The beginning is near

It’s not hard to feel that some new beginning is near in Union Square Park on May 1, Occupy May Day, with thousands of Occupy Wall Streeters, union workers and leaders, immigrant workers groups, the unemployed, and senior citizens squeezed into the park, several waving “The Beginning Is Near” signs.

There must have been 1,000 cops on the ground, in vehicles in the streets, creating havoc for 14^th Street traffic. Choppers were overhead; one big double prop, silver copter, stationary at maybe three thousand feet, the director’s copter, calling the shots from above, to create a general feeling of surveillance, along with the noise and what’s in store for those soon to march soon to Foley Square, then Zuccotti park, penned in most of the way, including parents with baby carriages.

I stood inside the steel matrix already in place in the park, contemplating a bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi, in his dhoti, carrying his staff, wearing spectacles, the bald pate, slender body striding towards freedom in his campaign of civil disobedience against the British Empire, the icon of freedom now and forever. The freedom that cost him his life, taken by a Hindu nationalist who felt resentful at what he perceived was Gandhi’s sympathy for India’s Muslims. Even non-violent protest takes its toll of the best and bravest.

And once more Union Square was the meeting place, often the battleground for this historic event. Wiki writes, “Union Square is, and was, a frequent gathering point for radicals of all stripes to make speeches or demonstrate.”

In addition to Union Square, all over the world, May 1 was being celebrated as International Workers Day. May Day also represented the reemergence of the Occupy movement with special events in cities around America.

Alternet.org reported, “Festive, Righteous Anger”: Occupy Makes a May Day Comeback with Massive Demonstrations. You could cut that anger in the air with a knife, and the fear of being mauled by Mayor Bloomberg’s goon-squad. The mayor keeps comparing Occupy Wall Street to the Vietnam protestors, but he doesn’t get points for that. In his radio broadcast, he claimed he had flat feet and got a 1Y exemption from the War. Yet, he still praises the Vets and the lousy treatment they received, but lambasts the Occupy Wall Streeters for protesting. In his day, he said, there was no such thing. So, bottom line, he did nothing to slow the killing of 58,000 US soldiers and two million Vietnamese.

Apropos of Bloomy, I’m trying to figure out what the overtime will cost for this boondoggle, a million bucks or two. And this when teachers are still being fired, schools closed, others privatized, and too many kids squeezed into classrooms. And while all kinds of people are out of work, the various labor unions protested the government’s failed attempts to create them and speeches boomed through the loud speakers, asking for the participants to act up. At the same time, shoppers on 14^th Street blithely went about accumulating their purchases, something OWS had asked people not to do.

International May Day was being celebrated in Russia as well and round the world with varying degrees of peace and violence, and a call here for kids to cut school and protest, no shopping, banking, but to boom the combative message into the thick sunshiny air that we are the 99% and the goons here and on Wall Street are the 1%.

On a more diplomatic note, I sauntered up to three cops leaning on a fence and asked one, a well-built black cop, “Excuse me, officer, but how do you guys feel about all this?” Automatically, a slender white cop leaning on the black iron railing says, “It’s a beautiful day.” “Yeah, it is,” I say. “But I mean do you identify with these people at all?” All three: “No way.” “No, you don’t, even as brothers and sisters who ride the subway to work and back with you every day?” The black cop smiles, feeling I’m trying to lead him somewhere . . . and I am.

The next question forming in my mind is, “Do you realize you’re just a budget cut away from joining them.” But some little voice in me says, “Don’t, please, don’t say it, you’ll get frigging tased.” So I don’t. And I give them a little bio: “Look, I’m a 73-year-old guy, not looking for trouble. I’ve got a 3-year old grandson, three grown kids. I mean these kids are not bad kids, not bad people. They’re just frustrated about not having jobs, big bills from college debt, poor healthcare, and the Wall Street guys getting away with murder making money. But basically, they’re good people. They’re not perps. And even if you have to go at them, go easy. Like I said, they’re good people.” By now I realize I’ve worn out my welcome. The cop that said the “Beautiful day line” is sneering. So I offer him my hand. He takes it, we shake. “Have a good day” I say, just as some kids pass with a sign reading “Fuck the Cops.” Oh well, the best laid intentions . . .

They nod and I’m off sauntering about in circles through the metal-fence matrix, looking at a couple on the ground with a sign, kissing for love, wearing out their lips doing it. The people around me come in white, olive, tan, brown, black skin, in all kinds of get-ups from jeans to costumes of the Statue of Liberty with a sad face. The drums in the background are starting to rhythmically rumble. People are practicing marching.

The white-shirted, tie-wearing officers are on the phone. It is going to be a long day, I think. I turned to a guy with white hair and a red baseball cap and said, “Hey, didn’t I see you on Channel One this morning; they interviewed you.” “Yeah, they did,” he answers. “So, how’s it going?” “Well, I gotta go hydrate myself, excuse me.” He drifts into the matrix as well. It seems more difficult to talk to strangers than at most of these meetings. The uptight level is higher.

But, what the hell, I think, I pushed my own misgivings aside to be here, and said, “Jesus, it’s only a demonstration, what’s gonna happen,” and came down here from the Upper West Side, made a few friends on the subway coming down. Asking for directions always helps. “Excuse me, sir, does this train stop at Union Square.” “Yeah, it does,” as the train rolls right through the 42^nd street station without stopping. “Hey, I wanted that train,” he says. “Me, too, but nothing works right when they have a demonstration. The cops clog up the trains.” “Where are they having a what?” “A demonstration, they’re having one at Union Square. I tell you I lived here all my life, I’ve never seen it like this before.” “Yeah, you said it.” “Here comes another train,” and we split literally into separate cars.

I get on and ask a young black woman, “Does this train go to 14^th Street?” She says “I’m not sure, I’ll check the map.” “It’s okay.” I say, the conductor says, “Nexstop, fourteentstreet.” We smile at each other. “Thanks for your help,” I say. And she smiles. And that’s how I got here. Now that I’ve arrived, I’m very happy to be showing my face and self among the thousands. There’s so much you can do writing and so much you have to do actually being there or wherever the action is. People can be beautiful.

Here’s another sample linked for you of a speaker, the crowds, and the joy on their faces. The speeches reel off, drums play; the crowds echo lines in response to the speaker. It’s a wonderful uplifting feeling, a melding of colors, cultures, and causes, all under the Occupy Wall Street banner. Let’s tell the world about the crooked bankers, the 1%, and the 99% of the working class people that need redress. We’ve seen the enemy and it’s them. Now let’s do what we need to do.

Unfortunately, the day proceeded with a skirmish with the cops around Eighth Street as the march rolled out. A policeman got his finger bitten. And it ended with some 30,000 thousand estimated marchers by evening. . And later there are skirmishes at JPMorganChase and on Pearl Street, with cops simply throwing people to the ground, including a well-dressed man. Nothing without great labor and suffering I guess. But in between was the pleasure of being alive and protesting in whatever way you can.

Check the alter.net org piece for some of the violence that occurred in Oakland and San Francisco.

I landed on a crowded subway back uptown to home, feeling better that I showed my face. The Beginning is here.

Jerry Mazza is a freelance writer, life-long resident of New York City. An EBook version of his book of poems “State Of Shock,” on 9/11 and its after effects is now available at Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com. He has also written hundreds of articles on politics and government as Associate Editor of Intrepid Report (formerly Online Journal). Reach him at gvmaz@verizon.net.