The Bears’ Lair, Part 3: Belly of the Beast

Aside from the slow-dawning fear we all feel when a radical life change is imminent, the accomplishment of landing a job is almost reward enough in itself. All that time spent scrounging, hunting, sniffing, scratching, tearing yourself up, it all becomes justified. You weren’t just spinning your wheels this last period of interminable exile from society, were you? Those first days, the week or two between when you get the good news until when the job actually starts are the purest of well-earned vacations. A time to feel most thoroughly justified in whatever the hell you want to feel justified in.

Well, I guess this doesn’t quite apply to me. I didn’t really do any job hunting. I hadn’t really gotten to the place where I was even looking for a job, where I even wanted one. Getting this one had really been something of an accident.

So, what did I do with my two weeks of heaven? More of the same. The difference? I enjoyed it, because I knew it was coming to an end.

It’s great to get a job. But, as soon as the thing itself actually began, I was most brutally reminded of that oh so cruel reality: jobs themselves, they suck.

But I should stop this before it goes any further, not while I’m still at the place I’m complaining about. It’s dangerous to indulge these sort of thoughts to their logical conclusion. Definitive conclusions are dangerous things. Often times you can tell what you would rather not know long before you actually know it. And really, who was doing who a favor here?

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy my first days at the Bears’ Lair. It’s just that it was a shock. And when each day came to an end, I was always so relieved. Always with the feeling like, okay, I’ve made it through one more day. Despite the odds, I’d kept myself away for that much longer. One more day in which, through effort and effort and some kind of thing pulling on my mind like a rottweiler on a leash, I hadn’t blown my cover. But since it was so hard, since every time I said something I wasn’t sure that I’d said right, well, you could forgive me for not being sure how long exactly I could keep this up.

But, fortunately, there is another good thing about having a job. It is the being home. It is the daily, tired and triumphant return to your place of respite. Now I could walk a little bit heavier up the stairs of my apartment building. I could close the door to my room a little louder, and watch TV or search the web, or whatever the fuck I wanted to do, with just that slight extra degree of infallibility. I’d been justified. I’d spent the whole day justifying myself. What I did with the rest of my time, now, need only make sense to myself.

One day into my third week, just returned home, I went into the kitchen to fix myself some food, as was my wont. There I found my neighbor, Carmen, a Latina woman in her young middle ages, washing dishes in the sink.

“Oh, hello Carmen,” I said in the doorway.

There was limited counter space in the kitchen. Carmen had never been very nice to me. I didn’t relish the thought of sharing close quarters with her.

She looked over her shoulder at me. Her eyes were different from how they usually were. Like most Mexicans, she usually looked at me either as if I were from another planet, or as if she were considering robbing me of my teeth fillings. Not today though. Today there was a brightness in her eyes. I didn’t like it.

“Oh hey, Johnathon, I’m almost done here,” she chirped.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No it’s fine. Just a minute and it’s all yours.”

She went back to the dishes, flecks of soap flying out from her hands.

I figured, “why not.” I shouldn’t be intimidated by them any more. Those judging people who had scorned me in my embarrassing periods. I walked in past her. I got a plate out of the cupboard and a knife and fork out of the silverware drawer. I got bread and turkey, tomatoes and lettuce, mustard and mayonnaise out of the refrigerator, and I started to make myself a sandwich. Carmen kept on scrubbing at those dishes, but there was a tension to her scrubbing that made me a little uncomfortable — she would speed up when I got closer to her, and when I went about my business, she would stop abruptly at odd times, as if drawing attention to herself.

When I was done, I equivocated a moment, between eating at the dirty little dining table we had in the kitchen, or taking my food back to my room. But there had been a light in her eyes, that seemed like it was supposed to be friendly. I probably was supposed to stay here and speak with her. I believe that she meant to speak with me.

I sat down at the table.

I was uncomfortable. I regretted my decision immediately.

She finished the last dish and turned off the water. Then she started to dry her hands with a white dish towel we had tucked into one of the cupboard handles. She turned towards me, and she smiled with that pointed brightness in her eyes.

“Well, look at you!” she said, perky and beaming all white teeth.

I tried a smile back, and told myself not to care that it was forced. I was feeling a constriction in my throat. I didn’t like this. I felt under attack.

“What are you all dressed up like that for?” she asked.

“I’m working over at the Cal bookstore.”

“Oh yeah? At the UC?”

“That’s right.”

“Wow! Good for you!” she said enthusiastically.

“Yeah, thanks.”

It seemed like she was patronizing me, but that wasn’t it, not with that smile, not with that air of superiority about her, more pronounced than it had ever been before.

“How’d you get a job like that?”

I shrugged. “I applied. I went in a couple of times, one of the supervisors noticed me. I guess that helped.”

“Yeah. Oh yeah, it helps when they know you.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded and kept nodding like a car-mount plastic chihuahua.

