Nights in Tents

by Laura Love

  “Is there any chance you could get ahold of him to talk with us?” asked Byrum.

  “I’m afraid not,” she dripped, apologetically.

  Barb then turned to face us, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Well, I guess Mr. Bolger is too busy for us today.”

  “Awww,” we chimed, in unison.

  “There you have it,” concluded the Rep. So … thank you all so much for coming, and there’s probably room in the chamber for some of you to sit in on the session if you like.”

  PunkBoy and I turned to exit the office, elbowing each other gleefully about the good fortune to have an invitation to the session. We turned to our choir, who comprised a large portion of the audience, and beckoned them to accompany us up to the balcony. We sat in nervous silence as roll was called, followed by a prayer, which raised eyebrows within our ranks. The prayer leader asked us all to bow our heads in silence, as he prayed to the Lord God for wisdom and guidance in performing his legislative duties. “So much for the separation of church and state,” I whispered to PB. “Right,” he agreed, fixing his camera on the scene. The wooden oak bench seats were far from crowded as I scanned our environs for signs of future trouble. A pasty-faced, plump white guy stood in his security guard uniform, with his head bowed next to the entrance behind me on the right. On my left was a handful of cherubic teens, who were sitting together in their Sunday best, in close proximity to some of our members. After the prayer ended, the man at the podium gestured upward to direct the room’s attention to the young people beside us, who, he reported, had been selected to attend the session as a reward for having distinguished themselves in an interstate choral competition.

  “Maybe they wanna sing with us,” joked PunkBoy under his breath, as we sat poised for our big debut. An appreciative silence fell over the room as the legislators took time for us to reflect on the kids’ achievements. I spotted Lisa Brown looking radiant in a pink blouse and paisley skirt that gave me the courage to proceed. Nervous grins were still frozen on the youngsters’ faces when we seized the moment. “One, two, three …Vagina yeah yeah yeah.” Our voices carried well, enhanced by the natural reverb the aged wood afforded us. All heads in the room whipped around to stare in astonishment at the spectacle. My breathing became labored with the exertion of projecting my vocals, coupled with the extreme energy expenditure of executing the wild gesticulations that accompanied my singing. They were all contributing factors that served to take their toll on my flagging stamina. After the second chorus I glared imploringly at the security guard, who, by that time was doubled over in hysterics, wiping tears from the corner of his eye. I criticized myself, roundly, for not being in better physical shape, as I tried to will the amused employee to draw his gun and shoot me dead, rather than force me to continue the exhausting performance to its conclusion. The guard’s giggling turned to snorting guffaws as he pounded the balcony railing, struggling to straighten himself up and catch his breath. His unexpected reaction, combined with our animated delivery, created a party atmosphere, which prompted some representatives to go as far as to clap when we finished, while many of the older white men greeted our outburst with shaking heads and scowls of disapproval. Spent, I collapsed onto the bench, waiting in vain for the expulsion that never came.

  After resting for a while, we silently communicated with hand signals, and rose as a team to meet outside. Once on the Capitol lawn, we hugged one another and doled out congratulations to each other for our bravery. None of us had expected to get through the whole song, uninterrupted, which contributed to the general merriment we felt. One excited Vaginista pulled me to her and gushed, “Gosh Laura, that was a blast. I had so much fun with you today, and I meant to bring this up to you earlier, but did you ever notice how the phrase, ‘Vaginas are Revolting,’ could maybe be misconstrued by some people.” Her quizzical expression contained not even the slightest hint of playfulness, as it dawned on me that the intentional irony of the double entendre had completely evaded her, so I hid my incredulity and tried to say nothing that would make her feel foolish. Hugs were exchanged before going our separate ways to tell the story to our friends and families. PunkBoy and I drove our rental car back to the nearby home of Yvonne LeFave, who’d graciously volunteered to host us during our stay in Lansing. We tossed back a few beers as she listened, with laughter in her eyes, to our sordid tale. “I just can’t believe Jase didn’t whip out his gavel and pound us out of there,” marveled PunkBoy.

