“What are you doing?” asked my little son, as I rescued his plush R2-D2 from the floor where it had fallen.
“I am baking potatoes,” I answered, tucking it in next to him.
“Are you making them for the protestors? Again?” he asked, a whine creeping into his un-napped voice.
“Yes,” I said, and kissed him and turned the bedroom light back off.
I cannot do flash mobs because finding a babysitter at short notice is impossible. I cannot go to the General Assembly because it interferes with bedtime stories.
So I go to Liberty Plaza when I can. I keep a sharpie in my back pocket and a peanut butter sandwich in my diaper bag and two bucks for someone who really needs a cigarette even though I don’t approve.
The Lawyer Guild’s number on my arm is for others to copy, since I can’t get arrested—my little son told me not to as we rode home on the bus today, and I try very hard not to disappoint him on the big things. Getting arrested would be a pretty big thing.
Tomorrow, though, I am going to Zuccotti before he wakes up. I’ve made his lunch for daycare, it’s waiting in the fridge. Dinner is made, too, just in case, and I’ve got a sitter lined up to pick up my older son from school. I don’t know when I’m coming home tomorrow.
I vote, but the choices I have in the voting booth get worse and worse. I donate, but the needs get greater every year.
I don’t have any more money to give, I don’t have any more votes to vote, I am so tired.
My flesh and blood are growing up in a world with fewer resources and greater inequality, and all I have left to give is my body.
So I’m taking it—and 5 pounds of baked potatoes and 3 pounds of apples and as many peanut butter sandwiches as I can carry—to Liberty Square tomorrow.
There I will stand.
It is the biggest thing I have ever done.
For my children.