Chapter 7 Tactical Differences
San Francisco 2012
Another endless BART trip. JJ Carlisle sank back in his seat, scuffed sneakers resting on the seat across from him and eyes tracking the fast blinking lights that shot by from the tunnel under the bay. This time of day the car was half empty, no uptight suits giving his shoes on the seat the evil eye, fewer ridiculously young guys frantically zooming through their messages and making him feel lazy and under employed.
He had worked like three ten hour days last week, so enough already. (Fortunately the guys paying him barely had a clue of the work required, so he had stretched the time out quite a bit, but still.) Hard to see how these people could stand it, worrying and fussing over their boss’s expectations and their programming problems day after day.
As for JJ, cash the check, pay the rent, buy some food, and see ya later. No need to struggle toward some status condo in a status neighborhood. He preferred the Mission anyway, and as for having roommates, he’d gotten used it. Better than putting on a tie or working all the time, especially with little damn work to be had.
He was headed toward another meet up in Oakland, one of a competing series held by Occupy and the 99 Percenters splinter group. Somebody’s Twitterfeed had promised that both groups would be in the same area at the same time, and people could meet together afterwards. Assuming anyone was up for hours more discussions on top of what they’d just done. JJ shook his head. Matter of fact, a lot of those guys would love nothing more. Some of them could talk in circles for days if you let them.
He felt most motivated to go to represent the obvious alternative to all the blah blah talking – more action. Not the black bloc anarchist stuff – even the more hard core occupiers questioned some of those motives – but thoughtful and targeted. It was frustrating because he was still on order from everybody involved to sit quietly in the backseat and not call attention to himself. But that ran both counter to who he was and to what was so obviously needed in the movement now. Lack of action threatened to grind the whole thing to a halt.
Already, mainstream news media had turned away. And screw the eager puppy eyed attorneys who were so called advising him, and saying the lack of attention was a good thing for his case. No TV cameras, no reporters, meant they were practically in a vacuum. Trees falling in a forest, 50 people demonstrating, and nobody heard it. Even though the noise was there.
Like this train. JJ became aware of its steady ear splitting buzz as they churned out of the tunnel and rose rapidly above ground. He had ignored it but the racket was there, audible even over his ear buds. Patches of blue sky came into view, in contrast to the fog hanging over the city. It would be good to get outside at least, even for a lot of talk instead of action.
Piling out of the station at City Center, pushing past the slow moving people in his way, JJ felt only a moment’s irritation at the exorbitant cost of BART. He’d heard rumors about a way to hack into the Clipper system; he would feel a lot better about the cost if he could get a piece of that action. But the gathering crowd at Occupy Plaza came into view and he hastened toward it, annoyance forgotten.
Lots of familiar faces, and at least a few people he knew pretty well. Greetings, fist bumps, laughing when one of the guys pretended to knock him down (he assumed another tired joking reference to that bank guy). His phone buzzed, and he checked it: a text from Jenna, the attorney girl, reminding him to “avoid cameras and unwarranted attention.”
JJ raised his head for a moment, searching the crowd. Not to be too paranoid, but was she like stalking him? More likely she’d just seen the same tweets, knew he would be here. All around him, guys were quietly texting. One or two already held phones aloft, filming the small gathering as it grew and spread across the terraced plaza. A bunch of people had brought their signs, never mind that this was supposedly a strategy session, everything from pro-Palestine to stop Keystone pipeline to fuck the rich.
JJ watched more people coming up the escalator from BART, a train from Berkeley, he guessed. Pretty clear which people were headed here and who were local people, quickly steering clear. Seemed like everybody African American took them in with a glance and walked away as fast as possible. This is your problem too, JJ thought, but restrained himself from approaching anyone. That hadn’t been much of a viable strategy even before he was supposed to lay low.
He eased closer to the center of the group, jostling a group of gray haired ladies, total Berkeleyites, who were lugging some giant picnic basket between them. No loudspeakers were allowed, but somebody had a megaphone, and he called in a piercing, scratchy voice, for everyone to gather.
No mike check anymore, JJ noticed. Too time constraining with this many people, sure, although it made the whole thing less democratic. The guys with the megaphone would be controlling the dialogue, that was clear.
“Occupy the plaza,” someone yelled from the back, but others quickly shushed him.
