Like so many people my age (19), I get a lot of information from social media – especially Twitter. It was on Twitter that I first heard of the Occupy Wall Street movement. Two of my favorite artists, Immortal Technique and Lupe Fiasco, had been constantly tweeting with the hashtag #OccupyWallStreet, so I was intrigued. I did a little research and discovered it was a movement that I could really get behind. As your typical, super-liberal (some would say radical) college student, I am not a stranger to protests, rallies and the like. I try to get involved with as much as I can, and seeing as Wall Street is about two seconds away from my university, I told myself I’d get down there and check it out. It sounded very dynamic and exciting, but I never dreamed that getting involved would result in getting arrested.
On Saturday morning, September 24th, I woke up in a state of great happiness because my boyfriend had just come from Boston to visit me. We had gone to bed late – his bus had gotten in after 11 PM and we went on a late-night vegan pizza date – so we slept in, not getting out of bed until it was nearly noon. I knew there was an Occupy Wall Street march starting at 12:00, and it had been in the back of my mind all week. I had been feeling guilty because people had been camped out, protesting, for the whole week at Liberty Plaza (what the protesters have dubbed Zuccotti Park) and I hadn’t gotten down there yet. I casually proposed to my boyfriend that we go to the march, not wanting to pressure him into doing anything he didn’t want to during his visit. I was pleased but unsurprised when he agreed to go; he is involved with a lot of social justice and humanitarian issues as well, and his political views are more radical than mine. So we quickly got ready to leave and hopped on the subway, riding one quick stop from my Brooklyn Heights dorm to Wall Street.
When we emerged from the subway, we saw a lot of police barricades and officers on the street. I knew that Wall Street had been blocked off from the protesters, and expected security to be amped up because of the march, but it was still a little surprising to see a police presence so large. We made our way to Liberty and Broadway and found the march had already started, so we simply joined the procession. The energy was absolutely electrifying. I kept turning around to see the crowd swelling, with more and more people joining us and chanting things like “All day, all week, Occupy Wall Street!” or “Banks got bailed out, we got sold out!” We marched around the Financial District, intending to take the moving rally all the way to Union Square.
We had only been marching for about five minutes when I saw the first person get arrested. He was on the ground, being held down by multiple police officers, and the crowd was surrounding them, yelling “shame, shame, shame!” and “the whole world is watching!” This was the first time I had seen someone get arrested so close to me, and I hadn’t seen him do anything wrong, so I was a bit scared. Protest facilitators told us to keep moving, to keep the marchers together, and I was glad to oblige. We continued marching and chanting, but every so often someone else would get arrested and the crowd’s chants would again target the police, rather than Wall Street and economic grievances. My boyfriend wanted to get close every time, to see what was happening and possibly record it on his phone, but I kept pulling him back, terrified that he would be hurt by the indiscriminately flailing fists. I was incensed that the police seemed to be targeting particularly impassioned individuals and using what I saw as unnecessary force to arrest them, but I was much too frightened to get closely involved. I just yelled “shame” with the other protesters, threw furious looks when the cops made eye contact, and marched onward.
Despite the arrests, or perhaps even motivated by them, the group’s energy remained high and exuberant. We were angry, yes, but also buoyed by a sense of community and support. Cars and taxis honked in rhythm with our chanting. Pedestrians and bystanders threw up fists, peace signs, and high fives of solidarity. I bumped into a friend from high school, who I’ll call E, and was absolutely thrilled and surprised to see her. Someone had given me a Workers World Party sign to hold, with “Justice for Troy Davis” on one side and a quote from him on the other, and I was more than happy to take it, since I had been attending rallies and vigils for him earlier during the week. I pumped it in the air in to the beat of the chants, and grasped my boyfriend’s hand with my other hand. I was beginning to lose my voice from shouting, but I felt obligated to lead the chants whenever they were fading in my vicinity. Traffic made the group a little scattered, but facilitators tried their best to keep everyone together. We were almost at Union Square.
