by Su J. Sokol
“I’m not talking about utopia. Just something a little less awful, maybe.”
“I love New York. The whole rest of the country can go to hell for all I care, but this is my city, in all its awfulness. Maybe you can’t understand that, growing up like you did.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Laek says bitterly. “I guess it’s different for me since I never had a place I could think of as home. Until I came here, that is. Where I’ve lived for fifteen years with you and the kids and all our friends.”
“It’s not the same thing; I’ve lived here my whole life. How can you expect me to just leave, swallow everything you’re telling me without question? You’ve been thinking about this all night, while I’ve been worrying about you all night.”
“If you were worried about me, you wouldn’t give me such a hard time. You’d understand why we have to do this.”
“How dare you accuse me of not worrying about you! After the night you just put me through? At least give me a little fucking time to absorb it all!”
“Fine. Take all the time you need. I gotta get out of here, anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the demo, remember?” Laek starts for the door.
“No, wait, Laek. That’s what I needed to tell you. Chris says not to go.”
“Chris?” he asks, in a strange tone of voice.
“Yeah, he said we should stay home, that something bad is going to happen.”
“Did he say what?”
“No, he wouldn’t give details.”
“Well fuck that shit,” Laek says angrily, walking towards the door again.
“But wait, what about what Chris said?”
“If something’s happening, he should be warning everyone, not just me. Are you suggesting I sit at home and do nothing? While our friends are putting themselves on the line?”
“Not exactly, but Laek, listen, if you’re in more danger now, wouldn’t it be wise to lay low for a while? At least until we sort out what’s going on, what we need to do?”
“While others take risks for the things I believe in? You want to stay here? Fine, but don’t ask me to sit things out. I live my life the way I think is right. I can’t tolerate anything else.”
“All I’m asking is for you to skip one demo, not give up your life as an activist. You just got home, you’ve been up all night. You’d do better to take a nap.”
“Are you seriously suggesting I should take a nap after telling me what Chris said? Without even giving my affinity group a heads-up? What if something happens to them? How could I live with myself?”
I sigh. What can I say? He looks at me and waits, but I’m out of arguments. So he walks out, closing the door behind him.
What if I had begged him, said please don’t go—stay home just this once, for me? Would he have stayed? But I know that particular set to his jaw. And earlier in the conversation? I don’t know, but I’m realizing how much simpler things would have been if my first suspicion had been true, if the man who sought Laek out last night had been an ex-lover rather than an old comrade.
It takes me about two seconds to decide that the one thing I absolutely cannot face right now is another long wait at home worrying about Laek. So I decide to follow him to the demonstration. Rebecca and David will call tonight, and if anything comes up before, there’s nothing I can do from my apartment that I couldn’t do outside.
Before heading out, I consider calling Philip. Sometimes he can talk sense into Laek when even I can’t. But it’s too late for that anyway—Laek’s already on his way to the demo, with his screen at the bottom of the river. So instead I call my friend Roberto from the Law Guild and explain what’s up. He agrees to arrange for more legal observers and then go with me to the demonstration. I grab my wrap-around tinted glasses, a mask, a protective cap, and a bottle of water, and put them in my pack. I leave the apartment only fifteen minutes after Laek.
THIRTEEN
Laek
On my ride to Manhattan, I keep forcing myself to slow down. I haven’t slept in thirty hours, but there’s this manic energy inside me. I feel nervous. Edgy. Maybe I should pull over. But I feel like if I stop, I’ll do something crazy. Like pick up my bike and pitch it through a window. Yeah, like that window I’m passing now, the army recruitment center.
I think I’m just angry. Not at Janie, though. Frustrated with her, yes. But she’s just another victim, reacting the same way I did. Upset at the messenger bearing bad news. And she’s scared. I am too. I don’t know what to do, what will happen. Maybe there’s no way out.
I’m not even upset with Chris. I speed up again, standing on my pedals and pushing hard up the Brooklyn Bridge bike path. I imagine Chris as a little boy. Blond, tow-headed, toy-tech attached to his belt, running after bad guys, pretending to have superpowers. But he ended up with a gun instead. And a phaser stick. I’m still thinking about Chris when I arrive downtown. I’m looking at all the cops. I’ve never seen so many. Are they like Chris? Do they still dream of saving people, of bringing justice? If I could only see their faces, maybe I’d know. But they’re wearing masks. And riot gear. Yet there’s no riot. Some are on horses, some on motorcycles or zip-cars. Some are on foot wearing white shirts or business suits. Those are the ones to really be scared of, but I’ll admit it, I’m scared of all of them, of this whole scene.
I don’t know where and how to enter the demonstration. There are barriers and blockades everywhere. It’s like trying to break into jail. How would you do it and why would you want to?
I walk all the way around Bowling Green, passing the Customs House. Across from this, the entrance to the Bowling Green subway station is being guarded by two cops. They aren’t letting anyone in or out. I hear the younger cop telling an angry commuter that he can’t answer her question. That he’s from Brooklyn.