There was a silence. Her smile stayed the same. The light in her eyes. An element of searching, but also an element of self-consciousness the longer she lingered. Not like she wanted to rob me. More like she wanted to belittle me. Like she wanted to. As if I, me myself, now represented a different sort of target. As if she couldn’t quite reconcile such a fact, knowing who I had been only a few short weeks earlier. After all, Carmen herself had been in the same boat. Actually a far worse boat. First of all, she was older than I was. Second of all, she had two kids, and they all three shared the same sleeping room. I’d heard she and the landlord engage in many a shouting match in the hallway. I had the feeling that her kids were there of a somewhat tenuous arrangement, and they weren’t there all the time. I realized now, looking at her, that her clothes were wash-worn and tattered. Compared to the students at the Bears’ Lair, she looked a pauper. I had never realized before how pronounced the difference was, how casually noticeable when that’s what you’re looking for.

Funny. I’d always assumed that those around me would just be proud that I’d gotten a job. At least somebody had, right?

“Well,” she said unhappily, catching the pity in my eyes as her motivations sunk in. “I’ve got to get back to my kids. They probably tearing up the place already.”

“Okay, see ya,” I said.

“See you, Johnathon,” she said, crumpling the dish towel and dropping it on the counter. “Mister career man. I’m so proud for you. It’s so hard finding work these days,” — she emphasized “hard,” and gave this little nod of her whole body while she did so, walking past me — “lot of people out there just don’t catch no breaks. Lots of people.”

“I know. I know.”

“Cal. Man. I know they never let people like me set foot at no Cal, haha,” she laughed.

I didn’t answer her. I took a bite of my sandwich.

“Well. Take care,” she said again, and waved quickly with one hand, a back and forth flicking motion as if she were shooing away a fly.

“Bye,” I said, and she walked fast past me, sharp footsteps down the hall, her door open, the brief sound of Spanish-language TV then cut off again.

I had a moment to wonder. Would things between us be different from now on? How curious. I didn’t like that feeling. It felt hollow. Funny thing was, I didn’t even want this job.

I finished my sandwich. This was the first time I’d realized that success, far from bringing me in, would also set me apart. People do not take pleasure in their brother humans’ accomplishments, even when their brother humans do not consider them as such. They just wonder at the unfairness of it all that allowed it to happen to someone other than themselves. They have a point.

I wanted to get out of the kitchen, it felt like hostile territory. Taking the plate and the remains of my sandwich with me, I felt a palpable unfriendliness in the air when I walked past Carmen’s door. Now I was angry, and when I locked myself into my room, the walls seemed so close and small, so paltry, so lonely, so thin, pressing in.

And here I’d thought I was re-entering the world.

Fuck her. Fuck her. What right did she have to make me feel afraid? I wasn’t priveleged. Fuck her. I was no different. She had no right to look at me differently. I deserved what I got. I needed it. And shit, I didn’t even want it.

I sat down on my bed. I considered the books on my lovely, smooth wood bookshelf, pushed up against the wall to the left of my desk. My best friend and repository of hope. Limitless storage house of comfort, dreams, dog-eared, well-thumbed, multi-colored stories.

Books books and books.

For me, it was always the books.

 

The next morning, walking through the front door, there’s Trevor behind the counter, smiling beneath his friendly sharks’ eyes.

“Morning, Johnathon,” Trevor said.

“Morning, Trevor,” I answered.

“‘Berto wants you trained up on the registers. Go put your things down and come back up front. Clarissa, Tom and Elliot are on the floor and Joseph’s in the back. So you’re with me today.”

“Okay,” I said. No that was too terse. I hastened to add a shaky and awkward “sounds good,” for which I received no response.

My shoulders slumped, I watched the speckled linoleum floor on my way back through the store to the employee locker room. I took off my sweatshirt and stuffed it into one of the lockers just to the left of a cluttered desk, over which a set of grainy security cameras peered out over the empty bookstore. I tucked in my uniform shirt and ran my fingers through my hair. I’d gotten a haircut a few days ago. My head still felt cold and the back of my neck still felt itchy.

Trevor looked back at me as I approached the registers. I dropped my gaze. I was hiding myself again. This wasn’t a good sign.

I started to think back to old jobs, to Borders’, to the landscape crews and our work in the hills, in Lafayette, out in the simple and companionable sun. Had it always been like this? I was sure that it hadn’t. No, in fact I had categorizable memories to prove it. I could remember at least three distinct moments of laughter and ease. I remember eating lunch with people, talking to them and standing with them while they smoked cigarettes. I remembered getting along with people. So what was different now? What had changed? Why did every step here feel like a battle? It couldn’t just be the economy, right?

I arrived at the cash register, took my position, and Trevor started talking:

“Okay, so first thing we’re gonna do, before we even open up, is count the cash. You’ve worked a register before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah I have.”

“Okay, so let’s go. See this note here?” he asksed, indicating a slip of receipt paper folded in under the $20 bill slot. “This number here says how much is supposed to be in here, how much Rachel counted out last closing.”

“Okay.”

“We count by bills,” he said. “So start with the largest bills, write down the figures, and add up as you go.”

“Okay.”

I followed his instructions. I got the right number, and a nod of approval.

“Okay, good,” Trevor said. “So we’re set and ready here. You’re gonna shadow me most of the day. You’ve worked a register before, right?”

“Yes.”

“Great. There are a few things you’ll have to remember. For instance, we put fifty bills and up underneath the cash drawer, like so,” he said, lifting up the plastic tray of cash and revealing a small stash of office supplies, rolls of blank receipt paper, a a little zip-loc bag of rubber bands, a couple empty, official-looking envelopes. “We keep the twenties on top, we get a lot of twenties here.”

