Nights in Tents

by Laura Love

  Aside from my concern for Pam, which was considerable, I had a second reason for not wishing to be arrested again. I had inhaled a lot of tear gas that afternoon, and on top of the recurring colds and respiratory distress I’d already been experiencing since all the way back in November, I could barely talk, and was also having difficulty breathing. A few weeks before the OPD had arrested a bunch of Occupiers and taken up to six hours to process them, leaving many in a van for a large portion of that time, with the motor running. The exhaust from the vehicle had wafted up from the pipe and into the interior, where some detainees had vomited, passed out, and even had seizures, to the total indifference of the officers, who ignored their pleas while confining them there. I clearly remembered that, during my stay at Alameda County’s Santa Rita jail, some women in my cell had begged officers to release their confiscated prescription medication to them, only to be derided and laughed at. I remembered my cellmate Andrea, being told, “You ain’t got any rights in here—you’re in jail, honey. And you sure ain’t havin’ no medical emergency … ‘cause you ain’t havin’ no seizure.” Apparently, the OPD policy had changed in the ensuing months, to preclude arrestees who actually were having seizures, since they too were now being denied vital medical attention, and I was concerned that I might again land in the emergency room, as I had in December, if they did that to me. I was afraid that if I had an attack, I’d just be allowed to slowly suffocate.

  For those reasons, I decided I’d had enough that day, and though I was loathe to leave my partners, I decided to make my way to the edge of our demonstration, and leave the area as I’d been directed by the OPD. I was about fifteen feet in front of them when I saw a handful of young people pleading with the police to let them disperse. “You just told us to leave, and that’s what we want to do,” one girl wailed. Some cops gazed over the heads of the pleaders, while others turned their faces sideways, but all of them looked elsewhere, refusing to speak, or make eye contact with any of us. In fact, they stood so close together, with their batons resting on their thighs, that passage was virtually impossible. Seeing this, and remembering the snatch-and-pummel technique of the afternoon, I knew not to get any closer, and retreated back into the fold of Occupiers, who were now tightly trapped and clustered amidst the statuary. Seconds later, I began hearing explosions and pops, and saw bright flares illuminating our faces. I was struck by the irony of seeking refuge in the shadows of twenty-five bronze figures, honoring famous civilly disobedient history makers, such as Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Malcom X, Harriet Tubman, and Sojourner Truth. They were looking over me as I was being gassed, grenaded, and shot at by the OPD. This time I was more psychologically prepared for the attack, and wasn’t tempted to scream even once. Instead I looked all around me to select which sculpted hero to hide myself behind. I couldn’t really decide on just one, so I ended up dodging wildly between them, depending on the position of incoming fire.

  I wondered if there wasn’t some sort of law on the books against trapping people and lobbing explosives at them. Just then I heard cheering from the east, where the vacant lot fence that contained us was erected, and saw that someone had either cut or knocked down a large section of it, which allowed us to run through and escape the dragnet. I was somewhere near the middle of the pack, when I saw two people in front of me trip on the chain links and go down as they got entangled in the fence. Others, like me, reacted and tried to avoid crushing them in the stampede. I jumped over one of them and willed myself to stay upright, as I watched them struggle to regain verticality.

