The occupation is over

7/18

The Occupy West-Park Coop T-shirt

At West-Park, Jamie has just led another group on a tour. Sigh.

I talk to Jamie and Danielle about the screening last night. How I was in the lobby, having a glass of wine, thinking the people around me looked familiar. Then I realized, it was most of the surviving cast members of the Sopranos. Mostly looking like people you’d see at the Gate. Or maybe Carmine’s. So you do the New York thing, act like you’ve been there before. That’s what we do. Neighbors, that’s all. The film was based on a Pete Hamill story and directed by Bob Giraldi starring Steve Schirripa and Boris McGuyver. 

Steve Schirripa, Boris McGuyver, Bob Giraldi at the screening

As I’m finishing the story, RL walks in. Introduced to Jamie. Max, Jamie’s son will soon be working for RL. Massive clean up ahead. 

I check my text messages. As of 3:40 AM, Christopher has moved out. Looking for a permanent job. Place to stay. The last of the occupiers has finally left. 

Karen is in the sanctuary, playing her music. 

After 604 days, the Occupation of West-Park is over.

             * * * * 

Occupy lasted at West-Park longer than Zucotti. From the first emergency four in November to the two dozen who came in from the rain to the massive invasion in January.

The baptismal font incident that was spread around wherever Murdoch touches. And the amends. And the first exodus. Then the construction of the intentional cooperative community and the t-shirt production. The the end of the coop. The final four. And then one.

For awhile we hosted the chaotic democratic experiment of the spokescouncil. And the Occupy Town Square. And the amazing Occupocalypse production by the multi talented Kanaska Carter with it’s recreation of Liberty Square and Zucotti including a reproduction of Calder’s Joie de vivre conceived by Kanaska and executed by famous Soho sculptor Forrest Meyer. We were the location of the post M17 San Patricio party with Irish and Mexican bands. The takeoff point for the Mayday buses to Chicago. And the National Nurses Union free clinic. 

Over the time we were visited by Michael Moore. Rosario Dawson. Ben and Jerry. Fulbright winner and Woman and War project photographer Elizabeth Herman and her stunning portraits. Portland singer song-writer Catherine Feeny. A crew of volunteer chaplains from Union Seminary. Multiple visits by the NYPD. The FBI. And as it turns out some undercover Homeland Security intel plants.

Our occupiers were witnesses for a gay wedding for two guys from Alabama. Support staff for a symphony concert. Security for Cornell West. 

They brought Jamie here. And Cara. And Stephen and Teddy joined. And Teddy became our sextant. And died. And Stephen got ordained and Cara became a member. 

So....

Jason and others have become part of New York City and are engaged in ongoing social change work and even electoral politics.

Another Jason got a tech job.

Jay is in college in Colorado.

George and Amin embedded themselves in Staten Island and worked arm in arm with retired police and fire in Occupy Sandy.

Kakaska is a tattoo artist, body artist, recording artist and model.

Rafael is doing security and living in a beach house in Baja California.

Dan is a chef in Colorado.

Rose and Requiem went to the Berkshires and had a baby.

Chris and Runi back home to Portland.

Others went to their homes. Some to squats. Or the piers. Or disappeared in the homeless/addiction/mental illness underground. 

What remains? Memories. A beautiful ceramic baptismal font cover by Sheryl Jaffe. Zejko’s short film of Teddy. Elizabeth’s portraits. Stephen’s leadership. Jamie’s presence and support. A t-shirt or two.

What have we learned? That’s another reflection.

After 604 days, the Occupation is over. 

                                            * * * * 

Going down 86th late at night,  I see the wheel chair, and know Sean is there tucked in against the wall. My heart sinks.

Human being back again

7/17

I go to bed at night looking for the answer. Wake up in the morning and go through the day with the same questions on my mind.  It is this feeling of limbo, of purgatory,of suspended animation needing one piece to be put into place so that one by one the rest will follow. It is exhausting.