I pass an old-fashioned pretzel cart and make my way north around the huge bronze sculpture of the charging bull. It’s closely guarded by a whole phalanx of cops. Including one planted right behind the bull’s ass. If Janie were here, she’d laugh and say that this is a metaphor for what our country has come to. At the bull’s head, a number of police vans covered in tech are parked, waiting to receive demonstrators who are arrested. This is less funny.
Finally I hop over the fence to enter Bowling Green Park. Walk towards a sign I saw for Brooklynites for Peace. I spot Leslie and Bernard from the neighborhood.
“Laek!” Bernard shouts. “Is Janie here?”
“No, not today. Is this where the main contingent is? I’m looking for my group.”
“I think there are more demonstrators at Zuccotti Park,” he answers.
“You know they cancelled the permit for Battery Park at the last minute?” Leslie asks.
“Yeah. Listen, I heard some stuff,” I tell them. “We’re gonna need to be especially careful today. Maybe you can spread the word to be alert for trouble. Don’t let anyone provoke you.”
“Hah, as if! We’ve been coming out to these demos and occupations from before you were born,” Leslie says. “You be careful too, darling. We’ll spread the word, don’t worry.”
I hop back over the fence and walk north. Broadway is practically impassable. I go west one block onto Greenwich Street, then cut back east. At Zuccotti Park, I stand across the street in front of the World Trade Center Memorial Headquarters. I scan the crowd, hoping to find my affinity group. At the same time, I’m automatically estimating the number of demonstrators. To later compare to police and media reports. The usual formula of half the organizer’s estimates and six times the media estimates works almost every time.
A private security agent comes over, asks if I’m here to visit the Headquarters. I tell him I’m here for the demonstration. He tells me to get the hell away from the building. I give him a long look before crossing the street. I’ve actually been to the Memorial Headquarters. Took the kids. I figured they might learn something about an important part of this city’s history. This country’s t
oo. But it was mostly a tourist trap. I wonder what it was like here, pre-9/11. It’s hard to pinpoint when New York changed from a relatively open metropolis into a tightly controlled and policed city. The replacement of regular neighborhoods with gated communities definitely came later. That’s been well documented. But the history books don’t answer my real question.
In the park, it’s the usual multi-issue circus. I study a spinning holo-map of the world showing countries occupied by U.S. troops or corporate security forces. A dove animation is flying to each place and making the troops disappear, to scenes of cheering crowds. Right next to the group with the holo are two middle-aged women carrying a cloth banner with a simple handwritten phrase: Delete Invasive Technologies. I zigzag around them to join a contingent in body paint playing a game of leap frog. Each time they leap, they shout a different phrase: “Jump over racism.” “Leap over xenophobia.” “Fly over genderism.” I join them for a while but my eye is drawn to a large photo-board flashing a series of still photos. They’re of people being tortured. With captions indicating where the photos were taken. I recognize the names of some of the more well-known “terrorist prisons.” And of local immigration detention centers. The captions explain the type of torture being used. My eyes glide over this. I don’t need explanations. But it’s hard to look away from the photos themselves.
The crowd is growing, making movement difficult. I push into the center, lose myself in the chanting, swaying, jostling mass. This usually energizes me, but today it has the opposite effect. I feel lost, oppressed, shaky. Like I’m a marionette standing in the middle of some lifeless show, going through the motions of hope when hope is already dead. A wave of fatigue hits me and I think about sitting down in the middle of all this. Maybe sleeping. To wake up someplace where the slogans have come to life, or brought our society back to life. Or maybe not wake up.
I see a group of young masked men dressed in red body armor and make myself start moving again, as far as I can get from these hired agitators. While demonstrators can’t even use poles for their signs, the men in red are being permitted to carry stickball bats. If only I could find and warn my affinity group, I’d go home. Maybe I should check further downtown again.
Back at Bowling Green, things have gotten more tense. There’s an announcement to clear the streets or prepare to be arrested. No one knows where to go. Most of the side streets are blocked off and cops on horses are surrounding the park. More and more people arrive every minute. There won’t be enough space to hold everyone. It’s a scene of utter chaos.
At Battery Park, there’s a line of cops in riot gear carrying micro-netting. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder on State Street, blocking entry to the park. I stay wide of them and walk towards Battery Place, away from the policed zone. I follow it to the piers. There, I enter the park from the back, where tourists wait to take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. I skirt the old castle, which served long ago as an immigrant processing center.
Looking east, I take in the scene. It reminds me of some sick hunt. People have been lured inside, trapped, and surrounded. Now the hunters are closing in with their nets and weapons. I watch a cop trip a demonstrator whose wrists have already been zip-tied. Nearby, another cop is pulling a woman across the pavement by her hair. To my right, a group of demonstrators sitting back to back are being kicked apart and roughed up, then systematically cuffed and dragged out of the park. Others have their faces pushed to the ground with a knee in the middle of their backs. All this is happening towards the front of the park, while at the back, it’s a regular tourist scene. Like two separate realities.
Which way to go? Looking ahead, I notice a pair of lone individuals who seem familiar. Maybe members of my group? As I get closer, I see they’re two kids from my ninth grade social studies class from last year. They’re backed up against the low chain fence surrounding the memorial sculpture. Two cops are standing over them, one with a raised phaser baton.