“You do cash drops?” I asked so as to keep myself engaged.

“We do, twice a day, at noon and at three. ‘Berto comes down, and you’re to have the bills counted and ready for him.”

“I see.”

He paused, stood there stiffly. I scratched my head, nothing to say.

“Sometimes when it’s real busy you have to call him down early,” he added. “That doesn’t happen all that often though. You’ll see. Only on the really busy days. A lot of students use credit and debit cards to buy their text books.”

“Oh, I see.”

More silence. Trevor took a disapproving step away from me, as if it were now my responsibility to break the silence. I tried. I stood there and I thought. My mind started to spin, and I forgot that actually I sort of had a job to do. But damn it, everything had already been said. We didn’t have that much common ground yet, Trevor and I, and I had nothing to talk about. He surely wouldn’t be interested in my crummy little apartment, now would he?

So, I improvised:

“It must be pretty predictable,” I said.

“Predictable?” Trevor asked, raising an eyebrow.

I struggled to turn this into a pedestrian comment:

“Well, I mean, you know when school’s getting in, and that’s probably when most the text books are sold, right? You know when the vacation days are, when people come back to school, when most of them take lunch. You must get to know pretty fast when it’s gonna be busy and when it’s gonna be slow.”

“Yeah, we do. But you know, I wouldn’t call it predictable,” he said, with a laugh just a bit too jocular to be genuine. “And most of the business we do in the meaty part of the year don’t have to do with textbooks at all. At that point we’re just where a lot of students go to buy everyday items. Sunscreen, notebooks, Cal gear, the like. Lots of Cal gear. Football days are huge. No, this isn’t about the school, you know? This is a retail store, and it just happens to be in a school. Retail experience is a lot more important than school experience here.”

“I see.”

“And a lot more important than book store experience,” he continued, and then gave me a piercing look like an accusation. Books, that magic word. Trevor knew me for what I was. It was now my responsibility to whither beneath his superior gaze.

“Not predictable at all,” he went on, turning away. “You’ll see. When we get our first rush, you’ll know that ‘predictable’ just ain’t the word to describe it.”

“I won’t describe it that way any more,” I said.

Trevor gave no sign that he had heard me. Maybe he hadn’t. Over the coming months I would find that Trevor could be quite unexpectedly opaque. This was another strength of black people that I always sort of admired.

This time, our silence proved impenetrable, and he took another step away from me. I tried not to panic. I tried to own my dissatisfaction. Staying true to yourself is the true challenge for every working professional. It’s your only hope, really, to be yourself. But it’s walking a tightrope, because you can’t be yourself too much. If you were that who would ever want to work in a college bookstore?

“Well, it seems like it’s just starting to pick up now,” I said, some time later, after a small group of customers came in through the door. But I must not have sounded convinced, or convincing. Because Trevor sniffed, and didn’t answer, and it was the closest we came to casual conversation for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Just after I got back home, after I’d eaten and taken off my shoes, sat down on my bed and allowed the day to drain out of me, I stood up, and knelt down in front of my bookshelf. I ran the fingertips of my right hand over the multi-colored, multi-sized, multi-textured bindings. I selected a slim, elegant little paper back: What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Raymond Chandler’s celebrated short story collection. I turned off the overhead lights, and sat up on my bed with my back against the wall. I turned on the little bedside light. I always liked reading by that light. Warm and small. It helped to make me feel at home.

It took me a couple hours to read the whole book (more impressive than it sounds — What We Talk About is only about a hundred pages altogether, and a lot of those pages have significant page breaks). When I finished it was 12:30 in the morning. But I still wasn’t ready to go to sleep. I had to wake up early the next morning, but I hadn’t even begun my nightly ritual. I hadn’t played any online chess games. I hadn’t hunted out a current events article to read. I hadn’t become bored of being bored. I suppose by most people’s frames of reference this would be a good thing. Working full-time means you have less time to be unproductive with. But for me, that’s often felt like my time best well spent.

So I sat in front of my laptop, with its battered keyboard and its internet. Its openings to the multitude of private infinities. A window into worlds and worlds of perfect drifting.

But I was sick of surfing the internet. I had nowhere to go. I’d done plenty of that over the last few months, and I only rarely felt good about the time spent doing so.

And so, because I hadn’t else to do, I opened a Microsoft Word Document. I put my hands on the keys. Once upon a time, writing had been a calling of mine. I remembered it, back in the years.

What had happened? Should I write about that?

I would be up all night if I did. And what would be the point?

I continued to stare at the screen. Then I stood up and went into the kitchen. I prepared myself a glass of ice water, and I took it back to my room, through the dark hallway, the faint sound of a TV from somewhere within one of my neighbors’ rooms.

Back in my room. The screen open. The screen blaring.

I sat down.

I put my hands back on the keys, and I told them to just start moving, to just go with that first thought that I had in my head. Because I had a lot of them. Yeah, I did. And when I started, they kept on coming. I heard my neighbors through the walls, wondering what I was doing. I ignored them. I would not worry about them. Just like it had when I was younger, something within me began to feel glorious.

It was 3:30 in the morning when I closed the Word Document. I was able to go to sleep soon thereafter.