Back from a morning with the Religion-Labor Coalition. My friend Father Duffel is right...it’s not about an annual Labor Day weekend speaker in our congregations, a once a year ritual. It’s about a way of living faith. And what I’m thinking about are my own members who are workers. Their struggles. Their triumphs. Making a sense of solidarity with our own members in their working lives.

I step outside. Find Edward Green spread out on the steps. Asleep. Or passed out. Edward, you can’t be here.You’ve got to get up.

He seems to stir.

Edward, you have to get up. You know the rules You can’t be here.

I hear you, leave me the fuck alone.

Edward, you’ve got to go. I’ve got kids showing up here any minute.  (The JCC kids are due to arrive soon.)

You take care of the goddam kids, I’ll take care of my own damn self.

You got to go.

Tell me again.

You need to get up, you need to go.

Tell me again. 

That’s it Edward, you’re leaving me no choice.

So it’s 9-11. Edward rolls over, sprawled across the steps, goes back to sleep.

First to arrive is a fire engine with sirens screaming. The fire guys jump out. I explain the situation. They look over at Edward. OK, now we got wait for the EMT’s and the ambulance. I know that the heat wave has resources strained all over town.

Soon enough the EMT’s arrive. Walk over. Edward sits up. 

You OK?

I’m OK.

Can you get up?

Yeah. I’m OK.

So c’mon, get up.

Get the fuck outta here. I’m a 55 year old grown ass man and don’t need nobody tellin me what to do. Leave me the fuck alone.

So I guess we’ll have to help you, says the EMT, turns to his partners, OK, gloves.

What the fuck! You think I got the virus? 

It’s what we do man. It’s what we do. You ever been tested?

Get the fuck outta here.

As the EMT’s approach, another siren, NYPD.

They push past the EMT’s . 

So what’s your name?

Edward gives him his cockeyed smile. Human being. (Ah no Edward, not that again. http://west-parkpress.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-am-human-being.html )

So Human Being, can you get up?

I’m a fiftty-five year old grown ass man...

Can you get up?

Yeah. 

So show me you can get up.

Edward begins to slowly pull himself up by the scaffolding railing.

You want to come with us?

No man, I ain’t doin that.

Then you got to move along.

Shit man, I’m a fifty-five year old...

You need to get moving. Show us you can move.

Where am I supposed to go?

The park. Up the street. Anywhere.Not here.

Shit man...he pulls himself all the way up. Takes a shaky step or two. Starts walking up Amsterdam. Shaking his head as he moves slowly north.

I thank everyone. Firefighters. EMT’s. Police. It’s a hot day.

I come inside. Shaken. More than I’d normally expect. RL comes in. What’s with you, son?

So I tell him. And he tells me the story of the Dalai Lama and the flies that ends with ...three strikes and your out...Point taken. So on to our next logistical, psycho emotional what to do about this problem conversation that seems to call for changing locks and ...

RL has work to do. Just as I begin to settle down to my own, the mumbling man comes in with his shuffle, raised palms, rolling eyes and impossible to understand mumbles. Again, lifting his pants leg to show me his edema.

Sir, you’ve got to understand...I’ve got nothing. Nothing.

Which is true. I feel my anger and frustration rising. I’m about to come off on this mumbling man. He’s really no different than any other day. It’s me who’s off. So I take a breath. And I help him with subway fare. He nods a thanks. Touches a finger to his forehead in salute. And is off.

Outside, the JCC kids are gathering on the steps. Just like nothing had ever happened. The steps just empty, waiting for them. Their high pitched laughter echoes off the scaffolding.

I’m off to Chelsea to meet Zeljko’s friend Zoran for a screening at the School of Visual Arts.

Certain issues that arose

7/17

Rob is first on the scene to arrive today. Ready to sweep, get things cleaned up. He’s not sleeping here anymore because of certain issues that arose....but working very closely with Reachout to find a permanent place to live. He wants to know about Bible study. (Not until September.) And worship. It’s every Sunday at 11 AM) Wants to get close to God again. We can work on that.

