We rode 22 hours straight from Minnesota to D.C., hoping that if enough members of the 99 percent came, we could have an impact on our nation’s capital. It was 55 degrees and sunny on Tuesday, Jan. 10. Our spirits were high. We met at the White House and joined the other tourists at the MLK and FDR memorials. We watched the sunset over the Tidal Basin from the bridge, then ate dinner in Chinatown. We slept in an eight-person suite at the Hotel Harrington. I was lucky enough to share a bed. Several others found spaces on the floor, happy to be inside for a change.
The Occupy D.C. camp at Freedom Plaza was lined with multicolored tents and filled with concerned citizens trying to make a change and stand up for justice. Many joined the rally and march at Lafayette Park to demonstrate the shame of 10 years of torture at Guantanamo Bay prison. Amnesty International provided 171 orange jumpsuits and black hoods to represent the attire of the detainees. We brought about 20 from Minnesota, and others had their own. The solemn line of orange ants was long and dramatic.
My group left before I could make it back, but we said our goodbyes with cellphones and texts. I stayed to join the Occupation movement with Bob Palmer, a fellow Minnesotan who is known as the “Redwood Hippie.”
It was too rainy and dark to set up tents, but we were invited to join one of the original tents that was pitched at the start of the Occupation on Oct. 1. It sat upon pallets and was large enough to sleep eight. Once again, I was one of the lucky ones to get a mattress, sandwiched between two warm bodies.
The orange jumpsuit, although wet, provided extra protection from the cold. The rain and wind lasted until morning. I was lucky to be next to a funny man who managed to make me laugh through the night. There were two larger Army tents, one for food, the other a general assembly media center where we could charge our phones and cameras and check emails.
The hot meal of chicken, mashed potatoes and veggie salad was the first time I ate all day. I devoured it like a starving dog. Once again, my thoughts turned to those trapped at Gitmo and wondered how hungry they must be. The next day, there was no breakfast because of the endless bickering in the kitchen of the tent.
I wondered how many of us traveling from afar were tempted to turn around and go home because of the hostility of the leaders; those in charge were closed to any suggestions. I joined a group that walked to superior court, where several from the Occupation were ordered to appear for disrupting the proceedings of Congress. Free speech? I was left behind and waited for five hours where we were supposed to meet. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or worried.
Again, as I offered a smile and the peace sign to every passer-by, people returned a blank stare of emptiness. The many panhandlers drained me of every dollar. The escalating discouragement rattled deep in my soul. My friends abandoned me.
I was lost and alone. I could not hold back my tears. A friend, Ramon, who lived nearby was unable to console me. Exhausted beyond words, I paid $160 for a single bed and collapsed, still fully dressed, on the hard, crusty, ugly bedspread, thinking I would take a hot bath after a needed nap.
I slept until I was awakened by the front desk clerk, inquiring if I was staying another night. It was 1:30, and I answered that I was leaving in the morning. She said checkout time was noon. I was annoyed. What was the problem? She said it was 1:30 p.m., not 1:30 a.m. I had slept for 20 hours straight! Goodbye, long hot bath that I had paid an extra $20 for. Hello, streets of D.C.
I went back to the Occupation Camp, where I heard the bickering continue nonstop. I offered to help with the dishes when the call for dishwashers was made. I waited for an hour, being told “10 more minutes” five times. I left for a meeting at the other Occupation site at McPherson Square, but it was too cold and windy, so we moved to a nearby McDonald’s where we were allowed to meet at the upstairs tables if we ordered food.
I bought a McDouble and fries and was relieved that the meeting was actually organized and interesting. I was told there were basement sleeping quarters at St. Stephen’s Church and took a long bus ride to get there. The accommodations were no longer available so I had to pay a cab to get back to Freedom Plaza. The nice taxi driver was willing to accept my last $11 cash. I was offered a collapsed tent for the night.
Despite the rain, the rally and the marches exceeded expectations. We trailed from the White House to the Supreme Court singlefile in silence with our hands clasped behind our backs. I could barely see through the black hood, and it was difficult to breathe – even more so when wet. This was nothing compared to the cruelty of waterboarding, and I drew strength from knowing what the detainees have endured a million times more.
I lost track of those in my Minnesota group, starting in the middle and checking to the back. The rowdies at the end of the line shouted profanities and disrupted the point of our demonstration. I asked one of them if he was paid to make us all look bad or if he was an a****** for free. He said he was a war veteran and EMT firefighter. I said, “Then you should know better.”