“Here are the topics!” the megaphone boomed. “One, next target areas. Two, reporting from committees on sustainable vision. Three, progress on banks and foreclosures and specifically the houses we are protecting here in Oakland. Four, information technology and social media updates—“
At this, a round of booing and jeers overtook the guy for a moment. JJ watched the dude swallow hard and continue down his list. He had to feel for him a little. Pretty clear he was reading off a list that had taken hours for a dozen or more people to agree to, and he was stuck presenting crap he didn’t agree with either. JJ had been part of numerous arguments about use and abuse of social media, how to draw in the young crowd, generating a non-threatening presence on facebook, preventing twittterfeeds associated with Occupy from advocating violence toward individuals, etc.
Like obviously a lot of people gathered here, he scoffed at the idea of this movement of small d democracy dictating what anyone should post online. Anyway, the older leadership (screw it, he might as well admit there were leaders despite all public claims to the contrary) didn’t get it. They talked about facebook and tweets as if these were something a person did outside of their regular lives, like making a special trip to the library. JJ, aside from actually being closer in age to the leadership, understood it from a younger perspective: using your cell wasn’t something you ever thought about, it was just living. You texted, you checked gps and the time, Yelp, messages, who wanted to hang out, what that movie was you loved in second grade – it was like walking and talking, things you did without thought or analysis. Or some wonk telling you what not to say.
The megaphone traded hands and another dude started reading his dry report. JJ’s attention wandered, soon caught by some kids below him, just at the entrance of the station, tagging with one of those huge markers. Young guys, small, high school or maybe younger – white but dressed like black kids, and drawing those exaggerated letters like street kids.
But JJ would bet they weren’t from here; something about how hard they were trying to look nonchalant. The local kids would mark the wall and be silently gone. These guys paid too much attention to their baggy pants and tried to flash hand signals awkwardly. One even pulled the newest iphone from his pocket and snapped a photo of his handywork, and JJ snorted out loud.
At that point, several middle aged hippie types started scolding the kids, who responded with expletive laden jeers. A voice raised above them, urging everyone to pay attention to the meet up and if the weren’t taking part to at least do it quietly. The central cadre of people, who were grouped around and now avidly shouting their preferences for target areas, ignored the whole thing. But others drifted over. JJ, who hadn’t moved, now stood in the denser part of the crowd.
“Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck private property,” one of the kids yelled. His friends clustered around him, but looked nervous as the group of onlookers grew.
His stance might have been more defensible, JJ thought, if he’d been tagging something polit
ical rather than a large graphic of his own initials. A pair of old women stepped forward, walking right up to the kids. JJ could just hear a bit of what they said, something about respect for other people’s community and how this was public space, that BART was public transit, not a private corporation.
The post-hippies looked annoyed, like they would rather fight their good fight loudly than actually make the kids put down their markers. But that’s what was going down – whatever the senior citizens had to say, it got to the kids. They hustled off toward the back escalator, as fast as their awkward, baggy pants walk would allow.
One of the old people looked up, surveying the crowd. She looked like Amelia, JJ thought. He peered under his sunglasses – that was her, for sure. But seeing her in this context gave him a start, it was just too weird, and he backed away into the crowd. It was like an automatic reaction from childhood to seeing a parental figure: sneak away before you got caught misbehaving. Even though Amelia wasn’t like a real parent, never mind being married to Dad. Or like he was doing anything wrong by being here. In fact, he should be paying more attention.
JJ coolly shoved his way closer to the speakers, where the discussion of potential Occupy targets was still loudly underway. They had a small card table set up in the middle of things, with several people furiously tapping away on tablets or laptops. A solid half of them having wifi issues, from the looks of it, which was causing everyone to repeat their comments multiple times.
“We need a summary, can someone summarize?!” one guy kept yelling.
JJ had arrived right on time, he thought – much rather hear the digested version than all the lame ideas it was generated from. It was pretty clear that so far, they weren’t even ready to winnow down the list, or start analyzing the practicalities, like access and whether there would be immediate arrests. No, the focus was still on the principles involved. Minutia regarding the highest tiers of politically correct concern, which would roughly translate into whether to first focus on the corporate pigs, the largest or nearest or most egregious, or rich individuals who were big private right wing donors.
Or probably a lot of these guys would rather just talk the whole thing out some more. Jesus Christ. Blow off the whole idea of action in favor of another hundred point list to be posted on a website that nobody read.
Finally, one of the note takers stood up and read off the list – the same targets, nothing new. Several people immediately called out specific names of companies, banks, buildings, and that at least got people fired up. But in a flash, the self-appointed leaders, one of whom kept a constant eye on the time, declared they had to cover more topics.
Another guy – JJ recognized him from dozens of meetings and actions – stood and declared that his visioning committee on would cede its time to hear about the foreclosure progress. Something real, he called it, to loud cheers.