  “Me neither,” I concurred. “But he still doesn’t get it. Maybe we should find out where he lives and take our banner to his house tomorrow.”

  PunkBoy nodded his approval for the deliciously juvenile prank, and the next day we embarked on our journey to the Speaker’s home on 216 Mansion Street, in the neighboring town of Marshall, Michigan. At first I tried to drape the unwieldy cloth over a bush, but a stiff breeze kept dislodging it from its moorings. There were cars in the driveway, which made us both nervous, and the large picture windows in the living room were adorned with lacy curtains, that appeared to part occasionally as we mulled over our options.

  “How about you hang it between the columns on the front porch,” PunkBoy suggested, impishly.

  “I don’t know … his neighbors are probably all watching us, and tons of cars are going by. I bet you anything we’re about to get busted,” I worried.

  “Yeah … well, it’s up to you, my friend.”

  Steeling myself to the risks, I hopped up onto the deck and secured the sheet onto the perfectly spaced supports on the porch. I paused briefly to capture the image on my iphone along with the declaration, “My name is Laura Love, and I just tied that banner [pointing] to Speaker of the House, Jase Bolger,’s actual house! I did that! Vaginas are Revolting! Expect us.” Pleased with myself, I darted back into the driver’s seat of the car, where PunkBoy sat filming the hijinks. “Jeez, whaddya have to do to get arrested in this town!” I squealed mirthfully as we peeled out of the space.

  Chapter 12

  Expect Us

  July 2012—Intentional

  I was still chuckling to myself at home the next week, when I picked up an email from a Michigan newspaper reporter, who had taken the time to jot down the website address I painted on the sheet. I called him back to learn that our mischief had caused quite a stir among republican men in Michigan, who were now calling on their democratic counterparts to draft a formal letter of apology, distancing themselves from the banner prank, which they speculated, might have been instigated by one of them. The democratic reps had bristled at the idea, claiming the allegations to be preposterous and unfounded. One democrat rolled his eyes when talking to a local reporter as he scoffed, “For goodness sake, she gave her name when she posted her video all over the Internet, why don’t they just go after her?” Speaker Jase Bolger was said, by the reporter, to be livid that a woman would have the temerity to violate a man’s private space, impose her beliefs on him, and infringe on his rights. “Well now he knows how it feels!” I shouted, triumphantly, into the phone.

  While the blowback from our Twattergate caper thrilled me no end, it did nothing to ameliorate my fears that the Occupy Movement had seen its greatest days, and the revolution that I’d poured my heart and soul into, was dying. Few of our encampments still remained, having been crushed with overwhelming force that included chemical dispersants, concussion grenades, rubber bullets, armored tanks, helicopters, M-4 assault rifles, inflatable cages, and even an LRAD device. Municipal police departments across the country had thrown everything they had at us. I’d been shocked by the look and feel of modern police forces. We’d been chased, gassed, shot at, kettled, clubbed, cuffed, and caged and we were tired. Some of us were bone weary from the effort.

  The most common police response to Black Bloc anarchist vandalism had been to stand aside and allow the perpetrators to escape, preferring to terrorize and arrest thousands of peaceful protesters instead, often beating them senseless in the process. Infighting had invariably broken out betwe
en divergent factions of Occupy—some insisting on a peaceful movement, while others wanted to employ a diversity of tactics, including destruction of property and other retaliatory measures against police armies and the power elite. Tensions between anarchists and pacifists had reached a fever pitch after the scenario of small groups of Black Bloc rabble rousers drawing firepower to the majority of us began to play itself out over and again across the nation.

