It was quiet in Zuccotti Park during the days before the reckoning. These
were the halcyon times, shortly before the Mayor and his minions brought down the hammer, transforming tent city into a demilitarized zone … a deflated wasteland of anger, resentment and fear.
This was way back in the waning days of October, just before the winds of change blew cold, and the sense of impending doom grew pungent. It would be fair to say that – by then – Occupy Wall Street had already exceeded any and all reasonable expectations, for the simple reason that – from the outset – there really were no expectations … just a swarming cluster of ne’er-do-wells, who most pundits assumed were either too young, too smug, or too green to take this thing where it needed to go.
It was difficult to process everything that was going on down in Zuccotti Park during those days. I mean, don’t get me wrong … there were certain truths that were held to be self-evident. One walk across the courtyard was enough to differentiate the emerging leaders from the babbling stragglers, just as one day spent bouncing ’round the perimeter provided a pretty clear sense of which protesters were peddling their own agenda, and which ones were peddling something else entirely.
But once you got beyond that, what you were left with was a boatload of questions with no immediate answers in sight.
What was the end game here? How did the Occupy movement plan to achieve all of its objectives? What exactly were those objectives? What would ultimately need to happen in order for the movement to consider itself a success? A failure? How long could Occupy continue to sustain itself in this manner? Was there anyone associated with the movement who radiated enough sheen and polish to engage the public, connecting the dots between corporate fascism and the ultimate failure of our healthcare, housing, credit, welfare, education, and political systems? Who on earth was the lucky bastard who owned the vending cart at the corner of Broadway and Liberty? And, while we’re at it, who was that mingy dude on the north side of the park, dressed up like an Imperial Trooper?
Like I said, it was a lot to process. But one thing was absolutely clear: Zuccotti Park was the beginning of something … something David Carr of the New York Times very eloquently referred to as “a reflection of the frustration a lot of people in this country have been feeling for quite some time now,” when I ran into him over by the drum circle on afternoon during the early days of October.
By the end of October, the Occupy movement had achieved a momentum all its own. Protesters were taking to public squares, college campuses, and corporate meccas all across the country, urging compassion and reform … refusing to back down, even in the face of blinding tear gas, plastic bullets, and a steady stream of pepper spray potent enough to bring down a raging elephant.
If history was any indication, people could draw two inevitable conclusions from everything they’d seen up to that point:
- Things would most assuredly get worse before they got any better, and
- Somehow, some way, things would eventually get better.
In the meantime, we – as a society – would be the beneficiaries of better music, stronger journalism, and a fierce presidential campaign that cut through and clarified once and for all just how stern the corporate death grip on our political infrastructure really was.
This is what it means to live during interesting times, my friends.
This is what it means to assume an active role in your democracy.
***
The more time I spent in Zuccotti Park, the easier it became to sympathize – one way or another – with just about every walk of life I encountered there … from the idealistic college kids, who were far more interested in tuning in and turning on than they were about the consequences of ditching the Fall semester, to the disenfranchised elders, many of whom had either been here before or never really left. And then, of course, there were the NYPD officers, most of whom stood stone-faced and silent as leagues of misguided protesters railed against them in terms unfit for the scurviest of knaves.
Once an hour, every officer in Zuccotti would convene at the northeast corner of the park, before snaking their way through the denizens of Liberty Plaza in a single-file show of force. This was meant as a deterrent … nothing more. And despite the fact the cops weren’t invasive in any way, they were regularly peppered with vulgar insults and idle threats.
Case in point: On the afternoon of Thursday, October 6th, I witnessed one specific officer wander over to the protesters repeatedly – engaging them in conversation, asking how they were holding up, inquiring about whether 
there was anything they needed, etc.
This guy was the budding liaison, the favorite uncle, the patron saint of protests, if you will. He was there on a goodwill mission to promote peace between the rival factions.
So you can imagine my surprise upon witnessing the reaction – or lack thereof – of a rosy-cheeked red-head manning the free-lit table whenever the aforementioned officer approached her to say hello. On one occasion, she shifted in her seat to avoid making direct eye contact. On another, she snapped her neck back and sneered at him with such vile contempt it set him rolling back on his heels.
“Fuck off,” she said, before vacating her post in an exaggerated huff.
The vitriol was so blatant and palpable that it compelled a nearby tourist to ask, “Did she just say what I think she said? … WOW!” then again, this time with feeling. “Seriously … WOW!”
I mean, what else can you say, right?
I suppose when the tension rises, compassion tends to blur, and it becomes difficult to differentiate the battle lines from the common ground. Regardless of where one’s allegiance lies, there will always be chains of command to consider, unwritten rules to observe, and an unspeakable pressure to either fall in line or out of favor.
Still, from where I was standing, it seemed pretty clear the NYPD was on hand as much for the protesters’ protection as it was for public precaution. Does that mean there wasn’t the occasional bare-knuckle beat-down or gratuitous baton-bashing? Of course not … no more than it means there wasn’t the occasional vagrant shitting on a squad car or pissing in the gas tank.
In fact, at one point I spent a whole night scrolling through YouTube videos in search of all the illicit shit people were up to down there. As one might assume, it didn’t take long for me to come upon the now-infamous video of NYPD Inspector Anthony Bologna (AKA Tony Boloni), indiscriminately firing pepper spray into the eyes of protesters as if it were silly string. This occurred on the afternoon of September 24th, during an organized march from Liberty Plaza to Union Square. Somewhere around East 12th Street, The NYPD used several feet of neon-orange netting to “kettle” the protesters, thereby rendering them immobile – trapped like lemmings in a life-size lobster trap.
When the pepper started flying, protesters scurried like cockroaches, taking cover in every available corner, crevice or alleyway they could find. Left alone in the center of the kettle were four female protesters – reeling in a blind panic, literally uncertain what had just hit them.
The first protester collapsed in a heap, both hands glued to her face. The second went wheeling backward, eager for a wall or a pole to cling to. The third – a rosy-cheeked red-head in a green shirt and black bandana – stood bawling her eyes out in crazed disbelief. The fourth was a rail-thin brunette, who had dropped to her knees in a rabid state of fear and shock.
“Why? … Why? … Why?” the brunette wailed. Then again, this time with feeling, “WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?”
I mean, what else could she say, right?
In fact,maybe that’s been the problem all along: Far too many people saying “WOW!”, far too few asking “WHY?”
(Bob Hill is a writer for hire who lives and plays in New York City. He is also the Founder of IFearBrooklyn – a limited liability company that does absolutely nothing. He can be reached at BobHill@IFearBrooklyn.com).