RL and David are hard at work. RL is passionate about clearing out all extraneous stuff from the little chapel to open up space for the open mics.  Big stuff is on its way to the sidewalk because Wednesday morning is big stuff collection day. We climb up ladders and look in the attic above tbe chapel and Martin’s studio. See the original decorative work. A hidden  light fixture too fancy to be  just functional. A vestigial arch from the original chapel of 1884.Trying to piece it all back together. Still a puzzle. A mystery. There’s a whole world to explore up there. But not today.

The Prophet is hanging out on the steps again. Dressed in normal clothes....clothed and in his right mind, you might say.

The JCC kids will be here soon. 

It can only begin with the grassroots

7/15

The sounds of the string quartet Ethel are once again keeping me alive. Even if their power strip and bag of energy efficient light bulbs have gone missing, the sound of the strings in the semi-dark keeps me going.

An African-American woman comes in with bags of clothes the family she works with has sent her over with. I wonder if she had a chance to look  first. 

RL has his beginning of the week check in before he is off to see Harvey.

Karen wanders in. Has a lot on her mind, but I’m so preoccupied with survival I don’t have a lot to say. She will play awhile on the piano before Ethel takes up again. 

Each day this week a gang of kids from the Jewish Community Center (JCC)summer day camp experience in their red t-shirts are dropped off on our steps and await their parents to pick them up.

Rudolfo comes in. That same long, sad, quizzical face. Looking for la nina ( that’d be Danielle)...longing for Cuba again. So a few dollars for a cold drink.

Marc Greenburg comes in. I’ve just finished re-reading Sleeping with the mayor..the book by John Jiler about the 200 day occupation of city hall park in 1988 by homeless people. An occupation before occupy...The so-called Kochville that embarrassed and enraged Mayor Ed Koch. I will give Jiler this...none of the characters in his book re one dimensional. Despite the few things he misses, he captures the complicated  humanity of Koch and the homeless leaders. Of my predecessor Bob Davidson, who helped found the Interfaith Assembly, among so many other things...And of course of Marc himself.

I’m curious how he’s changed in 25 years. We share so much. A commitment to live on the edge. A long perspective and perseverance. A struggle with focus. (I admit to wrestling with  ADD) The difficulty of turning a vision into actual reality. And yet over 25 years the Assembly has survived. And I consider it part of my duty to keep interpreting Marc to the outside world and protecting him with  the board which (rightly) wants a stable institution.

How many times over the years have I seen amazing grassroots  ministries started by friends who were visionaries become overcome  by boards that lament the creators’ lack of business skill then release the creator and then see the whole enterprise collapse. Somewhere between vision and business there has to be a meeting ground.

While we are talking, a young man cones in. From India. A professor of English literature. A love of church architecture. He saw the church  from on board  the M11 and jumped off to look inside. I take him and Marc..who had forgotten or never knew some of the story...and give him the classic tour.

I cannot believe, he says, as his eyes well up, the openness, the acceptance, the ongoing vision and commitment...how can it be? I never see this in my country...how can it be?

I’m not sure it can be, I think. But we conclude our tour. Khalid from Punjab is happy to have visited. he seems somewhat embarrassed by being a Muslim. I explain we welcome all, and mean that. Marc shares  that he has joined the Ramadan fast in solidarity It’s a good visit. Still, Khalid seems a bit shy when I say to him Ramadan Kareem...

Marc and I try to figure out what we need to do to keep ourselves going. I'm thinking we need to commemorate the end of Kochville 25 years ago at Christmas. Talk about the learnings of two occupations, Kochville and Occupy Wall Street. And then we have to get back to basic grass roots organizing. Today, that's the only way. 

On the morning after the Trayvon Williams verdict. The Samaritan. The neighbor question.

7/14

It is the morning after the Trayvon Martin verdict. And today’s gospel is the story of the Good Samaritan.

One of our old friends is there to greet me as I arrive and quickly picks up the broom to start the sweeping. My son Dan is the first to join me in the church and we wonder, will this be the day? Will this finally be the day when no one comes? But as always, the people arrive, one by one and we gather in a circle for scripture, reflection, prayer....and  song.