 

I was the first person to arrive at the Bears’ Lair the next morning. I sat on the steps in front of the glass doors and put my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. ‘Berto arrived about ten minutes later. He unlocked the door and let me in, then he powered off to his back office without a word. He was always a man on a mission. We hadn’t exchanged more than a passing salutation since I’d gotten the job. I would come to learn to discretely stay out of his way.

I began the long walk back to the locker room, soft tapping footsteps on speckled white/gray linoleum, past the tables of over-priced best sellers near the entrance, past the magazine rack, and the parallel rows of shelves of fiction and textbooks and required reading. Countless lifetimes of knowledge in this one little store, packaged and prepared, presentable and dear and useless to all who wouldn’t or couldn’t afford it. What a strange thing bookstores like these are. Profit might well have been the furthest thing from the authors’ minds when they created the fruits of others riches. If they were anything like me, they just couldn’t help themselves. They had nothing else to do. And here in this store, young children who know nothing of how the world works are coerced into buying them out of the strictures of higher education. How strange it all was.

On the wall just outside the locker room, I flicked on all of the store’s lights, then I entered in and tucked my backpack into my locker. I returned to the main floor. Up front the doors were still closed. I was alone.

And before I took another step, I felt something in the bottom of my gut. That faint, familiar tickle in the small part of my lungs. When I notice it, it grows rapidly, and I realize it’s been building for some time already. Makes me hot and twitchy, and I know that if I were to look in a mirror right then, I would see a bright red flush creeping up from beneath my shirt collar, the faintest visual hint to the subtle roar of hot pumping blood growing louder within me. Powerful, irrational. Even despite everything else, like a long lost friend, the urge was still there, compelling me.

Allowing little more to thought, I darted into the closest aisle. Arts history on one side, literary studies on the other. Books and books and books — (why was it always books?) — I pulled out the biggest, thickest, most expensive one I could find, and took it back into the locker room with me.

When I came back out, Trevor and Clarissa were shuffling blearily about like irritable zombies. Clarissa gave me a little smile as she passed. Trevor too said “Good morning,” and, oddly enough, it sounded like he meant it. I responded in kind. I could see that Trevor had already made up his mind about me. He believed that beneath my neuroticisms, good intentions, and esoteric skill sets, I was, in truth and fact, little more than a lost cause waiting to be appropriately categorized. I couldn’t help it. I was who I was. I think he liked this about me.

Wait ‘till he finds out what I’ve got in my backpack.

I think it’s safe to say he’s got no frickin’ idea.

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The Bears’ Lair, Part 2: Group Interview

I got the call late the next week. I was in my room, and I stood up from my notebook laptop, where I was losing a Yahoo! Chess game. I recognized the UC Berkeley exchange. I remained calm. I willfully closed my mind to the sounds of laughter and argument in the rooms down the hall.

I opened my phone and brought it to my ear.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello Johnathon, this is Dagoberto from the Bears’ Lair.”

Time for surprise and gratefulness: “Dagoberto! How is everything?”

“Everything’s fine. Listen, are you still interested in the floor position?”

“Yes I am, very much so.”

“Fantastic. I wanted to invite you in this Sunday for a group interview. We’ll take you and a few others through the introductions and the basics of the position. How does that sound?”

It sounded awful.

“It sounds great.”

“Good. You got a pen and pad?”

I was back at my desk and scrambling for the pens and pencils I knew I had somewhere.

“One second, one second. Okay, I’m ready.”

“Take this down: We want you to wear slacks and a blue shirt. Tan slacks and a long-sleeved dark blue shirt. Put yourself up how you think you should look if you were coming in to do the job. Be here at 8:00 AM on Sunday. We won’t be open, but you’ll see us, we’ll be at the entrance.”

“Okay, okay, will do.”

“I’ll see you then, Jonathon.”

“Yes you will. With bells on.”

“Very good. Have a good day.”

“Okay ‘Berto.”

Dagoberto hung up. I put my phone down on my desk. I could already feel it. I was already smiling, I was already feeling the rush, I was already becoming proud of myself for a job well done, and I was already anticipating what I would do to myself should I fall short. By the time Sunday came around I would be a nervous wreck.

But no. Not to get ahead of myself. Not to worry about how I might worry. For now, relax. For now, breathe. Draw confidence from the success so far for what it is. For now, back to the chess game.

 

7:15 AM, Sunday. I arrived about forty-five minutes early. I wanted to have time to  psyche myself up, and to make absolutely sure I was at the door at 8:00 on the dot. Not too early, nor too late. Perception was everything in these situations, that much I remembered. Nothing worse than a lazzy, tardy hippy, but an over-eager, wild-eyed early bird was only slightly better.

I pulled a figure eight around the blocks. I checked the time as I went, and I enjoyed the scenery. I breathed deeply the fresh air of the place I knew, and the place where I was now determined to grow. Already, even before the interview started, Berkeley seemed a smaller, less daunting place. I circled back to campus. I arrived at the Bears’ Lair exactly at 8:00.

Trevor, Dagoberto, and a short Asian girl were waiting in front. They smiled predatorily as I came down the stairs. The lights weren’t on in the store behind them.

“Hello, John,” ‘Berto said with a wave of his hand and cursory brush of his powerful eyes.

“Morning,” I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

“Go ahead on in, we’re still waiting for everybody to show up.”

