An occupier’s account

When 50+ officers descended upon the us at midnight on the 10th day of the occupation, I rushed back across the park to camp, clutching a cell phone with which to contact every friend, aqcuaintance, and concerned party. When I rejoined my dear and committed friends, we frantically decided upon a plan of action. It was decided that eight of us would not leave, but stand to be arrested, so that others could gather belongings and disband to safety. We stood in a line, brazen and glaring through the floodlights at the dense perimeter of fascist oppression. Soon, we were detained by crowd control squads and taken through alleyways to eagerly vacant wagons.
After singing away the ride to lock-up, we were pressed and threatened to identify ourselves, as if our minds entertained and idea of fear and worry that they might exploit. After I was identified via my fingerprint records, I became seperated from the others, wathing the next of us pressed with the same rhetoric of intimidation as I was escorted to my first holding cell. After a brief attempt at rest, I was moved again at 4:00 AM to a larger cell with a group of other recently apprehended individuals, many of whom were fearful and considerably less equipped to collect themselves. I was seated next to one of my compatriates, Derek, and we speculated on the condition of our friends over a meager portion of applesauce and shit-on-a-shingle. The justice system would undoubtedly drive anyone of a certain dietary persuasion to the brink of starvation.
After dragging hours of anticipation, we rejoined the other in another dark wagon and were bounced along to the holding cells of the courthouse. Together in one room, seperated into others by pairs, another cell together, until finally being brought one by one into a despondent and bewildered courtroom for arraignment. After being indiviually and diversely prodded and passed off, we waited for hours yet again to be seperated one last time, equally unaware of what might be transpiring in the outside world and who might be fighting for our release. We were sure, though, that our friends and allies would not fail us, even if the public should dismiss us once more.
Those of us who had only just been identified were transported back to lock-up for intial procssing. Derek and I, however, took another crowded, unlit to the city jail, whereupon another length of time transpired in the comfort of a meager standing room-only bull pen. Among the company of 30 or so other restless folks awaiting commitment, most of whom faced an undeserved fate much more grave than our own, we received nothing short of candor and appreciation from those whom society might deem unsavory at best. It was an settling yet reassuring period to precede the degrading strip search and gear assignment gruffly conducted by our aggressive and demeaning captors. Just as the two of us were patiently awaiting a far less comfortable confinement, hypothesizing why our cohorts had not yet joined us, we were instructed to remove our jumpers and return our bedrolls. After passing on our toiletries to those in need, we waited one last time in the hole to be bonded out. Derek was released at 6:30 PM and I finally regained freedom at 10:00 PM for my net worth of 75 dollars.
Reunited with my fellow occupiers at last, we spent the remainder of St. Patty’s Day at the lovingly crowded Wingnut Anarchist Collective, with a gracious helping of ramen pad thai and a tattoo party, songs of resistance and liberation resonating through the house. Relief and good news were passed along as we slowly turned in for another day of rewarding work – our spirits not only unbroken, but reinforced and filled with the most unbreakable will.

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