Trying to make sense of the Occupy Wall Street protests

For two days I immersed myself in the strange and thought-provoking subculture that is forming in Zuccotti Park, where the protests started, and tried and make sense of it all. Here’s some of what I found.

This is the first in a series of columns about the Occupy Wall Street protests written by Chris J. Minnick.

NEW YORK CITY – I came to New York with starry eyes. Not for the bright lights of Broadway or to find myself lost in the bogus image of a vibrant melting pot that was promised to me on an episode of Friends. To me, New York is the epicenter of innovation and insurrection, so it’s not surprising to me that the Occupy Wall Street protests started here.

Living 2,100 miles away, the only way to see the protests in New York is in two-minute increments through the polished lens of the national news media. Over the years I have lost my faith in national and cable news media, which has become an industry ruled by silicone breasts and amateurish egomaniacs that often seem as if they don’t even understand the words they read off their crutches (known as teleprompters in the biz).

I had to see for myself if this protest is what I have been waiting for… someone finally standing up against the vicious cycle of hatred and greed that started as far back as when I was wearing parachute pants. Or is this just another invented sideshow, the next OJ Simpson, Y2K, Casey Anthony, or whatever watered-down version of “news” the mainstream media force-feeds us every day, distracting us from the venom and deceit that are slowly eroding what we once all believed was the “Land of the Free?”

What I found was a little bit of both. There are those I would call true believers who are convinced they are the architects of a new American revolution, and there are also the attention-starved brats who just want to be part of the next media circus.

The people

Standing on Broadway overlooking the sea of tents and tarps in Zuccotti Park, I watched a woman, maybe 30 something years old, as she screamed at the buildings that surrounded the park. I couldn’t hear what she was screaming, but her enthusiasm drew me closer, and I was not the only one looking at the spectacle. Within seconds after her tirade started, she was surrounded by other protesters, tourists and media.

She caught my eye earlier that day, not because of a sign she was holding or an engaging conversation she was having about why she felt compelled to protest. I noticed her because she was beautiful. I watched her as she moved among the protesters, taking a few pictures, but never bothering to read the signs or talk to anyone. It seemed as if she was there because Occupy Wall Street is the newest tourist attraction and she only wanted to see the freaks in the polyester zoo.

I thought of walking up to her, whipping out my cheap, laser-printed business cards, and asking for an “interview” in a veiled attempt to impress her. But since I was not here to strike out with yet another blonde girl who is way out of my league, I moved on. Naturally it caught my attention when I saw her again, raging, shaking her fists at the buildings and screaming: “you’re getting rich off my hard work, you greedy bastards!”

Suddenly this mild-mannered tourist was the loudest voice in the park. What inspired this lighting-fast evolution from tourist to activist? Maybe my first impression of her was wrong.

Then I saw the CNBC cameraman filming her. Her vitriol for corporate America ended as soon as the cameraman had enough footage. Her tirade ended, she reached into her Coach purse, dialed a number on her iPhone, and as she walked past me I heard her exclaim: “I’m gonna be on TV!”

Standing just feet away from the wannabe actress was “Dan,” who asked me to not use his real name because he is both a protester and part of what the activists would consider 1 percent of people who control all wealth in America because of his $1,000 suit, $300 haircut, manicured nails and over-inflated bank account. Dan is soft-spoken and a bit shy, but speaks with confidence and conviction about the reason he walks from his office just two blocks away from Zuccotti Park every day on his lunch hour to hold a sign condemning the cooperate malfeasance and greed of which he is an active part.

“If you’re on the inside of this mess, then why don’t you do something about it?” I asked him in a patronizing tone. It seemed as if the rally cries of the vocal majority had gotten the best of me, and suddenly every person I saw in a suit was the enemy.

“What do you want me to do?” Dan asked. “Should I quit my job, stop paying my mortgage and give up on the good life I built for my wife and kids? I’m not ever going to do that, and I suspect none of the people here would either.

