(you can download more occupy posters here.)
thursday afternoon songs: mexico, the staves; the golden age and the silver girl, tyler lyle; you and me and the moon, the magnetic fields; tiny vessels, death cab for cutie; me and you, she and him; foregone, the decemberists; fake tales of san francisco, artic monkeys; walking in los angeles, kate micucci; why you’d want to live here, death cab for cutie.
I’m feeling extremely grateful for my ankle being healed today, especially since I’m mean to it by walking really far and wearing shoes I’m probably not supposed to be wandering in. It feels good to walk somewhere and then decide I’m not done and be able to keep on walking. I am so greedy for New York.
This weekend, I’m heading to Western Mass for From Abortion Rights to Social Justice: Building the Movement for Reproductive Freedom, which is put on by Hampshire College’s Civil Liberties and Public Policy program. (I’m going to tweet as much as I can, if you’re following on Twitter, it’s #clpp2012.) I’m already so glad for this space, for the folks I know will be there who are unapologetic about being pro choice. I read this great quote in a piece by Josey Ross on Gender Focus last week, that has stuck with me and kept me centered in the midst of the crazy bullshit: “Pro-choice is pro-choice. We don’t get to decide which abortions are right and which are wrong. Every abortion a woman chooses in her own best interest is the right abortion.”
That is the beautiful and righteous (is there any other kind?) ruckus I’ll be part of soon, and in the meantime, I’ve been hanging out at Occupy in Union Square, mainly reading pamphlets about anarchist feminism and Tidal and trying not to freak out when I overhear people say things to occupiers like, “Get a job.” (Yes, because jobs are so easy to get, and keep. And building, sustaining and growing a social change movement is not a job. And also, shut up.)
Because of the media, because Union Square is so full of tourists, and because the NYPD is camped out around Occupy as if it were a gun factory full of kindergartners, there are a lot of pictures being taken all the time. There are some people with serious cameras, and others with cell phones and it makes me nervous. I’m reminded of being in Israel, during the summer of 2005, walking in Jerusalem and ending up in the middle of a rally against the disengagement from Gaza. I don’t think I took pictures of it, or at least, I can’t find them if I did, but I remember sitting in the sea of orange ribbons and watching (gaping?) at people praying and crying and being awed by the spectacle of their grief and indignation.
I wish I could tell the difference between the people who mock and exoticize and those with genuine curiosity and the desire to make more art out of the art of revolution. I wish you could see intention on people the way you can see what shoes they’re wearing.