Occupy Wall Street, Not AYITI!

Editorial

It was well after 4pm when I arrived at Cadman Park in Brooklyn.  I had heard through a friend from York College that the Haiti Coalition of NYC would be gathering with others to protest in solidarity with the thousands of people occupying Wall Street.  When I arrived I saw that there were about 25 people standing by listening to a man speak and preparing the banners and signs for the march over the Brooklyn Bridge to Liberty Plaza.  As the fire in the small contingent and in my own spirit began to rise I was handed a sign that read “Afghanistan: Just Another War For The Rich.”  Clearly this march was multifaceted.  While the brutal honesty of the sign sunk in I peered around the crowd to observe my fellow demonstrators.  Some of the faces were familiar from York College, others were older and I could tell by their partially warm partially stoic expressions that this was but the latest of many marches that they had been apart of. 

As 5 o’clock crept up and the crowd began assembling to move through the park toward the bridge a spark ignited inside of my chest that led me to the front of the contingent. It would be my self-enforced duty, along with three others, to hold the large black and white banner that read “Stand With Haiti Coalition,” and underneath: “Kowalisyon Pou Kore Ayiti,” with the phone number for the organization.  As we began to make our way through the small park we were lead by a small group of four police officers who seemed to be in quite a hurry.  Often times throughout the march a man named Ray would nudge us and say “slow down, let them rush…they want to get this over with.” This statement did not strike me as ironic until much later.  Here we were walking toward the occupied streets of New York’s financial district, chanting against the UN military occupation of Haiti but being led by members of the NYPD who had recently arrested hundreds of demonstrators not even a week before.  What a democracy! 

With us chanting non-stop “Occupy Wall Street, Get Out Of Haiti,” and Ray reminding us every so often to slow down our stride, the 45 minute journey began.  Although we were a fairly small group compared to the thousands on the other side of the bridge, we had a shared reason for working and a righteous cause (we felt) and for those few hours we were a family united.

Once we got onto the bridge I began to hear and see a blend of feelings from the people that passed us.  Many were on bicycles and probably, if it were not for the police leading us, would have thrown innumerable expletives our way because we were making it difficult to get by.  However, that same mindset was what we felt we needed to stand up for the many sick and homeless people in Haiti so we pressed on.  After the first half hour I had determined that there was a pattern to the many faces of the onlookers.  There were those who were confused and looked as though we were speaking some sort of alien dialect with our chant.  There were those regular old New Yorkers who were so angry that we made them pause their ferocious strides that they barely even bothered to look at our signs and cut there eyes a soon as we neared.  There were the YouTube video aficionados who could not wait to get a still or moving image of the contingent at work (possibly to post on a blog or pitch to a news organization).  Then there were the few that just smiled or put their fists in the air as if to say “I’m with you in spirit.”  Whenever we saw those guys we smiled warmly.  It was sweet to have their company even in passing.  Right before we were about to exit the bridge a man in a black Mercedes Benz honked at us a few times.  I was not and am still not sure if he even knew why we were marching, but he fulfilled his purpose of getting our attention and cheers.

Once we exited the bridge and walked a block and a half toward Wall Street we were met by an enormous crowd of occupiers from all age ranges and backgrounds. Although our group was happy to see them, happy to see us we did not forget why we had began our journey from Cadman Park earlier that day.  Led by a bright-eyed young woman who said she had organized the group to have them meet us when we got off of the bridge we walked around nearby Zuccotti Park.  By this time when I turned around there was a sea of people chanting “Occupy Wall Street, Get Out of Haiti.” So many in fact that we now had to do it in groups like Christmas Carolers.  By this time Ray himself was also being reminded to slow down so that our newer and much larger contingent could remain as one group.

After we walked around the park the entire crowd stuck together and marched directly toward Wall Street where hundreds more were sitting, kneeling and standing. The looks on their faces told me they may have been doing so on and off since the protest began there three weeks prior. When we arrived it was well after seven o’clock in the evening.  Ray spoke on camera in front of the entire group about how monumental the entire movement had become. “We can not fail!” he said with vigor and a knowing tone that I could not pinpoint.  How did he know that we all felt as close as kin? That, in many ways, we had suffered as one and now we were as tight as a fist, ready to go forward to bring these financial tyrants down from their money tree canopies? How did he know that although our sign read Haiti Coalition we were bonded by a glue that spanned from Port Au Prince to Liberty Plaza that night?  I may never understand. 

One thing I do know, however, is that Occupy Wall Street is spreading like wildfire and if that fire is anything like the one that was stirring in us all that evening the Federal Reserve had better have another think coming.