COMMENTARY | Foley Square is not easy to reach. Lower Manhattan is like a police state on high alert with an army of cops in riot gear lining the streets, miles of metal barricades, and helicopters circling overhead. The NYPD has closed many streets (wasn’t public access the pretext for a recent midnight raid?), so navigation is difficult. Heading into the noise, I wonder if there’s danger ahead. But my anger and frustration over recent events supersedes my reason. I have to be there, to at least lend my body and voice in support of the movement.
Foley Square is swarming with thousands of protesters jammed behind barricades and watched over by a legion of cops. The diverse crowd defiantly chants and waves American flags, banners, and placards reading, “NYPD protects and serves the rich,” “Not too big to jail,” and “Class warfare? Bring it!” Overlooking the municipal chasm are towering courthouses, their Corinthian columns and Roman numerals meant to assert power. At the center is a concrete “park” named for Thomas Paine, whose writings helped inspire the American Revolution. Paine’s legacy is the massive, defiant throng that overflows his namesake. The atmosphere is charged with tension, anger and excitement.
The crowds on the middle island stream into Center Street and begin marching south. Several people in my “pen” become agitated and demand the police remove their barricades so we can join the march. A “mic check” (call and repeat) extols the crowd to be peaceful and patient. Still, a few lone men are seething, seemingly itching for a fight. I move south to find a break in the barricades to join the parade, unsure where we’re headed. People are drumming, chanting and shouting as we inch along. Generally more meek than militant, I am unable to resist and join in the chant, “Whose city? OUR City!” I feel a surge of energy after raising my voice in protest. It’s very slow going as marchers are bottlenecked through narrow passages by the NYPD. But in an instant, frustration turns to elation when the movement’s slogans are projected in white light onto the towering buildings that surround us.
I finally reach Chambers Street, where a line of policemen on horseback defends the area. I find the sight chilling, reminiscent of Tsarist Russia. But I’m swept on by the tide of marchers, past a line of middle-aged folks in union logo T-shirts who link hands and act as a protective barrier from the cops. Crossing Brooklyn Bridge with the glittery Manhattan skyline as backdrop, I am awed by the masterpiece. This is what America can build. The center walkway is flanked by roadways, on which motorists honk and wave in support. “Occupy the World” and “99%” are projected onto the nearby behemoth Verizon corporate tower. Overhead I hear the puttering motors of police helicopters which circle low as a reminder their power is omnipresent. I am tired and chilled, but there’s no turning back now.
Like so many, I wonder where this movement is heading. What’s next? I’ve no idea. But now that frustration and anger have been tapped, it will not be contained or subdued. These folks will no longer submit to the status quo. I want to believe that meaningful change is coming, and I want to be a part of it.