  Somehow, we all made it out uninjured, onto the cop-free street, which caused a flurry of excitement as people clapped each other on the back and gave congratulatory hugs to celebrate our narrow escape from the explosions, beatings, and chemicals. I felt giddy to be walking north on a street which didn’t contain a single barricade, as far as the eye could see. We advanced all the way down to Twenty-Fourth Street, then made a right turn and headed east over to Broadway. By this time the cops were following half a block behind us, looking angry as they gestured sharply to one another, and again I felt uneasy. I kept a considerable distance ahead of them, and decided upon a strategy of staying close to Oakfosho, since he seemed to be the teflon don within the movement. Time after time I’d seen him streaming live, inches away from the OPD, filming blatant acts of professional misconduct, and they had, amazingly, never laid a hand on him—never so much as harmed a hair on his head. Spencer’s intelligence and righteousness were undeniable. I’d personally witnessed many citizen journos being grabbed as their equipment was smashed or confiscated, but never had I seen a single officer even try to arrest him, such was the natural authority and charisma of Spencer Mills. I doubted that my proximity to him would save me, but I hoped someone might take note if they did snatch me, and tell my family what happened. More than once I’d watched his coverage from home, and seen Occupiers pushing their faces into his lens to issue warnings to the OPD, such as, “Look here cops, we know you’re monitoring this feed, and we just want to make it clear that if you touch Spencer, it’s on.” This was the kind of admiration and love most of us had for Spencer, who’d become the de facto eyes, ears, and voice of Occupy Oakland. Even folks that expressed jealousy over his newfound fame, were in awe of him. He had a cult of personality that seemed to affect anyone in his sphere of influence, even when he made questionable calls. There was his controversial decision to cover an FTP (Fuck the Police) march, where he shouted, “Hey, stop throwing stuff at the cops from behind me. I believe in nonviolence, and if you throw water bottles at the cops from way in the back, you put all of us up here in jeopardy, and it’s cowardly. If I find out who’s doing it, I’m going to turn the camera on you, because I disagree with what you’re doing.” Some folks had grumbled and lit up the Twitter lines with cries of foul and aiding and abetting the enemy, but few actually turned on him, regardless of their disapproval of his methods in this particular incident. Oakfosho had a presence, on and off camera, that made me feel calmer and safer than when I was outside of his aura. He had over ten thousand Twitter followers (which is huge in Twitterdom) and before streaming the General Strike on November 2, he’d been a gentle, thoughtful, big guy, with a master’s degree in Business Administration, who was underemployed at a twenty-four-hour fitness gym in Oakland, which had barely allowed him to make his nut and pay his bills after graduation. He often said that the gym, although not ideal employment, had allowed him to survive the financial crisis, as well as given him the much-needed impetus to shed a hundred pounds, which had also improved his health and overall outlook. It couldn’t hurt that, in the last three months, since he’d begun covering the revolution, he’d become somewhat of a star—the standard by which all others were being judged. Even major mainstream news channels, CNN and Al Jazeera, had appropriated his publicly available footage in their own coverage of Occupy Oakland.

  At Twenty-Fourth Street, near the YMCA, we made a right onto Broadway. About fifty yards in was a big gang of cops readying for a confrontation. The gym ahead of me on the left was filled with sweaty patrons, working out on exercise machines, behind plate glass windows and entry doors. Straight ahead was a wall of police. On the right were many more buildings with little or no spaces in between. My heart sank as I noticed that police officers were beginning to close in behind us, where we’d just come from, on Broadway. Hundreds of us were being contained and constricted in a choreographed maneuver the Oakland Police Department called, “kettling.”

  Others too, began to diagnose the situation, causing some to crowd, frantically, to the front of the line, and rip open the glass doors before darting wildly through the Y, looking for a rear door to make their escape. From my viewpoint, outside at the bottom of the stairs, I could just make out the backlit form of a muscular black woman with a YMCA T-shirt, as she lunged to the entrance, clawed at her waistband, and yanked off her belt to hold the doors shut against the protesters. Panic broke out on the landing, as I noticed that some of
the shut-outs were women with small children, who’d been with us all day, ever since the frolicsome, family-friendly festivities began that morning. Hundreds of police shields pushed against us on all sides, inciting screams and pleas of, “Let us in,” which fractured the night air, as incredulous gym members took it all in. “You are now ordered to disperse. This street has been declared closed. Failure to comply may result in your arrest,” was the mantra that echoed throughout the enclosure, as I questioned how they could close a street where gym patrons and residents needed to come and go. I stood behind the women and children who were begging to be admitted into the Y, as police officers began infiltrating the crowd, singling out random demonstrators to interfere with. Just as I’d seen a few hours earlier, I saw a baton rising and falling upon the legs of a protester, who was screaming out in pain as he clung to a railing. The sickening thud of the baton hitting his flesh, coupled with the occasional ringing of a missed swing hitting the metal railing, sent the crowd into a desperate, terror-fueled frenzy. People started yelling, “Allow us to disperse … Allow us to disperse,” as those who’d decided to opt out realized they were being prevented by police from leaving the area, as previously ordered.