“Okay, ‘Berto. Thanks.”

He nodded. The doors were open behind them. Trevor did not turn his head to acknowledge me as I passed by him.

There was a small group of applicants, five boys and three girls, standing uneasily in the dimness on the other side of the door, engaging in abrupt and fitful conversation. They were young, they were clean, and they looked like college students. They were awkward, and clearly unfamiliar with situations such as these. Some of them might never have had a job before. In this regard, I might have had the advantage.

There was also an older black man who stood a little off to the side. He looked sorrily out of place.

Me, I’d had a hair cut. Me, I’d showered. I knew, at least until I opened my mouth, that I could probably if I tried pull off a ‘belonging’ attitude of sorts.

“How’s it going?” one of them greeted me, a crew-cut wearing blonde kid. His eyes didn’t know if they should be hard or accommodating.

“Morning,” I said.

And I didn’t say any more. Neither did he. I fought the inclination to blame myself for the conversation’s premature abortion. I assured myself that I was blending in perfectly.

‘Berto, Trevor and the Asian girl were speaking to each other on the other side of the glass doors, but we couldn’t hear them. The smell of competition was thick in the air, the pressure to hold our own, to show no weakness however it might manifest. One of the male applicants struck up a conversation with the prettiest one of the girls, perhaps in advertisement of his ready ability to do so. She accepted his advances much as she would had he approached her in the school cafeteria, with the careful calculation of the shrewd but intrigued female wondering how to turn the situation to her advantage. I made a mental note to avoid those two if I could.

The analog clock above the door reached 8:07 when ‘Berto, Trevor and the Asian girl came in and shut and locked the door behind them.

“Okay,” ‘Berto said, walking through us and disrupting our circle. “Let’s get to the testing site.”

Scattered murmurs of friendly assent and “sure thing’s” followed him. He and his flunkies led us into the store. On the other side of the main room a hallway extended deeper into the building. Trevor flicked a switch as he passed it, and a line of soft white fluorescent lights buzzed into life overhead. Wooden office doors flanked by glass walls marched down the hallway into the distance.

I found myself walking next to one of the girls. She was very pretty. Long black hair, blue eyes and creamy white skin that probably rarely saw the sun for extended periods of time.

She looked at me briefly, and smiled.

I was taken aback.

I shook my head, and I pulled away from her.

I was her enemy here, didn’t she know that? Why should she smile at me? Didn’t she know how serious it was to get a job? But they were always like that, the kids my age. Somehow, to them, even in a battle field situation such as this, social interaction seemed as important to them as getting the job. Were they really so naive? Did they think we could be friends here? Or were they so many leagues ahead of me that they could actually engage this way even knowing all of the already? This was dangerous territory I was entering into. Pretty girls that smiled at me and reached into my pocket only half-aware that they were doing so.

Relax. Relax. RELAX.

‘Berto brought us to a stop at an unmarked door with glass walls on either side. He produced a jingling fistful of keys from his pocket, fingered one of them out, unlocked and opened the door, and charged in. He turned on the lights. Trevor and the Asian girl followed him, then stood against the walls, to allow we applicants to choose our places amongst a grid of combination chair/desks.

“Have a seat, have a seat,” ‘Berto said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm. He walked to the front of the room and stood at the white board. He dropped an armful of manila envelopes on the desk in front of him and smiled out at all of us and none of us.

As chance would have it, I ended up next to the pretty black-haired girl who had smiled at me, and a dark-skinned boy who might have been Indian. Blond crew cut took the desk in front of me.

Trevor and the Asian girl walked up and stood at ‘Berto’s side, hands clasped behind their backs like Naval officers at ease. Smiling and cool, comfortable and distrustful. Trevor hadn’t made eye contact with me once yet.

“Okay!” ‘Berto called out and clapped his hands. “Thank you all, so much, for being here. Let me begin by saying that you here today are the few from the many. The many many many. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t feel that you would bring something special to the position. That being said, there is only one position to fill, so in the end only one of you is going to take it. So, first of all, don’t take it personally. We’re looking for a very specific kind of person with a very specific temperament. You’ve most definitely got something good about you already to have gotten this far, so take comfort in that, at least.”

Don’t worry, ‘Berto, I already have. I have I have, really I have.

I leaned forward and set my elbows on the table and tried to watch him with steady and open-minded interest.

“Okay,” he went on, clasping his hands together. “So I take it you all want very much to work for the Bears’ Lair.”

“Yeah!” somebody said.

“Good. Enthusiasm is good. It’s not an easy job, but it’s not the hardest job in the world either. Your responsibilities will include stocking shelves, managing inventory, and manning cash registers. You have to interact with customers, and you have to move quickly with grace under pressure. You have to be good with math, and you have to be good with your hands. So. Show of hands. Who here has prior retail experience?”

Except for one of the male applicants, we all raised our hands. The guy who didn’t raise his hands looked about the room and flushed.

“Who here has retail experience in a bookstore?”

I raised my hand, as did the pretty brunette girl and the older black man.

“Who here has customer service experience?”

This time we all raised our hands. We’d learned quickly.

“You see? What a well-qualified group.”

