Equality

So, I mentioned in my last post about Jo, the nice lady who chatted with me about Nigeria and who is raising funds for Haitian girls’ education. When she did the traditional, “But what is Occupy Wall Street *about*?” dance (lean in, cock head, lean out… do the hokey pokey…), I said something about economic inequality, possibly even corruption. (Since those are the issues galvanizing the Nigerian protests, it seemed an appropriate response to all sorts of questions that day.)

“Yes, but without the rich we wouldn’t have museums,” she said, and I didn’t know how to answer her succinctly so I shrugged and smiled. I didn’t want to get into a deep conversation on Marx—I don’t know the lingo of labor and exploitation, the careful theories that are beautiful, deilcate constructions in and of themselves. Besides, I worry that I am too top-heavy and awkward and would fall out of them if I tried.

And, honestly, it’s something I’ve thought about, too. I love Art Deco and beautiful artifacts from the past. And usually, the things that are most beautiful and best taken care of are the things left behind by the rich. Problem.

We have Carnegie Hall because Andrew Carnegie had more money than social capital. We have the Chrysler Building because a corporation accrued vast sums of wealth. We have a Tiffany dragonfly hair clip at the Met because someone was rich enough to buy it and bored/savvy enough to donate it to the museum. (Museums are not just funded by the rich, they are filled by the rich: the Met’s furniture section, it has always struck me, is the well-tended attic of the ridiculously wealthy.)

I love the Chrysler Building and Tiffany glass and dark wood furniture and The Metropolitan Museum of Art, with its long list of generous individual and corporate donors on the wall. I do.

But you know what?

For a world closer to just, for a country with less exploitation and a city full of people with more equal opportunities and enough for everybody—enough clean water, air, and food; enough time to dance and snuggle and talk to our neighbors and pursue happiness—I would give up museums.

I would give up the pretty relics of the rich, if it meant we no longer had the hurting, hungry poor.

And you know what else?

We might just find that without one person having access to enough money to build his own hall, one corporation to scrape the sky in steel and glass, that many people together would build wonders; and if we were too ornery to do even that: Our porches the new theaters, our attics the museums, our minds the wonders of the world.

Artists would still band together because we hunger for community and for glory among our peers and our names and works to triumph over death—we would still create beautiful, lasting work—but this time, maybe, our grandchildren could inherit relics of the equal.

I know people suck; and I know that we all do not suck equally. I do not believe that the rich deprived of their money would suck more than a poor person who won the lottery. The rich do not deserve their money... any more than the poor deserve poverty.

We all struggle. But in that equality (of struggle and hunger and blood and fear) is a kind of grace—we are all human, and we as a band of hairless apes with our eyes on the stars do best when we are taught to share and take care of each other’s needs.

I guess it all boils down to I Occupy Because… I want to help; and because I need help. 

Equally.

Nigeria

Thanks to twitter, I found out there was going to be a protest outside the Nigerian Consulate starting Tuesday at noon.

(In case you're not familiar with what's going on there-- I sure wasn't, a week ago-- the government voted to cut the fuel subsidy starting January 1st. That meant that overnight, fuel prices went up 119%. Imagine if fuel prices doubled overnight here. The cost to fill your car, heat and light your home doubled instantly.) This, not surprisingly, caused "mass unrest"... and people started sleeping outside to protest.

If Nigerian people are Occupying, then so am I.

So yesterday morning I made a big batch of chocolate chip banana bread and took markers, twine, and tiny tents to 2nd Ave and 44th Street.

I got there late (the bread took longer to cool than I thought it would), but when I did arrive there were more than 30 ex-pats singing and holding up big homemade signs. A lot of the conversation around me was in... um... Nigerian? (being an ignorant American is sometimes awkward) so I tried to participate in one of the chants but mainly I stood in support. (Though being ProtestMom did come in handy, as I lent both my pens and my notebook to people exchanging contact details, and both markers to people who wanted to make signs.)

