Occupy Denver

Weta's photo

So I went to Occupy Denver the other day. Some of my co-students had been going down to be legal observers –telling people their rights and keeping watch over the situation.

Sounds like a good idea…

I also wanted to know the answer to the question everyone has been asking. What do they want? They’re there. They’re voicing their grievances. But where do they want Occupy _______ to end up? Surely they don’t want to just camp out in public spaces for the rest of eternity?

I had heard that they had General Assemblies every day, and that they had some kind of Declaration, so I figured that would be a good place to start to get some questions to ask while I was down there. I pictured (and had heard about) the type of crowd that was present at every rally I had been to in my protesting days, 70% about the cause, perhaps 20% of that with various slogans, spray painted demonic pictures, or costumes deriding their chosen official, 20% a mix of pro-gay, pro-fill-in-the-blank immigrant community, pro-animal, pro-choice, and the other staple causes, 10% students and hippies just looking to drink and have fun, and 10% rando, including 1 or 2 signs about legalizing pot. You know, my people. No matter what their witty sign might say, 100% of them would be chock full of opinion and willing and ready to talk.

What I found was much different. Perhaps it was a result of the police raid on Saturday, but I could not manage to find out. It looked like a homeless camp –no judgment –I was actually intrigued. If all the homeless, the unemployed, the mentally ill and others who are not served well by our country got together and advocated for themselves…our country would be a better place.

But that is not what I found. I started out taking pictures –it was a beautiful fall day and my first time seeing the capital –with that as the backdrop and the Occupy Denver denizens at the forefront, with all their primary colors, it was a perfect photo opportunity. The sun was just setting and the light was jagged at the edges of the leaves and bright along the silhouettes of the occupants.

Weta came up to me as I was snapping a picture –“Better get it fast.” She gave me a hug, and smelled of days without a shower, but sweet, not sour. At that point, I was not sure if she was a she, or if she was on drugs, so I was a little scared. But after trying to find out where I was from and not telling me where she was from, she took my hand and began leading me around to introduce me to her “friends.” I couldn’t tell if these people were her friends or thought she was nuts. I couldn’t pick up much of a ‘normal’ clue from any of them. As a matter of fact, at the time I actually mixed up the slogan of the Occupy movement, assuming that these people were part of “the 1%,” the part of society that operates by their own rules.

On the way, we ran into a man, and by means of introduction she tried to put my hand on his crotch. When I balked they both laughed at me. I guess this was a kind of handshake from the 99% that I was not cool enough to know about.

Weta introduced me to the first couple as “the white girl” that she thought “might be a member of the 99%.” This of course made me extremely uncomfortable –the couple was black and themselves didn’t know how to take the introduction. So Weta mitigated…”But she likes black people!” At this point I was trying to free my hand from her grasp, but she was unrelenting. The couple, seemingly trying to change the subject, inquired whether I was a “member.” Flabbergasted, I replied that I had only been there for 10 minutes, and was unsure, did that make me a member or not?!? By this time I had already inquired at least twice whether there would be a GA meeting at 7 (which I had read on the website), and had inquired as to the philosophy behind what they were doing, of course in simpler terms. Now I tried a new approach –something tangible, something they would be connected to.

“So, is everyone ok after Saturday? Did any of your friends get seriously hurt?” To which I got the best bit of information from the whole event. The woman told me that seven people had been taken to jail, and none of them were offered medical attention for the whole night that they were there. No one knew if they still were there, however. Where’s the unity?

Weta kept asking me where I was going to party that night (it was Halloween). Trying to escape from this conversation, and beginning to think I needed to escape Occupy Denver all together, I made a beeline for a woman who had an adorable, and groomed, beagle puppy. By means of introduction, I asked her if I could pet it. (Weta was still holding my hand.) She answered “Do you have a cigarette?” I replied “Is the price of petting your puppy 1 cigarette?” She said yes, I said I don’t smoke, and she begrudgingly let me pet it but turned back to her friend for conversation.

So much for that. Weta moved back in. She wanted me to go visit her Mexican friend. She dragged me over by the hand, and introduced him as the Mexican and me as the white girl. Did I want to sit on his lap? She wanted me to sit on his lap. I looked to him, pleadingly with a touch of humor, to see if he thought she was as nuts as I did. But he didn’t. He wanted me to sit on his lap. So they conspired, asking me “What, do you hate Mexicans?” “Yes,” I answered, “I hate Mexicans.”

I moved away. Weta followed closely, still holding my hand. At some point in that conversation, I had referred to Weta as “he.” Now she laughed, and for the first time I sensed some humanness, some vulnerability. “You called me he!” she said. “I’m not a he! I’m a she! I’m a girl.” At some point she confirmed by putting my hand on her breast. I could not tell if it was a breast or a peck.

“I’m a she!” she repeated over and over. I tried to walk in every direction and engaged every person I crossed paths with. I wanted to know about the movement, the discussion, the Declaration, what they were going to talk about at the General Assembly. One extremely dirty but idealistic looking hippie made an announcement that they were going to start marching lessons in a few minutes so they didn’t look like a bunch of idiots out there. That’s your solution?

Weta persevered. She got me back over to her Mexican friend. Then the record was broken. “Sit on his lap.” “Sit on my lap.” No matter what argument I (shockingly) confidently put forth, they would not relent. Finally, Weta pushed me onto his lap. “See,” she said “Isn’t that nice?” “What part of me looks comfortable right now?” I asked, because even if they didn’t care about my mental or emotional state, my physical state, after being pushed, was not comfortable at all. With that, the Mexican grabbed my boob.

Well, now I had, if not my escape route, my escape motivation. I stood up and marched directly to my bike. “Looks like he pushed the wrong button!” Weta could barely contain herself amidst peals of laughter. “What button was the right button?” I attempted to ask ironically. Wrong question. “This one!” She exclaimed, overjoyed, as she grabbed my other breast. She completely lost it among waves of giggles interspersed with repeating my stupid question.

“Where’re we goin?” Weta asked when she finally tired. “I am going to study,” I answered. “I don’t know where you are going.” I got on my bike. She was holding my hand, my arm, even wrapping me in a full body hug. When I refused to acknowledge her, she pulled the hair tie out of one of my braids and replaced it with her own filthy sandy colored one. Complete with knots of sandy colored hair. Her sweet dirty smell now wafted directly up my nose.

“You’re mean.” I said. “What do you mean I’m mean?” she asked. “You’re mean,” I said again. “You pushed me, over there. You made me sit on someone’s lap that I didn’t want to. And then, you stole my hair tie.” With that, I hopped on my bike. “When are you coming back? Where are you going?” she asked. When I left her she had a look of bewilderment, not remorse. She was still smiling. I stuck my arm up straight in the air and waved goodbye.

The whole event lasted about 10 minutes.