I think it was at the intersection of 14th and Broadway when I first met the orange nets. My boyfriend and I, along with many other protesters, were trying to cross the street to get to Union Square Park. All of a sudden, we were confronted with a line of police officers, holding up this plastic, orange net as a sort of barrier to prevent us from passing. Protest facilitators were pointing and yelling to go this way and that, around the nets, down the other side of the street. It was very confusing and loud, but I vehemently refused my boyfriend’s suggestion to just hop over the net and run. I watched people attempting to do that and getting violently shoved or even hit by police officers, and I didn’t want that for him or for me. Eventually, the police just put the net down and let us all through, making me even more enraged that they had pointlessly wasted our time trying to hold us up, getting people hurt in the process.
There was a short and enthusiastic rally – “people’s mic” speeches, drumming, dancing - once we were all in Union Square Park. People ratcheted up the energy with declarations of why we were protesting, why we were calling for change and what needed to be changed. We celebrated marching together for 2.2 miles and spreading the cause. I glimpsed my friend E in the crowd again and was in very high spirits. Then the throng turned around and decided to head back.
That was when the chaos began.
I guess the police had decided to wait until we were all in the park to try and trap us there. I found myself coming up against the dreaded orange nets at every turn. Somehow, we followed the facilitators’ directions and got out of the park, heading back downtown. There were lines of police officers walking alongside us, holding up the orange nets. People started to run. I was still holding my boyfriend’s hand, not wanting to lose him. The atmosphere was becoming more and more frantic. Protesters were running in all directions, trying to escape and/or keep the march going. Police officers were running as well. I didn’t understand what was happening; I just knew that the police kept trying to contain us in one area and I didn’t understand why. More people were getting arrested all around me, there was screaming and shouting and fighting everywhere. Everything was so confusing and chaotic; I don’t know if I can even adequately describe how insane it was. My boyfriend wanted to run, but I was getting a blister and didn’t see a point to running. I didn’t think we would have any problems, but now I feel like I was being wildly naïve.
The arrests were getting more and more brutal. I saw a lot of violence very close to me – people getting shoved, slammed against cars and buildings, getting thrown to the ground or lifted off the ground by their arms and legs. I saw police officers running with batons in hand and was absolutely terrified; I felt tears closing my throat but I was simply too shocked and bewildered to cry. I had never encountered anything like this before in my 19 years of life. I walked up and down the block, but both ends of 13th Street were barricaded by the orange nets. I texted E to see if she was okay and if she had gotten out. Not one minute after I sent the text, I saw her again, tears streaming down her reddened face. She told me that she and her friend had been maced. I gasped, realizing with horror what that smell in the air was, and my heart stopped.
I couldn’t believe that the police had actually used pepper spray on people in our group. My mind was racing and I couldn’t make sense of anything. I felt helpless and even more afraid than before. Luckily, there was a marcher with some first-aid materials who had a bottle of milk and was treating those who had been pepper sprayed. I decided the best and safest thing for my boyfriend and I would be to sit on the sidewalk, against a wall, with some other protesters. Those who weren’t trapped on the block were on the other side of the nets, chanting “let them go and we will go!” which was very heartening. Regardless, people around me were starting to talk of mass arrest, but the idea seemed so preposterous to me that I simply brushed it aside. Even with all that I had seen, it just didn’t compute in my mind that we could all be arrested. There were so many of us! And we were peacefully protesting! Looking back again, I see that I was continuing to be wildly naïve.
The mass arrest did indeed begin, and I stood up and put my hands on the wall like everybody else. At first, my boyfriend stood behind me and did the same, twining his fingers in mine and providing a shield behind me, which was immensely comforting. However, we didn’t want to seem suspicious or like we were causing trouble, so he stood next to me instead, still holding one of my hands, for which I was extremely grateful. Officers went down the line, cuffing everyone’s hands with strong zip-ties, or “Flexcuffs.” My boyfriend was cuffed first and led away from me, to the front of the line. I was at the very back with my friend E. After we were cuffed, we were told to sit back down against the wall.