It's always interesting at a rally to see who focuses inward and who focuses outward. Since I was more supporter than protestor, I focused outward. Having a short white girl smiling at the passersby might have helped-- I like to think so.

Most people walked past without much comment, but I did talk with Jo, a retiree who has a group of Haitian girls she's trying to get an education for. The amount of money she needs is too little for Clinton's charity or any of the other big ones. She was aware that the Nigerian government was corrupt and hoped that the protesting did some good.

I also spoke briefly with a photographer with blond braids who seemed to be much more knowledgeable about the political situation in Nigeria than me and had a passionate conversation with several of the older men. She got her picture taken with them and they all laughed together. Maybe I can be like her when I grow up. (Turns out, according to her business card, she's actually Professor Susanna J Dodjson BSc (Hons) PHD and she has a website, so she's even more knowledgeable than I assumed.)

Someone gave me a sign to hold, "Fix Our Refineries" and later a gentleman explained to me that if the nationally owned and run refineries were running at full capacity, they wouldn't need to cut the subsidy. To a camera, the same man (he wore a bright purple fuzzy scarf and a smart suit with bow tie, easy to pick out in the crowd) said that there had not been 24 hours when the whole country had electricity. Suddenly the posts about people's generators running (or not) made more sense. When you're personally dependent on fuel for your generators, petrol prices are not just about getting somewhere, they're about lighting and cooling and heating and all the trappings of modernity the modern person needs.

I handed around the banana bread, but I think folks had already eaten and mostly said "Thank you" without taking any. I had to leave around 1:30 to pick up ProtestKid from school, and by then the crowd had doubled and was blocking the entire sidewalk. At least one member of the press was taking pictures, and there were a handful of amateur photographers and cameras documenting the scene.

Later, an OWS eyewitness said the crowd got to be a hundred strong. While I was there two trucks honked in support, one using their air horn and grinning.

The other OWSer stayed long after I did, and he hoped that we could re-use the signs today during the OWS solidarity march (4 pm) and rally (5 pm). I hope someone else brings the markers; the kids need me to be more Mom than Protest today.

On the train back I bumped into someone, and they admired my OWS button and then he said he had an evironmental radio show and that the OWS Sustainability working group were going to be his guests on a future show.

...And of course it's all linked, because he just did a show on solar power, and we wouldn't need fuel subsidies or fracking or all sorts of deeply disturbing power sources if we could harness the sun before we destroy the earth...

Anyway, yea solidarity and yea making connections and finding other people on the same journey.

Poems after following the GA on twitter and the latest Occupied Wall Street Journal post and worrying a lot about race and colonialism

Solidarity

When your eyes run dry,

I will cry for you

If you will hold my hand harder

When I think you want me to go away.

When your stomach is empty,

I will fill it

If you will fill in the gaps

In my clumsy affection.

When you are falling down,

I will hold you in the light

If you will forgive me

For not coming sooner.

And if you cannot do all that,

I will still try to help

As long as someone out there

Still means me, too,

When they talk about 

solidarity.

An injury to one is an injury to all

And I don’t know where to fall

In the middle

On the left

In your face

On my sword

On the edge of the apocalypse

Rock your mic check

And the sweet space

Break it down

Open up

Rain check the sky

Lightning fast

Feel the blast

Fall up into

Apocalypse now

The beginning of the beginning

Shout and murmur and fear and loathing and suspicion and compassion

And all of the ands

Are still words on a page

As we’re living with rage

And the beloved’s betrayal

And all that’s left
In the I of the storm is

Lost

I feel lost without the park.

I started to lose it when the tents went up

And the conversations got squeezed out

And wandered away to 60 Wall…

Suddenly there was a barrier to entry

And I am skittish around barriers.

Who are you keeping out?

…You keep out me, when you draw a line in the sand

Or have a glass ceiling or floor or wall or door

(glass is made up of grains of sand, after all)

I am the unwanted

The uncomfortable

The unrequited lover (who makes a mess but usually means well)

And I love you anyway. And I loved the park.

And I am so sad it is not the place that it was: a place where the boundaries were dropping and I was embraced, taken in and comforted. Fed and warmed and given to… things were mostly given though yes, occasionally taken.

That’s still a better deal than I got outside the park.

So yes, screw us and we multiply. So yes, keep fighting. So yes, take it everywhere and indoors and set the place on fire.

But I am still sad that Bloomberg took my safe space from me, and I am not ready to follow you away from the park. If it is childish to honor a space people suffered to protect and defend, then I am a child listening to stories in the monsterful dark.

Please help me fill the night with stories, the long hard winter with novel ideas. Warm me with your companionship.

Please choose the now-and-future spaces with an eye for height.

Make sure the floors are limitless,

Uncountable

Stories so tall

They can fill a people’s library.

Then there might be room for me to sneak in on a breathless word

Or two.

And find you again.

Love,

alia

News

One reason I’ve been writing up some of my experiences here is that so much of what people who have never visited the park think is True is… well… Not.

And I am sick of people saying Blah Blah Blah is true, ISN’T IT? In this “gotcha” voice they learned from watching reruns of Perry Mason.

I grant you there are shades of grey, but that’s normal life.

Most true-but-unpleasant things that people grab onto can be answered with “The 99% contains douche bags, too.” They/we have never claimed they/we are perfect or even better-than-you—-how could that be possible, when they/we are actively lumping them/ourselves in with Everyone who makes less than $400,000/year? They/we are just trying something different, which they/we hope might serve their/our needs better than the current corrupt systems.

But there are some inaccurate stories that are sticking, so I’m going to make this post about refuting these… misinterpretations of the truth… I expect I will get to add to it on a regular basis, since the stories that the mainstream media tell tend to be so much more thrilling than what’s actually happening/happened.

I do not expect to do it with as much wit and sagacity as the Snopes people, but consider them my inspiration:

The Occupiers hate Jews

OccupyJudaism is an active tweeter on Twitter, with over 1600 followers.

http://gapolitico.com/en/2011/11/16/shabbat-at-occupy-athens/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unk6jjgzTS8 (Shabbat services held at Occupy Wall Street, the 14^th night of the occupation)

Personally, I have seen a pop-up sukhah at Wall Street—it was one of the first tents that went up after the medical tent was rescued by Jesse Jackson (did you see that story? He linked arms with the protestors who had put their bodies between it and the police. Awesomeness: http://animalnewyork.com/2011/10/jesse-jackson-occupies-medical-tent-saves-it-from-being-evicted-by-nypd/)

The Roots of this story probably lie in some of the crazy guys with crazy posters who wander the periphery of the park. If you are familiar with NYC, you know that we have more than our fair share of crazy. The other side of the story is—and more than one occupier told me this story, which isn’t corroboration but it’s good enough for me for now—that the most egregious guy actually got chased out of the park by one of the scrappier protestors.

I am declaring this universal statement False.

The Occupiers hate The Tea Party

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-505245_162-57327548/occupy-memphis-tea-party-members-meet/

In an essay on the early organizers of the occupation, the author mentioned one vocal person who blocked every attempt to reach out to unions because they were afraid that would scare off Tea Partiers, who she saw as a natural ally.

The Roots of this probably lie in the stereotypes:  since The Official Image of the Tea Partier was an old white guy with a gun who hated Obama, and the Official Image of the Occupation is a twenty-something dreadlocked person who eschews violence and loves everybody, yeah—there’s going to be tension there. (See my post called “Tension” on what I think about that.)

My interpretation is that we’ve got some natural suspicion of each other, but—as the article above points out—there are several major issues that we all agree are problems.

Here, look at the pretty picture:

http://www.politico.com/blogs/bensmith/1011/An_Occupy_Wall_StreetTea_Party_Venn_diagram.html

The Occupiers hate the homeless

Ok, so I need some help with this one. First the media sniffs that the Occupiers are a bunch of drug-addicted homeless people who are too dirty to get a job.

Then they scream that the Occupiers are marginalizing and ignoring the drug-addicted and homeless people who are too dirty to get a job.