“And then let’s actually go there and do something about it!” JJ yelled out, before he could even think about it. Several others chimed in, calling for less talk and more action. JJ, finally, felt some motivation about being here.
More than one person recognized him from the video, JJ realized. One guy nodding too eagerly, a pair of woman glaring, looking ready to tell him off. But the bulk of the crowd was with the talking heads, and most everybody cooled off to listen to some woman talk about legislation on bank foreclosures. Others veered away. JJ noticed a couple guys he knew from other actions slamming back through the crowd toward the federal buildings by the plaza. Easy, if tired old targets. The sign that labeled this Frank Ogawa Plaza had been defaced so many times you could hardly read it. He ambled casually in that direction, telling himself it was just to check it out. In his head he was already explaining to the pro bono lawyers, how he had no intention of getting involved.
It was probably lucky for him that a line of cops was already there. All that would go down was more yelling, that was clear. Or head banging, if someone got too far in their faces. JJ stepped up as far as the first police line and held his ground, but kept quiet. The cops’ faces were hidden behind their head gear. He doubted they could see his face clearly to recognize him, but even so, he had no interest in getting clubbed before anyone even made it to the buildings.
When shouts erupted down the line, JJ, feeling suddenly old and mature, decided just to blend back into the crowd. This wasn’t real action. It looked like someone had maybe thrown an empty coffee cup. There was no coverage, no good target, no real reason other than frustration to try these same buildings again. These were just late comers to the movement, JJ thought. They didn’t care for symbolism at all, they just wanted to break stuff. At least in the F- the Police actions, you got the satisfaction of baiting those trigger happy cops. Instead, he wandered back, where the main part of the group was gathered, still talking over each other.
Some of the guys here, he thought, honestly didn’t see much difference between what was happening here and the Arab Spring. Like their action papers and quiet demos could just bring the system down, make it right. Their demands would lead to closing down the banks and to universal healthcare. While others had no understanding that the actual one percent are pretty much unaware of anything going on without something really extreme to get their attention. What we need is a trigger, JJ thought, to seriously set off the movement.
Farther along, he noticed a funny line of other people holding signs, calling themselves “Stand for Oakland.” They were older, not Berkeley hippies but just normal people, kind of weather beaten. Their signs were crookedly hand drawn, and they were jostling each other, laughing sometimes. A cameraman zipped by, filming them, ignoring the Occupiers. A tall, heavyset woman proclaimed that local citizens were organizing to protect their local small businesses from the protesters.
JJ made himself hold back. He couldn’t tell if it was TV or just some local filmmaker. But figures that 10 people opposing Occupy would draw the attention.
A sudden movement at his side broke his focus. He looked over, surprised to see Amelia heading toward him in as hurried a pace as such an old lady could muster. “Well, JJ, I thought I might find you here,” she exclaimed, as pleasantly as if they had met in Jackie’s parlor for tea.
“Hi,” he said, as usual at a loss for words around his stepmother. “Um, what are you doing here?”
She had come, she explained, with some of her Sierra Club friends. She indicated the little cluster of senior citizens she had broken away from. They had driven over (carpooling, of course) from Orinda to represent the tri-valley at the 99 percent meet up.
JJ nodded, smiling a little at these phrases coming from anyone associated with the family.
“But I must say, I was interested to see this group, this ‘Stand for Oakland,’” she added, nodding toward the rag tag group he had been watching. Some of them were now attempting to march in a circle, while others milled around, getting in the way. One lady had brought a folding chair and sat heavily in it, fanning herself as though the exertion of holding her sign had worn her out. The lady in the chair was dressed up, like she was in church, JJ thought.
“I wonder if they got organized by a local church? They’re not with us,” JJ explained.
Amelia gave that little high pitched laugh she had. “I gathered that, young man,” she said, “seeing as how they’re protesting Occupy Oakland.” Voice lowered, she added, “I don’t think I’d be spilling any secrets if I let you know that most of my colleagues are more sympathetic to their message than to yours. At least as evidenced by the activities in the plaza.”
“Most of us are just talking,” JJ snapped back in defense, never mind that he wished for more action and less talk. “Look at them.”
At this point, you could hardly tell a movement was taking place at all. One group, mostly young guys, the same ones who tended to get on TV, shouted down the cops and darted back and forth in frenzied and unsuccessful forays toward the federal building. The ongo
ing discussion had splintered into several competing sets of people talking loudly, gesticulating. Plus a whole other crowd just roamed, snapping photos or texting. There were more people watching the activists and cops as though it was a reality show than actual activists, and the only cops that even looked interested were the ones who had taken paint balls off a guy and were now happily hustling him towards a squad car.