We start with Amos (7: 7-17). A harsh, rough reading. I describe the difference between the court prophets with their well crafted beautiful words. And the working class prophets like Amos and Micah. And this one...the plumb line story...not everyone knows what one is. A weight on a line to see if a wall is straight. And in this case, a society that doen’t measure up. Amos is warned to basically, shut up. But he can’t. As he says, I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees,  and the Lord took me from following the flock, and the Lord said to me, Go, prophesy to my people Israel.

 And in scathing judgment, Amos concludes his prophesy, 

Your wife shall become a prostitute in the city,
    and your sons and your daughters shall fall by the sword,
    and your land shall be parceled out by line;
you yourself shall die in an unclean land,
    and Israel shall surely go into exile away from its land.

The message is clear. If the country falls ...and it will...it won’t be because of outside enemies. It will have destroyed itself from within. Stop and frisk, Citizens’ United, racial profiling and stand your ground...with such a country devours itself. We read Psalm 82’s plea for justice, then Luke’s telling if the Good Samaritan, (10:25-37). a story with which we’re all familiar.

I give some background. How close the Israelites and Samaritans were. Ethnically related. How Orthodox Jews today still refer to the occupied West Bank as Judea and Samaria. And how our greatest anger goes out not to those who are different but to those so close. The greatest enmity can be between those who call themselves Presbyterians as opposed to Catholics, Jews or Muslims. 

So the very word conjures up negative vibes for Jesus’ listeners, especially the lawyer putting him to the test. And so follows the story of the one who is fallen upon by robbers. The religious leaders who pass by. And the Samaritan who ultimately helps. And how Jesus flips the question from Who is my neighbor to who proved neighbor. Compassionate response is not qualified but expected. And the lawyer cannot even bring himself to say the word Samaritan. 

How do we really get in touch with this story? I explain that Clarence Jordan of the intentionally integrated Georgia koinonia farm, in his Cotton Patch Gospel,made the ones who passed by a Southern Baptist preacher and a Sunday school teacher. And the Samaritan a black sharecropper. (I also mentioned how deeply Jordan had influenced Millard Fuller who started Habitat for Humanity and former  president Jimmy Carter.)

I ask who we identify with in the story. For one, it is the one who is beaten and robbed. For Don, the lawyer looking for loopholes. There is a lot of sympathy for the  ones who pass by. But as Marsha says, the one who has been beaten and robbed was invisible, he just wasn’t seen. As we pass by people every day of the week. 

In reality, at one time or another, each of us is all of  these characters. 

And Marsha, as she does, asks the organizer’s question,  When is someone going to ask why do people keep getting robbed on this road and what are we going to do about it?

To really get inside this story, we have to move past the too easy cheap prophetic metaphors seeing those who pass by as the religious and political establishment and the Samaritan as say, an immigrant Muslim. One says maybe the Samaritan could be a racist skinhead. For me to really get the feeling of the story, I have to see the Samaritan as a tall steeple preacher or a conservative Christian. And John R points  out that if you did a word association today, most people, because of this story, would have a positive reaction to the word Samaritan. Jesus changed the meaning if the word. 

When we move into our prayers, we are very aware of the Trayvon Martin verdict. The deep pain and anger it has caused and the potential for further rending of our societal fabric. For me, the window into the story is not pundits or people in the street but what happened last night when I came home and found my doorman Louis with his head in his hands. He is an immigrant from French West Africa. How could it be? How could it be? he keeps asking. His faith in his adopted country shaken to its core. And for himself, a profound feeling of vulnerability. Of insecurity. Of being unsafe in this country.

We pray for Trayvon’s family. And for our country. Take up our offering. Sing our song. Our worship is done. 

Later, Jane will stop in before her service. She has gained real clarity as to her own call. To create a container, a space, where people from different -isms can share faith practice towards the end of engaged service. I long for similar clarity. 