  Some live streamers had imploded under the pressure of instant stardom, accompanied by the brutal onslaught of vicious trolls and jealous rivals. Oakfosho vanished entirely from the picture, after having been pilloried by Occupy Oakland members for threatening to turn the camera on them for throwing plastic water bottles at police who were poised to harm us. His trolls had come out of the woodwork with messages like, “Get a job and take a bath,” as well as brutal personal insults, such as, “Hey triple chin, why don’t you put that camera down and go Occupy a salad,” and, “Hey moralfag, you turn us in, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” OccupyFreedomLa had her iphone ripped from her hands by an unknown assailant, who ran through a rally and was never caught. Oakland Elle had been arrested for standing outside a jail and livestreaming while trying to reason with police to release unlawfully detained protesters. Outspoken, informed, intelligent Bella Eiko of Occupy Oakland had made a tearful retreat from political activism, after tweeting messages from a City Council meeting lamenting that Oakland’s plans to institute NYPD-style, “Stop and Frisk” policies would poison the future for her unborn son, who would mature to “match the profile” of the young black men being thrown into prison for life every day in America. Police forces nationwide adopted a “hands off” policy toward the most famous streamers, fearing that all hell would break loose if their army of adoring fans and fellow occupiers saw them roughed up and hauled in. Oakfosho, Punkboy, and Tim Pool(@Timcast) from New York City, were among the superstars of independent journalism who were allowed to operate, largely unscathed, throughout Occupy’s heyday. Their raw footage and unedited comments were a breath of fresh air to activists who were fed up with corporate news coverage, or the lack thereof. Television news networks, such as, FOX, CNN, and MSNBC, had begun complaining they were losing market share to the amateur feeds. They began looking for creative ways to stop the hemorrhaging. Some desperate networks had even resorted to plucking indie footage from the Internet and airing it as their own, since streamers gave unlimited access to viewers and had no copyright protections on their work. But by this time, the cat was out of the bag and we, as consumers, had already tasted the sweet fruit of truth, and many of us were acquiring nearly all of our information from sources unbeholden to corporate bosses. Rumors that lucrative employment offers had been extended to a few wildly popular guerilla journalists were confirmed by those very journalists, who tweeted that they had declined to accept them. Television news programs struggled to remain relevant in light of the reality that some postings by Anonymous were garnering hundreds of thousands and even millions of views as they made their way around a shrinking planet in a matter of seconds.

  Many Anons and other cyber activists that had been apprehended and locked up were now facing years of costly court appearances, as well as lengthy prison time. Government agencies had rounded them up like cattle, in ostentatious displays of force, coming down so hard on them that a few, like Aaron Swartz, would be unable to handle the stress and would take their own lives. The United States Department of Homeland Security proclaimed them a threat to our national interests, and formed special committees to deal with what they were calling “cyber terrorism.” America lost some of her best and brightest minds—talented people, whose extraordinary powers could have just as easily been harnessed to further our own standing in the realm of computer science and Internet technology, had they not been locked up. It is tragic to consider that many of these brilliant young citizens concluded that their government had so betrayed them, they were better served by risking everything and working against it rather than for it.

  College students had been assaulted, handcuffed, and pepper sprayed at close range by campus police, for daring to sit their ground and plead with wealthy chancellors to consider their plight. They asked these officials, who all too often did double duty on the boards of major financial institutions, to recognize that they held their futures in their hands. They took their case directly to the wealthy decision makers, who controlled their fate, asking them to understand how the skyrocketing tuitions that lined their pockets, acted also to saddle the young students with unpayable debt and severely limit their choices.

  At several points during and after my tenure with the Occupy Movement, I’d been gripped by several crises of confidence. As I lay in a Seattle emergency room, unable to talk or sing, inhaling steroids and laboring to breathe, after OPD tear gas triggered an unshakeable asthma attack, I wondered if it was worth it. As I tuned in to one of my favorites, #OO’s Bella Eiko, crying pitifully after revealing that what little money she earned working three jobs, had gone toward her cell phone bill and its costly data plan, which allowed her to livestream color commentary of the revolution, and I wondered if it was worth it. She implored anyone who watched her fiery, gritty street coverage, to send any sum of money to help cover some of her other financial obligations that month. By her own admission, her phone had become one of her most precious possessions, so she had prioritized that bill over others, because livestreaming had been the only thing that enabled her to keep her sanity in a world of eroding rights, extreme wealth inequality, legalized racism, wholesale planetary destruction, and vanishing freedoms. It was almost more than I could bear, listening to her explain how, although she put in over forty work hours each week, she still did not have the funds to continue her education, pay her student loans, put gas in her dying automobile, pay rent, or buy health care.