  A number of sweaty gym members grabbed their towels and beat a hasty exit, while others, sympathetic to the frightened demonstrators, began to negotiate with the belt-wielding employee to allow them passage. I could tell she was getting tired of holding the door shut, and her resolve seemed to be lessening, as Occupiers continued trying to wrench the door open. In the end, exhaustion won out as she loosened her grip and let the belt slither to the ground, and the glass doors were flung violently open to admit us.

  A wave of humanity surged through the doors, and I let myself be carried with the tide into the safety of the multistoried workout facility. People ahead of me ran, willy nilly, toward exits on the first floor, while I chose, randomly, to mount the stairs to the second floor, praying for some handy escape hatch to reveal itself to me. I slowed down at a mezzanine before entering an open space, which was not visible to the floors below. Above me was a jogging track, still being used by a handful of die-hard fitness freaks who were ignoring the mayhem unfolding downstairs—while a few feet in front of me were six or seven women riding exercise bicycles, looking mostly bored, some with magazines perched open on handle bars, as they peddled endlessly, trying to rack up enough calories to earn their freedom. Christ, maybe they really don’t know what’s happening downstairs, I mused, silently. I then gazed down at my own attire and evaluated my chances of passing for one of them. Black stretch pants—good. Athletic looking walking shoes—good. Long sleeved cotton T-shirt covered by a hoody, not so good. Quickly, I removed the hoody and tied it around my waist, preppy style, as I tried to stroll casually past the women to one of the unoccupied bikes. “Hi,” I said warmly to one of them, trying to mirror the same indifference they were showing to the disorder downstairs. It seemed very unlikely that they could not know something was amiss below, even as I began to hear the words, “Submit to arrest” being carried by a bullhorn to my attentive ears. My “hi” was returned by a curt nod, which I feared might indicate that they were on to me. I tried to recall how to operate the electronic cycle from my own days of working out at the Y, back home in West Seattle in the late nineties. To complete the deception, I nonchalantly grabbed a used towel that had been cast aside earlier by a previous cycler, and draped it around my neck.

  Seconds later three or four male protesters, clad in jeans, overcoats, and bandanas, burst into the room with a dozen cops hot on their tails. That got a rise out of the bored bikers, as they all stopped pedaling at once, climbed off the equipment, and wordlessly scurried to the mezzanine exit. I crowded in beside them, trying to affect the same disgusted, horrified glares they possessed as a burly cop intercepted us at the exit. I can’t let you leave the building until we make sure you’re not with them, he shouted, officiously. “Oh my God, we are so not with them,” a petite, put-together blonde spat witheringly at the giant cop, just as his mountainous buddy caught up to us. The two officers stared at each other, momentarily flustered by the cute little impertinent mouth, filled with perfect white teeth that had delivered the sassy rebuke to their massive shaved heads. “Yeah, my husband and kids are probably starving by now,” I added, snottily. My goal was to mimic their perfect blend of contempt and entitlement.

  “Um … wull … um—maybe just walk ‘em through the crowd and get a look at their gym IDs as they head out,” said one. “Yeah, okay,” replied the other, vacuously. Oh no, I thought, there’s no way I can pass this test. Desperate for a miracle, I lined up with the other irritated women. I felt like a complete dick as as we paraded, with our police escort, past my fellow Occupiers, who were sitting on the ground in handcuffs on the mezzanine floor. For an instant, my eyes locked onto those of a protester I recognized, as he sat there, under arrest. This made me feel so rotten, I half hoped he would expose me for the traitor I really was. The officer led us to an emergency exit door, which opened into a landing on the second story. Four women walked ahead of me, into the darkness, with their plastic gym cards held high, so that the cop with the flashlight could take a look. Blondie was just in front of me, looking put out, as she tossed her mane impudently and brandished her membership card like a weapon. The cop’s flashlight had low batteries, and was fairly dim as he stood back a few feet and shone it in our general direction. Though I was trembling inside, I thrust my Visa card out like a pro as I entered the cursed sphere of light, which was about to seal my fate.