As I progressed forward to the front, I watched the faces of those watching us. They were all curious and some showed us their support, but most had empty stares, spooky like a crowd of zombies from a horror movie. I wondered who played a greater role in this tragedy.
Again I could not sleep and reluctantly left the security of the group to take a walk. The first person I met gave me a bright smile and asked if I would join him for a meal. He called me “pretty lady” and although I knew he probably said that to all women he encountered, I appreciated the compliment, especially considering how my recent ordeals took a tremendous toll on my appearance.
He was an attractive young man named Charles and continued to flirt, though I surmised he was young enough to be my son. I felt safe for some odd reason, and we continued to talk and walk around the block. I was very impressed by his cheerfulness despite his many hardships in life. Charles was not ashamed to admit that he was recently released from two and a half years in prison and had lived in the streets before and after that.
He made me laugh at his stories, never blaming anyone but himself for his troubles. Walking in the darkness, we passed many pathetic bundles of homeless men and women. When he pointed out a collapsed figure I realized the person was dead. Charles refused to believe me and tried too long to wake up the dead man. I called 911. The sirens and flashing lights filled the cold street.
The filthy form of a real dead person broke my heart. I cried out, “Look at all these buildings; why was there no space for this lost soul?” Charles was able to comfort me into calmness, something only my deceased husband, Joe, was able to do. I realized his gentle eyes looked just like Joe’s, full of concern and compassion. I melted into his arms until my sobs subsided and my hot tears stopped flowing, I asked him to stay with me. I could not face being alone yet.
We continued to walk all through the night, and he showed the level of his intelligence and sensitivity toward everyone.
The light of morning glowed in his face, and I could not resist his kiss. His gentle lips were charged with intensity, and I found myself feeling things that I thought were long dead. We went to a nearby McDonald’s for coffee; it was filled with only the homeless in that early hour. We sat at a table with two of Charles’ friends, David and Solomon. I was moved to buy us all breakfast; it was worth every penny it cost me. David was obviously mentally ill, and he spoke like a rapper who could easily make a hit.
Solomon was quiet next to me but could answer my questions with short, profound remarks. Charles looked even more handsome in the bright fluorescent lights. I pulled a little $4 Etch-a-Sketch from my purse and wrote “Charles” and a heart on the screen. He tried to return the gesture with blocks and was a fast learner when I explained how. Solomon watched me with envy, so I handed the Etch-a-Sketch to him, but could not get it back. He stopped his loud ramblings and concentrated on drawing. He drew a perfect maze and smiled as if it were a masterpiece. I was so moved that I gave him the Etch-a-Sketch. He lit up like a Christmas tree.
This was the second time I experienced the magic of giving my Etch-a-Sketch to someone less fortunate. The last time, I was forced to give away my only Christmas present (I counted the days until I got it from Santa) to a homeless family my dad encountered. The little girl was my age and loved it even more than me. Thank you, Daddy, for giving me that valuable lesson on the happiness of giving.
Charles took me by the hand and showed me D.C. from his eyes. Together we held a funeral for the dead man that brought us mutual passion. Detective Williams called me back to tell me the man’s name was Dwight Brown, but they were unable to find out any more. Charles thought he looked black, but I could tell he was white with a dirty, dark face. We got another larger sleeping room at the Hotel Harrington and invited his street friends and mine from the Occupation, who had not slept in a nice bed for a long time. We provided pizza and chicken wings, and the Crum Bakery delivered a huge $40 cupcake decorated with sprinkles with the words “R.I.P. Dwight” on top. It was also Sara’s 27th birthday, so the celebration of life and death became one. Everyone took turns bathing in hot water, coming out clean and refreshed. We all slept well that night. Again every penny I spent was rewarded a hundredfold.
After checkout time, I met with family living nearby, and Charles went to a planned football playoff party with friends. Our plans to reunite at 3:30 went awry, and the mutual confusion caused us both anxiety and doubts. We managed to find each other again and spent the night alone together in a single room. The pleasures we enjoyed that night will last a lifetime!
The next day was MLK Day. We ate, listened to music, and watched dancing in front of the MLK Library, where finally I could see friendly faces in D.C. Charles helped me set up my tent, but among my crowd he was not comfortable. He slipped away into the night despite my begging for him to stay. It was another long, cold night in D.C.