We laughed with an unconvincing rattle of collective hiccups. My own laughter embarrassed me, but it seemed that everybody else was embarrassed too, so I was still doing okay. I was trying. That in itself was something, right? But would it be enough? I was here, sure, but didn’t I also need to enjoy myself? It sure seemed like the guy who’d talked to the pretty girl had been enjoying himself.

“So, why are we all here today? Because it’s faster to have a group interview than individual interviews. And because we want you all to get a feel for the skills you’ll have to have. So, we’re going to give you a short written skills and aptitude test. Trevor, would you do the honors?”

“By all means, boss,” Trevor said, opening one of the manilla envelopes and producing a stack of papers. He criss-crossed the room, laying the tests face down on our desks. Clarissa followed him with a box of brand new blue Bic pens, dropping them in front of us with ceremony and sweetness.

‘Berto went on in the meantime: “You have twenty minutes to complete the test. Don’t be nervous. When you are finished, turn your test over and raise your hand. We’ll come by and pick them up, then you can wait for the next stage in the interview process. Okay. Any questions? No? Everybody ready?”

We looked back at him, poised and expectant and eager to please.

It could have just been me. But didn’t all of this seem a bit excessive for a basic clerks job?

“Okay, turn your tests over and begin.”

A collective shuffling papers. Indeed, the test was as ‘Berto had described: a basic arithmetic, filing, and short answer customer service aptitude quiz. It would pose no problem to me at all, but then, my skill with the pen and deductive mind had always been far superior to my skill with the spoken word. As I leaned forward and got started, I realized with a thrill that my spirits had gone high again. The people around me were no longer as intimidating, the world no longer as impenetrable. Here I was, becoming a part of it again. It was possible. I could do it.

I was the first one to finish the test. I knew that this was important. Because the test was so easy, time had to be a factor.

I sat back and shot my hand into the air. Trevor, ‘Berto, and the Asian Girl all looked at me at the same time, and, unless I’m wrong, they all looked impressed. When ‘Berto came forward and took it from me, my neighbors, blond crew cut and pretty brunette, eyed me with naked envy. Them. Envy me. How about that?

I leaned back in my chair, clasped my hands together on my desk, and began tabulating my future earnings. $12.50 an hour, thirty hours a week. Easily covering my rent, my food, my PG&E, and even leaving a little left over. And best of all, I’d be busy again. I’d be tired. I’d be accomplished. I’d be a member of society again.

But, of course, it was no good getting ahead of myself. Then, of course, came the hard part. Then, following the termination of the timed skills and aptitudes test, ‘Berto re-claimed his space at the front of the room: He announnced that we would now be splitting into groups.

I believe that I effectively masked my truly visceral internal reaction — that queer little feeling in your throat when your heart suddenly feels like it’s been soaked in ginger ale. Sweaty and sticky and nervy in my chair, I stood up noisily with the rest of the classroom. I stepped stiffly into the aisle and waited for my group to form, per ‘Berto’s instructions, around Clarissa, just to the left of me, clipboard in hand and smile on her face. Beautiful brunnette, and hostile crew-cut blond joined me, along with one further person who I hadn’t fully noticed before. Sure enough, I broke into a sweat. I waited to wonder how I was going to hold onto my air of ‘belonging’ once I opened my mouth.

I wiped my brow quickly with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Hi everybody,” Clarissa chirped.

I tried to grow a sweaty smile, and was horrified at the difficulty.

“So, how’s everyone doing today?” she asked.

Heads bobbed in unison, and there were collective murmurs of “Well!” and “Great!” and one “Not too bad.” I tried to say something but all that came out when I opened my mouth was a (hopefully) inaudible “Meh.”

She jotted notes on her clipboard as we spoke. She went around the circle with her questions, beginning with crew cut, proceeding to brunette, to kid I hadn’t noticed and terminating with me.

She asked us what we expected from this job, what our ideal job was, how we approached customer service, and why we had left our last positions. Pretty much the typical questions you would expect an interviewer to ask a potential stock clerk. Still, I was caught off guard.

And sure enough, as soon as she asked me a question, there came the unmistakable sound of my Achilles’ Heel snapping. Yep. There it was. You could probably hear it across the room: When I told her that my ideal job was “working in a bookstore,” that I approached customer service as a way “to serve the customers” and that I expected to get “job satisfaction and employment references” from my time at the Bear’s Lair. When I informed her (falsely, quite falsely) that I had left my last position because I had graduated from high school, and “I hoped to pursue a career in a second level retail or educational environment.” The words had just come out of me, because every other muscle in my body had been so focused on keeping itself from embarrassing me. I spoke in a monotone, and I’m not even sure that I blinked.

Everybody gave me weird looks, even Clarissa, who scribbled opaquely on her clipboard. I sweated and I stared and I held onto that composure for dear life. Somehow, right then and there, humiliation seemed a fate worse than death, but I could feel it coming, nonetheless.

And then, before I knew it, the interview was over. Clarissa thanked us for our time, and said that we were done. She’d finished her questions, and we left in a disorganized clump that dispersed in the hall and headed for the exit of the now open Bears’ Lair. I walked home down University Ave. on legs stiff and jerky like undersized circus stilts. It was about a forty minute walk, but it went by in no time at all. I made it back to my room, to my familiar little cave, surrounded by dirty walls and dirty traffic. I took off my blue shirt and tan slacks, dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the bed, mopping up dust and debris from the floor along the way. Then I crawled into bed and waited for the sun to go down. I breathed through my dispirit, through fantastic effort so recently expended to fight down the ginger ale in my throat, to fight back the panic so close to hostility.