Amelia shook her head. “Indeed, it’s chaotic and seemingly without goals or direction. Where these folks are pretty clear in wishing to support their local businesses.”
JJ didn’t even know where to begin. “This is like ten people. I mean, there’s nobody here to read their signs—”
“Except for all of us!”
“There’s no media,” JJ continued. “Do they have any message besides a couple signs? Any way to communicate? A twitterfeed, even a facebook page?”
Amelia shook her head, looking sober for the first time since he had spotted her. “I’m afraid you’re right, those certainly are considerations these days. But,” she waved her hand back toward her tri-valley compatriots, “we’ve been discussing the critical need for something that takes a step back from all this, the chaos and violence. A principled non-violent movement to bring attention to inequities. A way to address the most blatant of the problems by legal and political means. And believe me, older folks like us have some serious concerns.”
JJ doubted someone married to his dad could have, like, any inequity problems. Aside from the obvious point that things had been getting worse economically for years. But nobody was capable of doing anything about it through the tired old channels of peaceful protest and bullshit bipartisan law making. JJ tried to phrase this in a politer way, but basically he reiterated that only a massive show of strength and force could bring down Wall Street oligarchs.
Amelia’s friends surrounded them, and JJ suddenly felt freakishly tall. And uncomfortable, the way a bunch of grown ups had always made him feel. But she patted his arm kindly, and said they had to head back. She urged him to find the post meet up gathering, saying perhaps their debate could continue in the context of the two groups hashing out these important differences in tactics.
JJ nodded, saying, “Sure,” as she and the group fluttered off down 12th Street like a flock of bright colored birds. He took a few steps back toward the plaza, glancing back, almost worried that someone would turn back and watch to make sure he returned.
It wasn’t clear which group was which at this point, except for the guys running up against the police, obviously the so called radical element of Occupy. JJ couldn’t really see any point in a bunch more discussions, anyway. He would read what came out of it later. And make his point again and again about action. High minded or sensible or whatever as Amelia was, he seriously doubted the system would ever change due to passive discussions and calm presentations of the problems. Especially considering the gross unfairness already of which entities held all the power.
For now, he was hungry. He cruised around the bulk of the crowd toward the back, where there were often free food stations set up. A simple, meaningful, direct way to get food to the hungry, bypassing external chains and distributing what was here now; Amelia and her gang should check that out.
But the back area was pretty much empty. A few office workers taking smoke breaks, some teenagers hanging around. Recent posters renaming the plaza and been torn down, graffiti cleaned up, the original tent encampment long cleared away. No leftovers from Food Not Bombs, not even a damn hot dog stand. It must be later than he thought.
JJ debated going straight back to the apartment where the food was free between all the stuff Oscar bought in bulk and the others brought back from restaurants. But he wanted something now. Annoyed at the hassle, he walked back out to the street. Away from the plaza and the station, where a lot of the vendors got all chicken shit and left when there was any sort of a demonstration.
The air was warm, the sun beat down, buildings casting sharp shadows and the only noise coming from traffic. Oakland felt different from foggy and people clogged SF, and a block from Occupy felt even more different from being in Oaktown during any demonstration. Down here, people on the street moved languidly. No one in a hurry to be somewhere. Older ladies waited patiently for the bus, as if they hardly expected it, hardly cared if it showed up. Guys half slunk, half swaggered, raising their heads just slightly to assess people nearby.
JJ gave a cool nod to a group of guys clustered by the entrance to a building. Yeah, he was white, but not a cop or a narc. We’re all oppressed here, man, he said in his head. He spotted a sandwich truck farther down the street and headed toward it
The Asian dude running it took his order and his money with no words, not even eye contact. He equally ignored a trio of kids, wannabe gang bangers, who mumbled angrily toward JJ and the truck. One of them, half a head shorter, jerked a shoulder toward JJ, in a veiled, threatening way. JJ didn’t react, didn’t move, just waited for his food. He wished there was some way to get kids like these to understand that they were on the same side, facing the same economic injustices. The same corporate pigs were screwing with all our lives, these kids should be lining up to be part of Occupy, the F- the Police rallies were on their behalf.
JJ watched the kids, darting out to cut across the street at a wide angle, and an old guy sweeping dirt from the front of his shop, pausing when a woman pushed a stroller by. In the distance, a siren rang out – hard to tell if it was reinforcements for the demonstration or just the same old shit of someone getting busted on the street. Nobody else even looked up.