’m not going to sit here and have a bunch of hoodlums break into my office and put me on trial—that’s not how this works!” he fumed, before ordering his aide to call security. For the rest of the afternoon and on into dusk, the catchphrase around the soggy Capitol lawn became, “Who in God’s name let you people in here!” Which never failed to elicit peals of laughter from those hearing the tale, as told by the proud “hoodlums” who’d knocked the legislator off his game.

  Still three thousand strong, we lingered on after darkness fell on that chilly, dreary day, relieved, only occasionally, by bursts of sun, before returning to the dense, wet air which clung to us all. We planned to circle the Capitol Building and disrupt traffic, when a group of mavericks broke off from us and began sprinting toward the Supreme Court, which lies just east of the Capitol. The officers who had hemmed us in on both sides were unprepared for the sudden detour, which forced them to chase after us, as we stormed past them and overwhelmed the thin row of guards who stood at the entrance to the Supreme Court steps. Clearly, no one had planned for this, as confirmed by the sudden breakdown in police communication. In no time, we swarmed every square inch of the stairs, right up to the classic marble Corinthian columns which held up the magnificent edifice. I admired the building’s lovely lines, even as I hastened to avoid arrest or injury. It was Chief Justice William Howard Taft who had been given the task of selecting a designer for the nation’s highest courthouse. Sixteen years earlier, he had served four uncomfortable years as the twenty-seventh president of the United States, from 1909 to 1913. It was his assertion that a governing body as large and important as the Supreme Court ought to have its own building, apart from others in Washington, so, in 1929, he hired noted architect Cass Gilbert, who’d already achieved accolades for designing New York City’s Woolworth Building. I was aware that Taft’s presidency had not gone particularly well and that he’d spent the majority of his time in office hiding from the cruel public eye and enduring endless criticisms about his excessive weight and general lack of competence or ambition, but I was glad he got this one thing right. Even though he’d been hand selected by a wildly popular president, Theodore Roosevelt, to be his successor, he was not well-liked, and the stresses of his duties caused him to balloon to epic proportions, finally topping out at nearly 350 pounds—no doubt to the dismay of those who were once famously summoned to liberate him from a White House bathtub, which he is said to have become stuck in while in office. Sadly, neither Taft nor Gilbert lived to see the finished product, which was a shame, because the building really was gorgeous.

  As if scripted, a unison call arose from those on the landing at the top of the stairs:

  “MONEY IS … ,” which was answered by, “NOT FREE SPEECH.”

  And then: “COR—PORATIONS … ,” answered by: “ARE NOT PEOPLE.”

  The chant began echoing everywhere and my heart began to beat wildly in my chest. A woman I didn’t know placed her arm around my waist to the right side, while a man’s hand found my own
on the left. My eyes locked onto those of chanting strangers all around me and I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. Others around me were crying too as thousands of us held onto each other and mourned the loss of our democracy.

  By this time police were doing little to subdue us and merely stood on the edges of the courthouse, settling for being bystanders after losing their tactical advantage. Before long, another chant began to replace the first one. “TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE.” Small groups of protesters began descending the steps to enter the streets below, carving out a route down Pennsylvania Avenue which would lead us directly to the Obama White House. Many more police vehicles and personnel arrived shortly on the scene to escort us and direct traffic around us, since the rush hour commute had not yet ended. A light drizzle began as we snarled traffic for blocks, amid flashing lights, sirens, bullhorns, and commuter chaos. My position in the procession allowed me to see that a bottleneck was forming about a block ahead.

  As I got closer I saw large clusters of people pausing to face the Newseum Building, at 555 Pennsylvania Avenue. Together they were reading aloud the words of the First Amendment to the Constitution, which were carved on the front. “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” As my group formed, we too began to read the powerful words before us.

  Our ranks became much less boisterous, even somber after the benediction of reading the First Amendment, and we continued to walk in near silence toward the White House. Our numbers had swelled by hundreds by the time we huddled in front of the President’s residence, and someone began to pass a megaphone around so that those who wanted to could tell us what had brought them there that night. “My name is LeeAnn Bryce,” said a bedraggled woman with a pronounced drawl. “And I don’t—excuse my French—fucking understand why I had to come all the way from Kentucky to ask this bullshit, do-nothing, Congress to get off their ass and help me take care of my elderly, sick parents, who got robbed of their pensions and their life savings, by the banks.” She passed the megaphone on as she stepped down from her perch alongside the wrought iron gates that protect the occupants of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Some voices were strident, others matter of fact—but all were grievously wounded as they enumerated their dissatisfaction with Washington that night. A handful of people began distributing plain white folded cards with hearts and strings attached along with little yellow pencils. “Fill these out with your request to our President,” came the instructions from one. “And after you’re done, tie the card to the gate for him to read, please.” The river of people became strangely quiet for awhile when we noticed a row of black cars entering the White House from a side door that was just barely in our line of sight. Some began to speculate we might be granted a personal audience with the president as the atmosphere became abuzz with excitement at the prospect.