I stayed in bed for a long time, half asleep. Some time later, I got up to go to the bathroom. I saw that I had missed a call on my cell phone.

I walked out into the hallway. The lights were on under my neighbors’ doors, but the bathroom was empty. I peed and washed my hands, then I went back to my room, and I opened my laptop. I checked my e-mail. I’d received a message from the Bears’ Lair. I opened it.

I’d gotten the job.

The Bears’ Lair, Part 1: Help Wanted (2 of 2)

Well, I’ll admit it. The sign got me thinking. Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen one in so long, the California economy being what it was.

It’s not like I really needed the money. Ninety-nine weeks is a long time to get chunks of money for free, at least it seems that way when you’re only on week forty. But I was getting worried at how easily and naturally I’d fallen into this inactive stupor I was currently mired in, and how indifferent I was to pulling myself out of it. It had been a long process. Gradual and with little complaint. Like settling into a warm mud bath, except this bath wasn’t a spa, more like some fetid, twisted swamp, with flies buzzing about me, shifting sand under my ass, and snuffling animals pawing through the underbrush. It was a thundering, terrifying, sort of comfortable, sinking further and further into the familiar. The longer you wallow, the harder it is to get yourself out, and it gets to a certain point that you don’t even want to, that you know that if you try you’ll only fail and the next time will be that much harder. And even if you succeed, you’ll only be out of the bath, but still in the swamp. Once you’re there, dripping mud and slow of movement, that’s when the animals notice you, and you’re still too slow to run.

Still, you’re a person. A living breathing thing. So you have to do something to keep your mind alive. Everybody does. So I’d walk around my city. I’d spend time at the parks, listening to the trees and the birds. I’d go down to the waterfront and watch the father-son fishing teams walk back to their cars at sunset. I’d go to the libraries. I indulged, and bought myself notebook laptop, and I taught myself to surf the internet. I played chess online. Sometimes I even looked for a job. And, of course, I read. I read all the time. It was what I did when I wasn’t doing anything else. I read to live. I read to stay connected. I read to keep alive that spark within me that not too many years ago had been a fine and functional fire.

But here’s the kicker. Here’s the milestone that forced my sub-conscious to intervene:

One day I realized that I’d forgotten how to read.

Yep, that’s what happened. I don’t know how else to put it. Not that I just suddenly forgot how to put together letters and words. No, I could read ‘Help Wanted’ just fine, for instance. But I forgot how to read it all together, how to make sense of it. I had been reading for so long, with such increasing desperation, that what I was reading became beside the point. I no longer had a reason to do it, other than as a way to maintain that sick comfort of the mud bath.

A week before the Bears’ Lair, I read Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina in one week. Day in, day out, turning the pages, one after another. Wake up in the morning, pull the shades, and the light would brighten my room. Pick up the book and turn up the corner, as that always identical block of sun traced across the floor. 200 pages a day, sitting on my bed, hours and hours and hours. One, two, three, four days in a row. 900 pages of dense Russian God-knowledge, just like that. And this wasn’t the first time. I’d been doing this for weeks. Months maybe.

When I finished the book, closed the cover and dropped it on the floor, I realized with a sigh that I hadn’t retained a single word. Except for the near final scene, except for Anna’s suicide. That’s what it had taken to shock me out of my stupor. A suicide. From one of the best books ever written.

I didn’t dare pick up a book after that. After that, my sub-conscious got to work. I had to get out of my apartment, and at least around people again. But the libraries were over-familiar. Border’s, no, I couldn’t go there. I had to find somewhere else, to at least see again what life was like for those people who expected it to get better.

So I guess you could say, as so many other have, that Anna Karenina changed my life. Such is the power of books. You don’t even have to read them. Sometimes their reputation is enough.

When I returned to the Bears’ Lair a few days later the Help Wanted sign was still on the door.

Trevor was behind the front counter. He didn’t see me when I came in, and I fled to the back of the store to gather my courage. I recalled that managers like job applicants to know something about the position going into it. Okay, so I would observe my surroundings. I would prepare my pitch, my prior experience. I’d spent a lot of time in my middle school library, way back then. I worked at the Border’s in Emeryville before it closed down, and I’d spent so much time in Barnes & Nobles that, for a period of time, I might as well have been an employee. I’d worked at Target in high school. I really was a good match — as long as they didn’t find out why I was banned from Barnes & Nobles, or why I was fired from Border’s, which, admittedly, was potentially still a pretty big problem. No sense in denial. I would have to keep myself under control this time. But I could do it. I could do it.

I wandered the floor for maybe half an hour. Book stores really were pretty amazing places. You could spend a thousand lifetimes absorbing the knowledge contained within their walls. I wandered the shelves. I passed my hand over their bindings, slowed to a stop, picked out a large artbook of Van Gogh prints. The pictures inside alive and glowing in colors vibrant, glossy and bumpy to the touch like the original paintings. The famous reliefs of the tortured artist’s apartment, ensuing pages of detail insets, the chair with the cast off shirt, the window to the outside world and the stray wisp of cloud caught passing through it. The fruits of a lonely imagination. A book that could always teach you. A thing of pure positivity.