Without stopping to think, I shout out, “Hey! What’s going on over there?”
“Don’t approach any closer,” one of the cops says.
The other says, “These anarchists were resisting arrest.”
The two students are dressed in a patchwork of flags from a variety of long-defunct nations. They may look like dangerous anarchists to the cops, but to me, they just look like kids. All dressed up and looking for something to believe in.
“They’re high school students,” I say in a calm voice. “They were in my history class. Fari, Nina, stand up and show the police officers that you don’t mean any harm.”
They stand slowly, holding hands. Even from here, I can see they’re shaken, scared. I slowly keep walking forward with my hands in plain view.
“We … we weren’t doing anything wrong.” Nina says. “We want to go home now. We didn’t know we weren’t allowed in this park.”
“Please,” I say quietly, looking directly at the two officers. “Please, just let them go.”
One of the two cops looks at the other, his expression uncertain. The other one shakes his head once, quickly, and the first one hardens his gaze.
“This is an illegal demonstration and everyone here is subject to arrest,” the second one says, “and that will include you too, Mr. Teacher, unless you clear out right now.”
I move sideways, taking their gazes with me. “You kids remember the class trip I took you on? A whole crowd of tourists are there today. You should take a look …” And then all at once I run at the cops, full speed, shouting: “Go! Go!” at the top of my lungs.
Both cops turn their full attention to me, one of them raising his phaser stick as I sprint towards him. Before it hits me full force across the chest, I have the satisfaction of seeing Fari and Nina already rounding Hope Garden, soon to mix with the tourists getting on the ferry.
I’m on the ground but I don’t remember falling. I’ve lost some time, I think. I stay very still, moving only my eyes. The two cops are some distance from me, speaking to an officer wearing a white shirt. I lift my head carefully towards the sky and see a small self-propelled camera floating above us. I hear some strange music. It sounds like the circus.
I try not to breathe much, though I’m not sure why. There’s a taste of metal in the back of my throat. I turn my head and see the eternal flame of the 9/11 memorial. I try to crawl closer to it, hoping it will warm me. I’m so cold. But there’s no warmth coming from the flame.
I tilt my head backwards. See a gingko tree. Simon’s favorite. This type of tree survived the bombing of Hiroshima. I push myself towards it. It hurts so much that time slips again. I’m leaning against the tree, one hand touching its bark, the other wrapped around my own chest. The tree feels warm against my back. I close my eyes, hoping the urge to breathe will pass quickly.
FOURTEEN
Janie
Roberto’s already on the platform when I arrive at the Atlantic Avenue station.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say, giving him a peck on the cheek. I fill him in on what happened, switching to a kind of legal code we use to discuss these things. I don’t need to give a lot of explanation. We’ve talked about Laek’s situation before. I’m thinking of one particularly memorable law school night getting drunk in the Lower East Village. But he does have a question.
“This, uh, old friend of his, had Laek mentioned him before?”
“Not by name. But there’s someone he talks about when he’s in a particularly dark mood. I think it’s the same guy … Where’s that fucking train already?”
“It’s the weekend.”
“The thing is,” I tell him, “I don’t completely trust this guy. I don’t think Laek does either. But it’s like he has some kind of weird loyalty to him.”
Roberto looks like he wants to say something, but we hear the train arriving. When we’re inside, I steel myself before finally asking the question: “What should I do?”
He looks at me grimly and says: “Take Laek and get the hell undergroun
d.”
I grip the pole hard and push back a feeling of panic. “And the kids? What about them?”
“You know, chiquita, there are families who’ll help out in these situations.”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not giving my kids to anyone for safe-keeping.”
“I understand,” Roberto says immediately. He looks at me and then down again. “You don’t need to go anywhere yourself, you know. You could be with the kids while Laek … goes somewhere to wait this out. You’d get hassled, of course, but you’d be alright. And who knows, soon things may change. With another election in less than two years, maybe—”
“Stop. You know that’s bullshit. This isn’t something that changes from administration to administration. Things get worse, then get worse again, maybe with bits of less horrible shit in-between. That’s what we’ve lived our whole lives.” I’m shaking with rage.
“I’m sorry, Janie.” He puts his hand on my arm.
“No. It’s just that you don’t understand. No one does. I couldn’t … I couldn’t ever …” I take a deep breath. “Can I tell you a story? About how I met Laek?”
Roberto tells me he’d like that, so I tell him how I saw Laek for the first time when I was volunteering with a homeless rights group in Washington Square Park.
“He was working with the group too?”
“No, he was a street kid. It was right after he’d come east. He was still off the grid.”
“Really! I’d assumed you’d met at NYU. He went to the teacher’s college, right?”
“Yeah, but that was later, when I was at NYU law. This was when I was still an undergrad. Laek was only sixteen at the time. Anyway, I offered him a sandwich and talked to him about his legal rights, options, safety. You know the rap. He thanked me and offered me some of his own food. I remember, it was fruit and nuts. I thought to myself, I can’t take this kid’s food, it’s probably all he has, but some instinct made me accept his offer.”