  Again, as if preordained, one individual began a chant that caught on like wildfire and filled the air for blocks: OBAMA, COME OUT—WE’VE GOT SOME STUFF TO TALK ABOUT … OBAMA, COME OUT—WE’VE GOT SOME STUFF TO TALK ABOUT …” resounded all around me for a full ten minutes before beginning to die down. Then we all got silent, still holding out hope that the Commander-in-Chief might make an appearance. Moments later a slight young man with a booming voice took the megaphone and began to address us. “My sources tell me that …” he began, as others reflexively took up the human microphone system to get the message to the back. It struck me as odd to be hearing the words, “my sources tell me that,” coming from a scruffy kid who looked neither old—nor connected—enough to have “sources” of any kind, save perhaps his mother. “… the president has just left the building,” (disappointed “awwwws”) “… because I guess it’s like, Michelle’s birthday today.” A smattering of applause broke out from well-wishing Occupiers. “Okay … so, my sources also tell me that the President and the First Lady are, at this very minute, dining at a restaurant right down the street that way [pointing], which we happened to have passed on our way over here.” This revelation, whether accurate or not, caused quite a stir, as we began chattering excitedly in response to the news. “So like, I guess we’ve all got a big decision to make here … ,” he continued, almost playfully, “… about whether we take our protest over there …” he said, pointing again to the restaurant, “possibly ruining the First Lady’s special dinner on her special day with her husband—or decide we’ve done enough for tonight and call it good for now.” We debated the relative merits of each path amongst ourselves. Then, as if by decree, we began to quietly disperse ourselves into the darkness and back to the places we’d chosen to bed down. As far as I know, not one of us chose to disrupt the sanctity of their date on that frigid January 17 night. I hope the first couple had a wonderful romantic evening, and I wonder if she’ll ever know how close she came to not getting to blow out all of her candles.

  Three days later, I was again making my way toward the I-495 Beltway and Capitol Hill, to officially Occupy the Supreme Court of the United States. The daily rehearsals had gone well, and though I only had one spoken line in the skit, my big feature was to be the song I was scheduled to belt out at the end. During the previous day’s practice session, five of us had crammed into my rental car to execute a thrilling guerilla “screening” on the side of the Courthouse. Armed with an industrial-strength film projector, two of the guys in our group somehow managed to put the materials together to project the words, WELCOME TO THE SUPREME KOCH, in giant neon green letters, all over the front of Cass Gilbert’s masterpiece. Some homebound commuters got a kick out of the sight, honking and waving as they drove past. We tittered like teenagers from inside the car while watching the reactions of Washingtonians observing our handiwork. A few tickled travelers went so far as to jump out of their cars and snap photos before peeling off, in stitches. Almost fifteen delirious minutes passed before two officers on foot walked purposefully toward our car from half a block away. We were prepared for that eventuality, and alerted our video men, who scrambled to pack up the works before giving me the go ahead to drive off. That next morning as I donned my black robe costume, I wondered if any official laws against projecting images onto government buildings existed on the books in that town.

  As for my role in the first skit, I was to play the part of a good-natured, albeit gullible, middle-aged housewife, (think Edith Bunker if you go back that far) who is taking a guided tour through the Supreme Court as a first time visitor to our Nation’s Capitol from somewhere in the Midwest. Our performance took place on a rented, portable, sixteen-by-sixteen, elevated, plywood stage.

  “So, ladies and gentleman … here we are at the highest court in our land where the most important decisions we face as a nation are made by the men and women and corporations who represent us within these hallowed walls.”

  “Excuse me, Ma’am … ,” a gentleman from our “tour group” asked our guide, “did you just say, ‘corporations’ who represent us within these walls?”

  “Why yes, yes I did,” she replied gaily, before continuing her narration. “Yes, as a matter of fact, in a recent five to four decision, by this very court, [pointing behind her to the actual Supreme Court which was in plain view across the street] major multinational corporations were granted ‘personhood’ status, which allows them to contribute as much money as they like to any campaign they please, to influence the outcome of any election they have a ‘personal’ [wink, nudge] interest in.”

  “Wait a minute … ,” my character interjected, “does that mean that corporations can actually buy elections now?” I asked incredulously.

  “Why yes—yes it does,” replied our tour guide, still gay as ever, as she continued her explanation of the Citizen’s United decision. She then burst into a song which was deftly accompanied by a pianist who sat o
ffstage. The tune was a parody rendition of Sesame Street’s, “One of These Things is Not Like the Other” game.

  “Three of these things belong together/Three of these things are one in the same. If you guess which things belong with the others/You’ll know how to play our game. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. If you guess which thing is not like the others/you can help me sing this song.”

  Then a “postal employee” walked out in uniform, followed by a doctor wearing a stethoscope and white coat, next came a teacher with chalk and an eraser. The fourth character to enter the stage was a walking skyscraper, covered with corporate logos (Monsanto, BP, Chevron, BofA, Exxon, Wells Fargo, Smith and Wesson), as it was rolled in on a flat cart. At the end of her song, the tour guide grabbed her wooden pointer and asked a man in the tour if he could guess which thing didn’t belong with the other. He guessed wrong three times, making moronic comments all the while, before being stopped by the guide, who said, “Oh … I’m sorry contestants, but those were great answers. Give yourselves a big round of applause folks.” She then placed the tip of her pointer on the top of the cardboard building saying, “I know this game is really hard—but here’s your answer.” She burst into another merry song. “This is the thing that’s not like the others/ This is the thing that isn’t the same. Maybe tomorrow we’ll sing together/When it’s time to play our game. We’ll find the thing that’s not like the others/We’ll find the thing that doesn’t belong. We can all play and try together/When it’s time to sing this song.”

  Our audience of passersby and journalists provided us with plenty of laughs as we quickly exited the stage to put on our robes in preparation for the next performance. In that skit, I was one of nine Supreme Court Justice look-alikes who had formed a garage band called The Supremes. I tried to look Sotomayor-ish as I sang parody lyrics to a song originally recorded by Aretha Franklin called, “Chain of Fools.” It began with a chorus of: