Episode 17: Zuccotti Park

I turned 40 in New York. It was February 2012 and I was almost a month into a year of living on the road, hopping from bus to bus, station to station, and, when I was fortunate, couch to couch. Luckily, I had friends in New York – dear friends from my teaching days who were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Part of the reason I wanted to go to New York during what's arguably one of the least hospitable seasons was because of a not-too-old argument with my ex about the Occupy Movement and wanting to be involved. We were living in rural Illinois, up in Mount Carroll, where she worked at a well-regarded summer stock theater and I had talked my way into writing for one of the local newspapers and had developed a reputation for both creative word-smithing and for not caring much about people's feelings. All journalists – all the ones worth paying attention to, anyway – have always been muckrakers. In spite of the mythic reputation of the press having been unbiased once upon a time, real journalists, from Ida B. Wells to Woodward and Bernstein, have been muckrakers. And regardless of the also mythic wholesome nothingness of small town life, the fact is that small towns are probably rife with more intrigue than anyone one wants to admit... including small town folks who cling to the idea that theirs is a removed and idyllic life.

But I wanted a change. I felt like if I could just find The Big Story to write, then maybe I could find a larger audience and a larger voice. And as I watched the Occupy movement take shape, I realized two things:

• that I agreed with and wanted to be involved with the Occupy movement; and
• that I could write about it in a way that I wasn't seeing anywhere.

I mentioned this to my then-wife in passing. She responded in a non-committal way, which she normally did when she hoped I would “come to my senses” on my own. I started making plans anyway. But when I brought it up again, her reaction was not nearly so non-committal. It had nothing to do with any philosophical disagreement she might have had with Occupy movement, and not any concerns involving my personal safety. Mostly it boiled down to “because” I think, since she had already moved on by that point and just hadn't decided to let me in on it. So, I didn't go. And when I saw that the cops had cleared Zuccotti Park in a midnight blitzkrieg, I knew I wouldn't get my chance.

My friends in New York, Susan and Steve, HAD spent time at the camp, participating in conversations, meditations, activist writing circles, and in the general life of the camp. They lived in Queens, though, so they were able home to their own bed at night. I mentioned to them that I had wanted to be there but had missed the mark, so Susan offered to take me to Zuccotti Park

For those who don't know, Zuccotti Park – formerly known as Liberty Park – lives in the shadow of the World Trade Center. In 2012, the 9/11 monument wasn't completed, but they had already finished rebuilding Tower 7. The odd dark alley known as Wall Street was behind Zuccotti Park, and it reminded me of a medieval castle. All brick and stone. No windows. I understand that some of the buildings have gardens on top so that the movers and large scale pick-pockets can view something green on the rare occasion they breathe unfiltered air. But to be honest, neither of those things was the first thing I noticed.

The first thing I noticed was the police tower.

Susan told me the excuse for the tower was protection. There were reports of problems in the camp. Theft. Reports of women being attacked. Media painted it all as one more part of a public nuisance. Statements from the Occupy movement claimed the people responsible were outsiders coming in to take advantage of the situation. The calls to clear the camp were growing at about the same pace as support for the movement was.

Then it was gone. And the only thing left behind was the police tower – the evidence and proof of political power, buckled square the shadows of Wall Street and new Tower 7. The the intestinal pit of America's greed and the echo of an American tragedy we will never live down. Scattered around Zuccotti Park, the statues commemorating 9/11 victims were witness everything – a movement that wanted to smash the status quo, but that couldn't escape its own trendiness and the beginnings of hashtag culture, and a financial empire that grows unimpeded under the watchful eye of a police watchtower.

I remember feeling like I lost something. My marriage was over. The story I wanted to live and to tell was gone. And more than that, WE lost something. The Occupy movement still existed, but they were lost in their own rules of internal engagement and infighting over priorities. The distance from force for change to a late night joke footnote is the edge of a police barricade. The good news is that the energy for change never goes away; it just changes direction, form, and sometimes identity.

Thanks so much for listening to Episode 17 of a Record of a Pair of Well-Worn Traveling boots. Please be sure to show some love by subscribing to this podcast on ITunes, Spotify, or whatever pod catcher you use. Check out the past episodes and look for Episode 18 in two weeks.

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Thanks again for listening. May the road always rise to meet your feet.