  A number of my favorite activists had dropped everything to jump into the Occupy Movement. Some had immersed themselves so deeply in the culture that they’d foregone all other pursuits. One such person was a woman named Amber Lyon, who was reputed to have quit her high-paying day job as a CNN correspondent to hit the streets with little more than her iphone and a Ustream account. But these defections from civilized society—these elopements from obedience, did not come without heavy psychological consequences. During one particular Ustream broadcast, Oakfosho looked as if he was on the verge of tears as he read the same chat line comments we too could plainly see, questioning his motives and making fun of his weight. Though he showed a fierce indifference to peril when confronting out-of-control cops delivering savage blows to dissenters, I knew from closely monitoring him, that he was also emotionally fragile, and ill-equipped to bounce back easily from the hate-filled remarks. His backstory included graduating with honors from a California University after obtaining a master’s degree in Business Administration, only to find himself drowning in debt, stuck in a low-paying service job, unsure of himself, and depressingly overweight. He’d pulled himself, up by his bootstraps and started exercising in earnest at a local gym, spending nearly every non-work moment running laps and pumping iron. His affability, unfailing kindness, and dogged determination to get physically fit had gotten the attention of the facility’s manager, who encouraged Spencer to apply for a job opening that they’d recently posted. His effort and dedication paid off, and he was able to shed nearly a hundred pounds before paying a visit to the Occupy Oakland encampment. He arrived at Oscar Grant Plaza shortly after Marine Scott Olsen made headlines by narrowly surviving the impact of the exploding tear gas canister, maliciously thrown by the OPD.

  Prior to that, his main online presence had been as a rabid sports fan. Most of his Internet communications had been focused on lively discourse around his beloved Oakland Raiders and athletics. Spencer Mills instantly demonstrated himself to be a knowledgeable, caring, intuitive journalist, and became famous overnight after his first Occupy Oakland broadcast on November 2, 2011, the day of the General Strike/Port shutdo
wn. He’d been bowled over by the unanticipated reception, and recoiled from the harsh glare of the spotlight that seemed to give others license to take cruel potshots and throw flaming daggers at him. The blows had taken a huge toll on his public and private life, prompting him to abandon his routine, and eventually causing him to regain the weight he’d so painstakingly lost. Ultimately, the online battering wounded him, despite repeated warnings by friends and admirers alike, for everyone to simply focus on the revolution and ignore the critics. “Don’t Feed the Trolls” became the mantra of many #OO followers, urging everyone on board not to encourage the haters by responding to their taunts, even in defense of our dear comrade, whose name had become synonymous with Occupy Oakland. The pressure levelled him and sent him staggering for the shelter of his former life. I had to force myself to accept his decision to leave and not beg him to return. As I watched him dive back into the world of debating the merits of professional sports teams, I felt hollow and jealous, as if those players had somehow stolen my hero from me. I fought the selfish compulsion to call him up and tell him how much more we needed him than they did—to remind him how few sports teams there would even be to watch if we allowed the 1% to continue robbing us blind and fracking the planet to smithereens. It was almost as if he’d died. I cursed myself for once thinking that it would almost be better if he had died. At least we wouldn’t be left with all these unanswered questions about why he dropped out of our revolution. But hard as his departure had been to accept, it was much easier than reading the sad, defeated tweets coming from his Twitter account in response to other fans who had not resisted the temptation to throw themselves at his feet and wrap their arms around his ankles pleading with him to come back. His life was in shambles and his heart was broken. In the end, his legions of friends and fans had not been able to lift him out of the abyss. He was done.