“I come here to protest at lunch and I listen to people talk about tearing down these ‘evil’ corporations, which I can tell you are not all bad,” Dan told me. “Then I go back to my office and I see colleagues looking down from our ivory tower, saying things like, ‘this protest is a bunch of lazy hippies who don’t want to get a real job,’ which is also not the whole truth. The real problem I see is there is no middle ground left for either side to have an honest discussion.”

Dan is real, honest, engaging, and not a self-absorbed thug trying to pantomime for the camera. But his story wouldn’t make the air that night – not because he didn’t have a good story to tell, but because in the news business, “if it bleeds it leads.” Or, in this case, if it carries a $400 purse and knows how to put on a good show, it leads.

The fashion show and popularity contest that is the national media is missing the real stories.

The place

New York’s Financial District lies in the shadow of the World Trade Center. The last time I was in this part of the city was just a year ago. I walked the narrow streets with my friend, Irene, a writer who grew up in Queens and lived through the ever-changing lifecycle and evolution of New York. She pointed out places she used to work, and told me of a time when the feel of Wall Street, of the city, was not so ominous.

As I walked through Zuccotti Park, where the protest started more than a month ago, I was brutally reminded that nothing is ever what you make it out to be in your mind. Everything is bigger in New York. The buildings. The personalities. The slices of Pizza. I was expecting the same from the protest. I’m familiar with the area, so I knew that there was not a lot of space to fill, but I imagined the streets of Financial District to be filled with people holding makeshift signs, chanting in unison and bringing some life back to an area of the city that turned somber after the terror attacks more than 10 years ago.

The area that’s now Occupied is tiny when compared to the grand scale of New York standards. There are far fewer people than I expected to see – maybe a few hundred at best, and that’s if the weather is cooperating – and there are makeshift trails that the tourists follow as if you’re looking at animals at the zoo. The park has been transformed into what I imagined a Hooverville looked like when I first read the Grapes of Wrath. Many people have made their home in Zuccotti Park living in tents, under canvass tarps or just in a sleeping bag on the cold, hard concrete. Whether you believe in their message or not, you can’t question their dedication.

Zuccotti Park reeks of dirty feet, hotdogs and falafels from the vendors that line an entire side of the park, marijuana and rebellion. It’s an olfactory nightmare, so I was happy when I smelled the pleasant aroma of fresh sage. A woman, maybe in her mid 40’s, dressed in her most stylish, hippy garb of half a dozen bead necklaces, a tie-dyed shirt, and those stupid shoes that look like socks, was walking through the park waving a long stock of burning, fresh sage. She chanted as she walked from tent to tent as if she was blessing the activists, inspiring some sort of seditious love fest.

Was this some kind of ancient Native American tradition that would help cleanse the spirits of the protesters and the visitors? Or maybe the burning sage was just incense to mask the smell of the marijuana, which more than a few people smoke right out in the open. I wanted to ask her about the significance of the sage, but who am I to interrupt her religious catharsis, if that’s what it was.

Trying to find meaning

For two days I immersed myself in the strange and thought-provoking subculture that is forming in Zuccotti Park and tried and make sense of it all. I talked with people who are living and protesting in the park, people who come to protest only to go back to the comfort of their homes, people who try to incite violence, people who only want attention from the media and anyone else with a camera, people who believe the protests are an attack on capitalism and the American way of life, and people who pass by and see all of this as just another media sideshow.

I came to New York with starry eyes hoping to the find context in a few simple hours. I wanted it all wrapped up in a pretty little package with all the answers handed to me like the series finale of my favorite TV show. But as I got on the bus back to Queens, all I had was a notebook full of notes, a camera full of pictures and videos, smells that will probably not wash off for days, and one lingering question: What does this all mean?

My hope is that when I wade though the notes and memories and finish writing this series it will start to make sense. If not, at the very least I left New York with a few new friends.

Chris J. Minnick is a freelance writer from Las Cruces. He can be reached at cjminnick@hotmail.com.