                I can’t refute it until we work out which argument we’re arguing.

Second, let me remind my gentle reader that, strictly numerically speaking, the 99% includes everyone who makes less than approximately $400,000 a year. So, it includes homeless people, drug addicts, and me. Oh, and douche bags. Mustn’t forget the douche bags! They get everywhere…

Third, I was there one night when protestors were starting to complain that there was a large ex-convict population suddenly and they thought the cops were encouraging them to come here to Liberty Park.  A tall, bright-eyed woman said, “Great, let’s go meet the buses from Riker’s Island! When they get off the bus, let’s sit them down and teach them what we’re about!” She seemed to be positively gleeful at the idea of messing with the expected order of things.

I think the roots of this lie in a deeply misconstrued attempt by the kitchen to slow down one long weekend so that they could re-organize. Before the protest started, the Occupied Kitchen bought lots of peanut butter and jelly and bread. That’s what they expected to live on, along with some judicious dumpster diving.

They didn’t expect me (Ha!) and all the other people around the world who would be showering them with home-cooked food and Occu-pies from Liberattos’ pizza parlor. (Where he had to hire two more cooks to cover all the orders) They weren’t set up for that.

So, several weeks into the occupation they—with enough warning that folks who needed more/other than peanut butter and jelly could try and find other sources of food—slowed down. Regrouped. And then, bang on schedule, went right back to being the biggest soup kitchen in the area serving up hot vegetarian and vegan food to the masses.

Show me the hate, there.

The Occupiers hate cops! They don’t include cops in the 99%!

http://i.imgur.com/K1sTv.jpg (Captain Ray Lewis, formerly of the Philadelphia police)

OccupyPolice has over 4700 followers on twitter.

http://www.occupypolice.org/

Well, cops certainly seem to include themselves with the occupiers.

Not all of them… but hey, there are douche bags everywhere.

Here, for instance… http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/video/2011/nov/18/occupy-oakland-veteran-beaten-police-video

My personal experience: I was nervously unpacking the back of the taxi in front of a parked police car. It was the Friday before the unseasonal snow was forecast, and so I had gone to Costco and bought hats and gloves and wool socks and Hot Pockets in bulk.

We were a little frantic—my driver was very unhappy with the heavy police presence—and the cop leans out of his car and says, “Don’t panic. It’s ok. You need to keep those guys warm!”

And, in all the marches I’ve been a part of, whenever we chant “We are the 99%!” several of us start adding, “And so are you!” as we point to tourists, office workers, and cops.

“We’re here for your pensions!” is also a common phrase.

That’s all I’ve got at the moment. In general, ”Remember the douche bags!” and keep yourself occupied in making the world around you a better, more loving place.

I love you.

Edited to add:
http://www.dailykos.com/story/2011/11/21/1038117/-Some-easy-debate-tips-about-OccupyWallStreet-that-you-can-use-in-the-media-or-at-Thanksgiving-Dinner
...this is useful, too...

http://iamlaurenleonardi.wordpress.com/2011/11/22/how-to-defend-the-occupy-movement-to-your-conservative-family-over-the-holidays/
...and this one!... clearly lots of us had similar brainstorms at the same time. :*)

Edited to add:
So, there's also a meme about the protestors being just a bunch of white guys, and there's "If you aren't a bunch of racists, why do you need a People of Color Caucus?" leading question. My current answer is: hello, racist culture that we are currently living in And Trying To Change.

I mean, it's good that we've got a PoC caucus and a Women's Caucus and so very many working groups whose sole purpose is to make the movement-- and hopefully the world we're moving towards-- a safer space.The problems that some people have the privilege not to notice are being noticed and attempts are being made to solve them.

As a white girl, I don't feel I have the credentials to comment much more than that, but I really like this post about some of it.

Tension

From Twitter: “The vibe at Union Square is calm, not like the tension this morning”

Protesting is intense.