E tried to invoke her rights and asked a lot of questions, none of which were answered, unless it was with sarcasm or rudeness. My mind was full of questions, but I was STILL too shocked to say anything. I just leaned against the wall and tried to absorb what was happening. Besides, I could tell that the police were unwilling to answer any questions, and I knew it was because they were just as confused as we were about why we were being arrested. There was a reporter sitting next to me, who was outraged that he was being arrested even with a press pass around his neck. He kept calling out to be released and was consistently ignored. All of our cuffs were too tight and cutting into our skin. I was in pain, angry, worried about my boyfriend, but mostly just shell-shocked.
Finally we were assigned arresting officers in groups of four and led into vans and paddy wagons. To transport all of us, the NYPD commandeered an MTA bus, made all the passengers get off, and filled it with cuffed protesters. (I later heard that the bus driver was made to take the prisoners to NYPD headquarters, which we found very funny, even under the circumstances.) I was put in a van with seven other people, including the reporter, one pink-haired girl who I’d be with the whole night, and one girl who wasn’t even part of the protest and had just stepped out of Barnes & Noble to take pictures. The booted passengers and other bystanders were raising fists in support and asking for names to go with the photos they were taking. I stared out the window and people came right up to the van to take pictures of my face. Even as it was happening, I was in a state of disbelief. I couldn’t believe I was being arrested! Little, 100-lb, 19-year-old, peace-loving, general rule-abiding me! It was sheer craziness.
The mood in the van was fairly cheerful, considering the situation. We asked each other for names and got to know one another a little bit. We expressed outrage that R, the girl who had been merely a passing photographer, had been arrested with us. We even joked with the police officers a little bit. They were very civil, making sure we could feel the air conditioning and such. My assigned arresting officer, Officer B, was actually really nice. I felt a little bad for him because it was his day off, and he didn’t even work in Manhattan, and he said that he didn’t want to be there just as much as we didn’t. He also said he thought the whole ordeal was bullshit, and we assured him that we understood he was just doing his job. He was especially nice to the pink-haired girl (who I’ll call M) and me, because she jokingly flirted with him and I talked to him like he was my buddy. Over the course of the night, it would become a running theme that most of the officers were just doing their jobs and didn’t think we should have been arrested.
The van pulled up to NYPD headquarters, which is also very close to my school. It felt weird to be in a place that I see all the time under such bizarre and different circumstances. We waited in the van, cuffed, for two hours. It was incredibly frustrating because we didn’t know what was going on and the cops didn’t either. We kept complaining about how hungry we were and how much our wrists and hands hurt from the cuffs. I managed to maneuver my way to my cell phone in my front pocket, and started tweeting like crazy behind my back. I was sending updates every few minutes, feeling an intense need to tell the world what was happening. I updated my Facebook status as well. I was getting a lot of feedback and support, which made me feel better, especially when I heard that people had already heard about the arrests from outside sources. Another protester got to her cell phone and dialed a lawyer, and we all shouted and spelled our names into her phone. I glimpsed my boyfriend getting out of another van, and Officer B went over to tell him I was okay. That was one of the nicest things that happened to me that day, and we both appreciated it enormously.
When we finally got out of the van, we lined up for pictures outside the headquarters building. We had to take one alone and one with our A.O., which was awkward and funny for poor Officer B. M and I kept cracking jokes – hers flirty, mine dry – so in our Polaroids, Officer B is laughing and we are stony-faced. I wish I had those photos now. After the photos, they took our bags and stuff away. My plastic cuffs had to be cut off because I was wearing a cross-body purse, and they re-cuffed me with the “real” handcuffs of steel. However, Officer B put them on extremely loosely, which felt amazing because I had been losing circulation in my fingers, and warned me that if I tried to wiggle out of them he’d lose vacation days. I told him “I got you” and went into the building.