But we're still here

7/13

We’re gathered on a hot Saturday afternoon. To once again consider options. Jamie soon joins us. She’s biked up, one day before her participating in the New York City Triathlon. Everything’s on the table. It’s wearing...several times over...to have worked for months on a plan and then at the last minute see it go south. Marsha even wonders if there might be a curse. 

We know churches aren’t buildings. They are the people. And yet I have learned that buildings can have a spirit, a soul. Maybe this one has spirits in conflict with in another. All that has happened here, this deep rich social-religious-cultural history, has been done by people. And yet all of that has become part of the place. It is palpable. Some people feel it. All that beauty of the indomitable human spirit. And yet there is an underlying undertow of sadness. And we recognize that the broader community ultimately cares only about the exterior. And don’t care who or what’s inside. And in fact would be just as glad to see us gone and some quiet, stable institution here instead. 

As for me, I feel an obligation to see that whatever happens here is consonant with what has gone on before. I remember a famous country-western venue back in Tulsa that became a punk rock place. One night, it burst into flame and burned to the ground. One of my music friends said, It’s like the cosmos just said no...That stays in my mind. So that’s a commitment.

We need to get past the building to the work of (re)building the church, the community of faith. We’re remembering all who came here excited with dreams, put their whole heart and soul into the work, then after enough frustration, gave up the ghost and moved on. We all nod our heads. And then Don says, But we’re still here. And we look at each other and nod again. We take a deep breath. The conversation begins again.

Always good to see the circle grow

7/12

Danielle and I are hard at work. trying to finish up a rough week. Sergeant Keith comes in, looking downcast. He’s received bad medical new. His story is his to tell, but he talks about the difference in facing an enemy in battle and one inside yourself. I tell him just as he has rallied troops in the field to defend the line, he’s got to rally those troops inside of himself to defend, cast out the enemy. He talks of his daughters back in Texas, how he wants to see them again. Then he looks up at me, For the first time I feel old.

How old are you?

63 (Just like me...)

You’re not old, Keith. You’re not old.

We’ve got to find him a real place to stay. In the meantime, he promised to get the steps back under control.

One of the Ethel violinists comes in looking for misplaced sheet music. We search the balcony. No luck.

The prophet is sitting in the steps. Dressed in normal clothes. It’s still hot.

RL and I get the chapel set up for Open Mic night. Then he goes up to his studio to rest. I walk by at 7, half expecting an empty house. But much to surprise, the house is filling. 

Some new folks. In addition to the regulars, there’s RL’s lawyer Michael. A young man from Montreal with a Quebecois accent named Eli who plays a decent classical guitar with his own creations. A young African-American comedian named Koshen who usually works Long Island City. Another old P&G regular, here for the first time. And a half dozen or so new audience members including Sergeant Keith.

Mandola Joe is doing an Irish set tonight in honor of orange days over there. He plays an orange song, a green one and one mixed. Our real Irish guy Pat gives us some Loudon Wainwright, McGarrigle sisters and Jackson Brown.

Koshen works his set

Koshen’s situation reminds me of the scene of the  Blues Brothers in the Country-Western bar. I can see hm reworking his material, trying to rework his set. I admire the craft work of comics, writing down their observations, trying to spin them into  a tale or joken or just ironic conclusion. Koshen comments on needing to practice working clean.... just in case he might make it someday and have to be on tv or something. 

When I get up to play, I offer him props for a brave go. He’s got a good spirit. 

RL finishes with his Stay awhile, after telling its story. He doe not want it to become his signature closing song. But the crowd does love to sing along. 

People talking about how they love the place. For me, the postwar Berlin, viejo Havana and pre-gentrified Brooklyn ambiance is growing old. No longer ruined romance. Just tired as I feel. 

It’s officially over but a bit of a jam continues led off by Eli. He’s only been in the city some 30 hours. Found us online. Later, completely by chance, he finds several of us at Mc Aleer’s where poet Tim tends bar. Mac’s not only an Irish bar but also a cop bar as in NYPD Blue. Eli finds us. Feels he’s found a welcome in New York. Before he takes off for Jacksonville ala a character in an RL song. Always good to see the circle grow.