(except when they take our tents. Then it is with/out-tense)

Then the tension is

Between the warm tomato spinach bread I baked the protestors for their breakfast, that I passed over the police barricade snug in Ziploc bags because I was scared to walk between the nameless men in dark uniforms and day-glo vests who guarded the only entrance to Liberty…

…and the cold water I squirted into the throats of the protestors, whose arms were linked in a human chain, backs pressed against each other, facing the future in both directions. Surprisingly cheerful.

The tension in our bodies, responding to shouting and shoving men in dark uniforms. The tension between what we have been told is true and important and what we perceive is true and we feel is important.

The tension between what we have been told democracy looks like, and what we have shown it to be.

Warm bread, cool water. They are important.

 Democracy, freedom, they are important.

Tension in the bowstring, before it is let loose. That is important.

An arrow into the belly of the beast. A thousand arrows let fly.

Ten thousand more to follow.

Sink their teeth into the doughy mass that protects the selfish and the greedy from the natural consequences of their actions.

That is history

Being chewed and swallowed.

The ripping open of history to plunge new words into our mouths so we can speak

Truth.

…then, without any protection…

We are out of tents, out of shelter

Out of bounds and out of breath

From running to catch up with the truth that

Will always be just out of reach—

And we are surprisingly cheerful.

Seth and Marsha and Rivka, too

I am so tired.

I didn’t make my regular food delivery Saturday morning; I was just too tired to do enough dishes I could cook enough to make it worth the cab fare. Plus, my usual crew of helpful scrubbers was unable to come by Friday night, and I couldn’t face 20 pounds of potatoes all by myself.

Slowly Saturday I did one thing and then another, though, and by noon Sunday I had 2 gallons of apple sauce and two boxes of salad fixings and 2.5 gallons of vegetable risotto.

Not before losing my temper (Occupy Hormones), though, and feeling like a heel as I swooped out the door. Have I mentioned lately how I’m human and shit? Yeah. Human. Me.

(shocking, I know…)

Anyway, the cab driver was nice but we had a miscommunication so we managed to go the wrong way for ten extra minutes, and I was just relieved when I finally saw familiar shops. He was willing to pull into the side street though, and helped me unload, so I tipped very well… but I was a little stressed since he made sure to communicate that I had told him to take the wrong turn.

Alll Myyy Faaaauuuult.

Got everything piled up on my handcart, but I hit a pothole and the light was about to change and there was a parent with a stroller trying to make it across so I was a little distracted at the sidewalk ramp—and I ploughed into a cop.

I apologized. She yelled. She yelled a lot. I tried to explain it was an accident and I apologized but she was not interested in hearing my apology. It was so strange—I teach my kids to say I’m sorry and to make it better if they can, whether that’s by kissing or trying to do better the next time. But there was no way to make this better. The cop was angry. At me. I’m really not used to that, you know? I’m little and cute and avoid authority figures whenever possible…

And so I escaped and sniffled my way through almost to the kitchen, and when I was at the last narrow alleyway two guys were lugging a huge open tub filled with dirty water and I had to back up over ground I had worked so hard to cover, and in so doing I stepped onto a tent and…

I broke down. I lost a few seconds.

Then there was Seth, asking if he could give me a hug and a nameless young man who made my cart disappear to the kitchen and stayed with it until I made my graceless and bleary way to it. And Seth took me to Comfort (which now has its own military style tent) so I could unload my huge backpack and put away the hand cart which is a menace but indispensable when I insist on cooking more than I can carry.

And then I talked to Marsha, the first and most- photographed knitting grandma. We agreed that Occupy Hormones was a valid issue and maybe we could bring it to one of the working groups. She made me laugh, and said that it does get easier to let things go once you get through menopause. I am suddenly looking much more forward to the end of all bloodshed.

Then Rivka came up, asking if she could barter with Marsha for a hand-knit thing, as her mother made her something every winter but she died a year ago this coming Wednesday. She said she and her brothers had just been saying, “But who will knit for us?” and she started to wobble a little bit, and I asked if I could give her a hug and she wobbled into my shoulder.