Once inside, my phone was taken away, which I was very sad about because I would no longer be able to update the outside world on what was happening. Then I was put in a holding cell with the other women. We were told that it was because there weren’t enough female officers to search and process us. It was all very confusing. All I know is that I was in that holding cell longer than most, and watched other women coming in and out with growing trepidation. My friend E came in about fifteen minutes after me; it was a relief to see that she was okay, but I was anxious when she was almost immediately whisked away. Although all the women coming through the holding cell were very friendly, keeping each other’s spirits up with jokes and stories, I felt like I had been forgotten about or something. I demanded to know why I had been in there for at least 45 minutes, and was told that there was confusion because they had changed the processing method. Eventually, after much complaining and questioning on my end, an officer took me out and started to move me, but he was yelled at by a supervisor and put me back in the cell to wait. Finally, Officer B came to get me.
I was taken to another room where I was frisked and searched by a brusque female officer – let’s call her Officer C – and then placed in yet another cell. It was apparent that this was not a mere holding cell – it was much smaller than the first cell, and there were a toilet, a sink and a bench/cot thing coming out of the wall. There was a row of these cells, all filled with women from the protest. They waved and said cheerful hellos when I came into view. It seemed that these cells were meant for one person, considering there was one place to sleep, but I was in there with four other women, including M from the van. It was discovered that our sink didn’t work when someone asked for water, so we were moved to a different cell – my third and final jail cell for the night. I would be in there for about six hours.
Those six hours were some of the longest of my life. My final cellmates – a 47-year-old woman from San Francisco, a 20-something who had been at the occupation the entire time, and my pink-haired M – were a great solace and helped to pass the time. We told stories, cracked jokes, talked about music and spirituality, and discussed the day’s events. We compared our situation to the scene in Chicago where there are ladies climbing up the prison cell walls. At one point, we attempted to “do an om,” which may sound like some hippie-dippie bullshit but was essentially just a very calming deep breathing exercise. However, the other cells heard us and joined in, and we were harshly reprimanded by grumpy Officer C, who told us that the “om” was too loud and she would stop doing our paperwork if she had to. It’s true that some other protesters had been repeating the chants from earlier, which I could understand was frowned upon, but we were not trying to start any trouble or get any attention with our mantra. We were just looking for some calm and ease to our anxiety. Denied even that small comfort, we returned to sitting bleakly and quietly in our cold cages.
In regards to food, we were given little boxes of Mini-Wheats cereal after maybe an hour. We kept joking that they could have at least given us Frosted Mini-Wheats, since eating the dry cereal was like eating shredded cardboard. I was famished; I literally hadn’t eaten a single thing all day, but managed to eat only half the tiny bag before I felt like my mouth was a desert. About halfway through the night, we were given dinner - refrigerated sandwiches, plums and cartons of milk. At first I thought the only choice was cheese sandwiches, which I was a little upset about because I’m vegan, but I was planning on eating them anyway because I was so hungry. After all, I had been envisioning my day consisting of maybe 2 or 3 hours at the march and then cooking and hanging out with my boyfriend, not being detained by the police late into the night. Anyhow, I was given two peanut butter sandwiches, which were really four hard, cold pieces of bread with the thinnest, paltriest smear of peanut butter imaginable. Regardless, we were so happy to be eating something that there were no complaints.
Any time we asked questions about estimated time left in our processing or what charges we were looking at, we were never given straight answers. Most of us just stopped asking. My 20-something cellmate fell asleep on the floor, with M’s coat wrapped around her for warmth and a maxi pad (I kid you not) under her head. I pulled off my boots and curled up in fetal position on the cold, hard bench, with San Fran lady using my legs as a pillow. I couldn’t sleep a wink, just laid there as M clung to the bars in a quiet desperation and finally sat down, put her head in her hands and silently wept.