  Somehow—someway, the goddess smiled on me at that moment, and I realized I’d passed muster and was walking freely through the street behind the YMCA. I was still unsure of my friend Laura’s whereabouts, so after I put some distance between myself and the scene of the crime, I grabbed my phone and dialed her number. She picked up right away and shrieked, “Hallelujah, you’re safe!” into the phone.

  “Yay, you are too!” I effused back.

  “I guess, I should amend that to, ‘I think you’re safe,’ I mean, are you? You’re not calling me from jail … right?”

  I was pleased as punch to report that I was fine, but got unpleased in a hurry when she described what she was seeing on Oakfosho’s feed. She had wisely left the sculpture park after the entrapment and teargassing began in earnest—so I reunited with her at City Hall and we charged back to her house to get online and see what was going down.

  Spencer had had the extreme good fortune of being plucked out of the kettle by one of his followers, who was monitoring the situation closely from his third-story apartment, which just happened to be a perfect vantage point for him to safely film the action. We watched, aghast, at the numbers of protesters who were being knocked around, shoved to the ground, zip-tied, and arrested at the scene. Oak was saying that he felt certain the arrestees had not been allowed to disperse after the order was given, which had been his, as well as my, experience. He broadcasted late into the night, giving his thoughts and opinions with grace and wit, as he helped us make sense of what was unfolding. When it was all over, more than four hundred marchers had been arrested—most of the crowd—while only a small percentage (myself included) had managed to escape. Of those who did evade capture, nearly all had done so by racing through the Y and bolting out emergency exit doors before the law could catch up to them. I spent the next morning basking in the luxury of being able to look out the window and push the recline button on my economy airline seat back to Seattle.

  Chapter 8

  Doxology

  My first week at OGP had taught me never, ever to be unplugged or out of touch, for even a moment, if I wanted to live through the night, or quickly reach a spontaneous uprising. This was true for every location I Occupied around the country. I’d learned to have at least a 75% charge at bed time, should it be necessary to call someone late and/or apprise my loved ones of urgent developments. I had a love/hate relationship with it, sometimes calling it a “Dread,” others a “
‘Roid.” I loved it for the comfort it gave me, while resenting the intrusion into my privacy and the high-priced monthly data plan. I was alternately disgusted and amazed at all the things it could do. There was an app for everything. I’d even found and downloaded one called, “I’ve Been Arrested,” which automatically notified everyone I pre-flagged on my contact list that I was being hauled off to jail, and to call my attorney ASAP and get me the heck out of there. A cashier at Target had informed me of it, as I bought a tent to live in. She’d shown it to me on her own phone, and I was immediately drawn to the silly bright red animated cartoon logo of handcuffed hands being thrust in the air by a man jumping crazily around as if he’d just been tased. Not only was my phone a safety measure, it also allowed me to keep my finger on the pulse of the Occupy news that was developing rapidly across the country—and the world. Seconds after Marine Scott Olsen uttered his first words following his severe head injury by the OPD, I heard about it, thanks to Twitter. The same with notifications that this encampment or that was scheduled to be demolished anywhere in the United States. By December, my newly acquired tweeting prowess had netted me hundreds of new friends that helped me add words to my vocabulary that I doubt even existed before the Occupy Movement was born. One of those words was dox which I’d not heard before, but was now thinking of constantly and using competently in many of my sentences of late. Now that standoffs with the police were becoming a commonplace experience, I heard the word daily. “Somebody dox that jerk—He’s running down Occupiers and he just clubbed that girl over there with his baton.” Or, “Whoa did you see that cop pepperspray the old dude—Dox his Ass.” And, “I just got that pig on camera planting drugs on that black guy—get his frickin’ badge number so Anonymous can dox him.” The first doxing occurrence that came to my attention was that of UC Davis Campus Police Officer, John Pike. The now infamous story of John Pike leads me to another favorite new term, meme, which was a result of what Officer Pike did on November 22, which caused him not only to be doxed, but then given a starring role in the “meme seen round the world.”