From RAMI SHAMIR
During the time of physical Occupation, when incorporated reporters would daily swarm through Zuccotti Park, a common question that the unleashed bees would ask in their search for honey was “Why?” Why would you leave your life to come here and live outside in a park with a bunch of people you don’t know?
I’m still somewhat at a loss as to how not one of these journalists decided to join up with the Occupation, entrench themselves beneath the golden leaves and report directly from the front lines of this new fissure in the American unexperience. Had these new Edward R. Murrows and Walter Cronkites bothered to make Zuccotti Park more than just an occasional Sunday outing in the shadow of the Freedom Tower, they’d have quickly learned that everyone who came to the physical Occupation had no life whatsoever to leave. The Occupiers at Zuccotti were refugees from the American nowhere: street veterans of urban vagrancy, homeless queer youth, a whole generation born too late but educated too wise even to attempt to scrape the crumbs off the ground of the long-ago devoured American pie; those of us who attempted despite ourselves quickly found that even the crumbs were gone. Yes – there were people who left previous lives to live outside in a park, but these lives were nothing but a prelude, a purgatory, windowless waiting rooms to being alive: housewives suffocating within the glade of their upper middle class Panhandle, fiancées wedded to repeat variations on the themes of their parents’ marriages, office workers whose skin color prevented