I am still tired. My house is a mess, there is a scandalously large pile of dirty dishes next to the sink… and on the counter… and… yeah. Lots. Just everywhere.

Occupy Wall Street is full of stressed out people—but so is everywhere.

We’re all tired, I think, of DIY.

Here’s to togetherness.

Heroes

I have a letter in a box somewhere from Joe Paterno. It is a very short letter, explaining that while he couldn’t judge a contest my fifth grade class was holding (despite the letter I wrote him in my very best handwriting. I even resorted to outlining some words in magic marker so he would understand how serious our plea was), we should keep rooting for Penn State.

Of course we would root for Penn State, whether he judged us or not. Joe wasn’t a hero to our rural Pennsylvania school; he was a god. For those holdouts who weren’t quite ready to make JoePa divine (How do you know God is a Penn State fan? The sky is blue and white!), he was the patron saint of the clean cut and the pure of heart. If you worked hard and honorably, you too could be admitted into his pantheon at Penn State. In fact, even if you had—like me and my family—only moved to the neighborhood a couple of weeks before school started, the price of admission was low—just come to the homecoming parade and shout, “We are… Penn State!” and a few flecks of his gold dust could land on you.

The all-encompassing nature of Penn State (drinking school with a football problem), was something every Happy Valley resident grappled with. Grange Fair babies in the spring, Nittany Lion traffic in the autumn. You might plan your day around the home games to avoid them or to join them, but you couldn’t ignore them.

In return, JoePa didn’t ignore my colorful letter. I never thought that Joe Paterno, or anyone who grew up to nestle under his tough and leathery wing, could ignore a child being raped in their sacred locker room.

*

As I’ve plunged into the Occupy Wall Street movement, I’ve become open to new realities where riots happen in California and it matters to me. And who gets arrested at my local occupation, through the wonders of the internet and solidarity, matters to people in Egypt and Poughkeepsie.

I admire people who risk their comfort and even their lives in front of riot squads for justice, for democracy, for freedom from fear. They make me tremble; I fear for them, who sacrifice their bodies so their fellow humans can be free. That is grace under fire, that is heroic… but that isn’t me. I can feed them and tweet about them but I cannot be them.

I was, however, Penn State.

Even though I had no special love for sports in general, I admired the things that Joe Pa stood for. If I couldn’t be a football player, I could still work hard and honorably, I could still cheer for the community he created in his image. I could still find pleasure in seeing Penn State sweatshirts and bumper stickers outside of Happy Valley, a spot of familiar blue and white wherever I went. The Penn State football franchise might not have been all that and a bag of chips in my book, but they were alright.

But as the allegations of child rape and systemic cover-ups seep into my consciousness, nothing feels alright. I am brought down to my knees, the ground underneath me shakes. Questioning neo-liberal capitalism is a cakewalk, intellectually, compared to trying to understand how anyone—even Mike McQueary, who enthusiastically shoved nerds into their junior high lockers, way in the way back—could sacrifice a child so Penn State could pretend nothing happened.

There is no honor in that.There is only shame.

When I got the chance to hug Hero Vincent, outside Rafi’s coffee cart in Liberty Plaza, I thanked him for putting himself on the line for my kids. I stuttered awkwardly, then added, “I mean, I know you’re not doing it *for them*…”

He gently interrupted me, “I’m doing it for everybody.”

That’s the thing about heroes—they don’t sacrifice children. They sacrifice themselves.

Now… I am still Penn State, moreso than I realized until this horrific story came out. I still hope that there will somewhere in the tale be a moment of grace, a heroic stand, a person determined and true.

As of now, though, the only comfort I have is remembering that I am not just a “Little Lion” staring up in awe at a parade float majestically passing by. I am also a member of the 99%, working determinedly for a more just society, where anyone can be a hero, but no other person is sacrificed.

May no act of mine bring shame.