That girl’s tears really broke my heart because everyone had been trying so hard to keep the collective mood positive. Her spirit had finally been broken by our long and silent detainment and it was so sad to witness. I was surprised that I hadn’t cried once during the ordeal, but I just felt hollow. I paced restlessly around the cell and waited for something to change.
Finally, around midnight, some jingling keys, a clanging cell door and an outbreak of cheers and applause told me that someone had been released. I tried my best to see who it was but I couldn’t see from inside the cell. A few minutes later, Officer C called “M and Victoria?” I felt a flicker of hope, but I knew there was another Victoria, deeply involved with the movement, in the cell to our left. When Officer C came to unlock our cell, I asked “me?” and felt an incredible rush of thankfulness when she confirmed that it was me she was releasing. I hugged the two wonderful ladies remaining in my cell and told them to stay strong, that they’d be out soon. Everyone who was still locked up cheered and clapped for us as we walked past and I blew them all kisses, fervently hoping that they would indeed be released very soon.
I was taken to a desk to sign my desk appearance ticket for disorderly conduct. While I was waiting, I saw my boyfriend in a room with all the other men, and we blew each other kisses and made corny finger-hearts at each other. The officer who handed me the ticket attempted to make small talk, noting my Boston address and asking me what I was doing in New York City. When I told him I was a student, he made an approving noise and asked what I was studying. I looked up from the ticket, glared straight into his eyes and loudly declared “human rights.” There was a pregnant pause, during which I looked in turn at all the officers standing around me, and then a round of uncomfortable laughter broke out. I gave them all a tight smile and walked out of police headquarters.
The officer who gave me back my purse was insufferably rude and sarcastic, a final indignity to top off a day full of them. I checked my phone to see a text from E, who, it turned out, had been that first girl released. We met up in Chinatown and sat on a bench to wait for her friend and my boyfriend. I made a bunch of phone calls and answered all my texts. My voice was shaky with rage and weariness all through a half-hour long conversation with my best friend. She also expressed surprise that I hadn’t cried and wasn’t crying, and though I felt a lump in my throat the whole time, I just couldn’t. It would have been a relief, but the tears wouldn’t come.
E and I were waiting for more than an hour before our friends were released. We spent that time commiserating, trying to process everything. I looked up news and videos about the arrest on my phone. It was nice to see some coverage. Other detainees started trickling out, most of them heading right back to Liberty Plaza, even more motivated by their arrests. When my phone finally rang with a call from my boyfriend, I felt an enormous weight lifted from my chest. It was as if I’d been unknowingly holding my breath the entire day. When I saw him walking towards us, I fell into his arms with a flurry of emotions and thoughts whirling through my head. If there was ever a point to fall apart and cry, that would have been it, and I really thought I would, but I just felt a kind of void, a sense of disbelief that this had happened to us.
It’s been five days now since the march and arrests, and I’ve processed the events to the best of my ability. There is still a faint, linear bruise on my left wrist that is sore to the touch. But it continues to fade, and soon it will disappear completely. What has not faded is my anger, indignation, and sense that I have been wronged by people who are supposed to “serve and protect” me. I have never been one of those kids who scream “fuck the police.” I have many, many friends who have never trusted or liked the police, and that was something I disagreed with. I always believed that they were really the good guys, with a bad apple or two that gave the rest of them a bad name. But now I recoil in fear when I pass a police officer. Seeing a bunch of cops used to make me feel safer, but now it creates a knot of anxiety in my stomach and I want to get as far away as possible. I did meet some very nice police officers on September 24th, but they were overshadowed by their terrifying, brutal counterparts. I do not blame every individual police officer, but a flawed system led by tyrannical people. I hope that people are held accountable for the brutality that occurred and the ridiculous arrests that wasted our time, police officers’ time and the taxpayers’ money for paying overtime and off-duty cops. If anything good comes out of our mass arrest, I hope it is more outrage, more questioning and more support from New Yorkers, Americans and everyone else. After all, the whole world is watching – and I hope that they will continue to watch while we continue to Occupy Wall Street.