Fearless

I am afraid of my shadow

                When it disappears into someone else’s darkness

                And leaves me alone

I am afraid of change

                When it doesn’t come with a power point presentation

                And familiar narrative framework

I am afraid of resistance

                When it doesn’t belong to anyone I know

                And doesn’t care

I am afraid of the police

                When I can’t tell what side of the broken law

                I am on

I am afraid you fearless marchers won’t have room for me in your revolution

                When I open my door

                And put my foot in it.

Poems from the first ten days

I wrote these during the first ten days of the occupation, back when it sounded like we were all looking for demands and not, as it turned out, for each other.

The last one in the series was my favorite, and what I wrote after four Occupiers came to my kitchen and cooked a meal for 200. I brought it to Amy Kitchen Lady, and she read it at the General Assembly the second Thursday of the Occupation. (I was pretty chuffed that my sentiments were echoed in the first Occupied Wall Street Journal, I must say... I wonder if that writer heard my poem, or we just all found the same words for our shared transformation.)

My one demand

Is for a happy ending

Right here, right now.

Allow compassion to surprise

Cops and robber barons both.

Live with it, the staggering heart-ache of

Ever after.

My one demand

Is not to force me to choose between

Dreams and America or between

Death and Taxes.

Let me just breathe a little bit.

Each grateful breath a love letter to the future. My

Child’s birthright is

Liberty, love

And

Solidarity. I will

Shout myself hoarse over and over.  I would rather lose my voice than my freedom.

My one demand is to back

Off. Stop

Telling me what I must pay and what I must sacrifice.

Here is the truth: I am a mommy. I

Eat lies for breakfast and sit patiently until the truth comes.

Resistance is childish.

Sit in time-out until you learn to share properly.

I have

Made my demands in

All the ways they told me to:

Give this candidate money.

Invest your own time: AmeriCorps, phone banks, sign petitions, write letters. VOTE.

No one listened.

Enough with my demands.

This time, I am trying something different.

Helping, marching, shouting, feeding.

At Liberty Square, the 99% are trying something different.

This time, we are listening to each other.

At Liberty to Say

At Liberty to Say

My entire life my country

Has not had room for me and my love.

Any love of country not rooted in distrust of the Other,

The Unloved,

Was mocked and dismissed.

I have questioned my compassion.

I have treated it like a disease or a handicap,

Because my country didn’t want it,

My culture didn’t value it.

In occupied territory

I have found a place where I can love safely,

And my heart is free.

If you look for me at home or at school

If you cannot find me in the gym or at the garden

You will find me

Finally

At Liberty to say

I love my country.

Entry Number One (Day 22 of my personal occupied kitchen)

Today: Boiled 30 eggs. Hopefully will boil 30 more tomorrow. My kitchen was not equipped with feeding the 5000 in mind, and my pots don’t get washed often enough anyway. Thank goodness hardboiled eggs keep.

Going to order ingredients for Iron Pie (ok, it’s a quiche, but doesn’t Iron Pie sound… stronger? More rebellious?) to be delivered not before Friday at 6pm, because I have run out of room in my poor refrigerator.

My husband has always claimed I have a Jewish Grandmother somewhere in my genes, but isn’t it a normal impulse to want to nurture and support those you love with delicious food? And since I love everyone at Liberty Plaza (especially the guy whose plate was filled with, and only with, the salad I delivered yesterday. My salad was competing with cookie dough ice cream-- scooped by a Ben and Jerry's Board member, no less-- and he chose my salad! I love you guys!), I must feed them. All of them.

Ask me how!

Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy, so I’m planning on starting some winter squash risotto as soon as I get Number One Son home from school (3:30). Last batch was great, but I used my stock pot and I reckon it was not more than 50-60 servings. I think if I use my canning tub, I could make more than double that. The question is, can I wash cheesy rice out of the canning tub? …Will let you know more as the glutinous mess develops…

…and my sweet, strong, dashing husband has volunteered to carry the risotto into that dark and stormy night. Protestors, if you see my Giant Red Backpack of Doom on a lost-looking but devilishly handsome English bloke, he’s mine. Please send him back unharmed, and I’ll send you more quiche. (I mean, Iron Pie!)