And that’s when, sure enough, as I’d known I would eventually, I felt the urge, powerful yet subtle, like a case of heart burn. The book in my hands became an object of possession. It lost its weight, the paintings lost their coherence. A strange, selfish and muffled frustration flooded the back of my throat, subsuming all other concerns and tertiary observations.

I looked both ways down the aisle. I was alone. I checked the ceiling, furtive and embarrassed, for cameras. I didn’t see any. I opened the book fully and sighted down the spine for security strips. There were none. It would fit under my shirt. I was wearing jeans and a belt and I had a loose-fitting hoody in my backpack. I could do it easily. And then I could walk out, and have something new to be proud of, something else to pass the long, dull nights lying on my bed, listening to the walls and the traffic out my window. It would make such a great addition to my book shelf. I could already see it there, lovely and expensive and mine.

I closed the book violently. It made a clapping sound.

No. No. No. No. I couldn’t. Not again. I had to get out of the mud bath. I had to get out and there was nobody else to do it for me and there were only so many times that you can pass up your opportunities, the strong hands and branches reaching out that maybe you can grab hold of if you reach.

I set the book back on the shelf, then I left the aisle in a hurry. I marched directly towards the front of the store, towards Trevor, towards my destiny.

In the bright and orderly front of the store, where they sold the Cal merchandise, the flip flops and suntan lotion and Bears sweatshirts, the lines at the counter were thin. A pretty brown haired girl in sweat pants and a tank top smiled at me as she walked by, pulling my attention after her for a moment. I blinked.

Trevor was standing at the cash register closest to the door, with a small clutch of girls gathered on the opposite side of the counter from him, appreciating his banter and his confidence. I had to remind myself not to get dispirited if they didn’t act the same towards me. Girls have a very keen nose for neuroticism. At least I’d dressed well today.

But I wouldn’t allow myself to think about these useless things, these pointless distractions. The urge had come too close. It was still fresh in my mind. I realized with something like an epiphany that it would be a shame to waste. Maybe it had a use after-all.

I approached the counter.

When Trevor saw me, he made an expression of slight recognition.

I cleared my throat and said “Hello.”

“Hey…” Trevor smiled warily and pointed at me, extending index finger from raised thumb. “John? Right?

“Jonathon.”

“Right, Jonathon, how’s it going?”

“Trevor.”

“Yeah, Trevor,” he grinned, big-toothed, disarming. “What’s going on?”

I hesitated to answer. His girls considered me suspiciously. When they saw I was on to them they turned away.

“Well,” I said, shaking them off. “I was wondering. Did you ever figure out where it was that you knew me?”

Trevor shook his head.

“Cause I was thinking, how long have you been in Berkeley?”

“About six years.”

“You’re in grad school?”

“Masters in chemical engineering.”

“That makes sense,” I swallowed. “You’re a few years older than me. I grew up in Berkeley, I’ve worked all over the place. Did you ever go to the Borders in Emeryville?”

“You mean before it closed down?” he smiled. Borders had only been closed down a few months. Trevor was trying to make a joke. Trevor was nervous.

“Yeah, before it closed down.”

“I guess I did,” he said.

“Okay, I used to work there.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh.” I swallowed again. “I’ve also worked at Target, I volunteered at the library in middle school and I’ve landscaped with a professional gardening crew. I like retail. But I really like books. I like bookstores, libraries, places like that.”

Trevor nodded. He itched the cleft of his chin and cocked his head. He saw it now, why I was here. I kept my head up and my back straight. I waited for his answer.

“Okaayy…” he said.

“I saw the sign on the door,” I continued.

He nodded.

“I see.”

He looked over my shoulder.

“Excuse me, Jonathon,” he said, giving somebody a raised nod.

I scurried to the side, I’d been holding up the line.

I took the place the girls had vacated at the counter to Trevor’s right. I waited for the well-scrubbed kids to make their purchases, and I tried my hardest not to look like an unemployed local.

When the line died down again, Trevor taking an over-long time fiddling at the cash register, I stepped forward and he spoke to me without looking up from the register:

“So why’d you stop working at Border’s?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was in high school, I guess I got bored.” (Half truths are the best foundations for a good lie.)

Trevor closed the register and turned half towards me, half towards the girls, who were watching us with interest. Could be that they’d never seen a job interview before.

“I really like bookstores,” I said. “I like being around books. I know a lot about them.”

“Are you asking for a job here, Jonathon?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes. I am.”

“Have you ever worked in scholastic environments before?” he asked.

I shook my head. “But I’ve worked in retail. I know how to work a cash register. I know how to stock shelves, use a price gun, and read a stock list. I can even shrinkwrap. Also, I know a lot about books.”

“Yeah, I remember I could tell that,” he said, and I knew right then that I was doing good, I knew right then that he liked me.

He kept one hand on the register and tapped a rhythm on the hollow metal.

“Let me get an application,” he said, and knelt down into the shelf beneath the register and produced a single double-sided sheet of paper with the regal UC Berkeley coat of arms in the upper right corner and a plethora of lined spaces and boxes to fill in beneath.

“It’s only part-time,” he said.

“That’s fine.”

“Okay, just fill this out,” he said.

“Alright, I can fill it out here.”

“You need to list your references and your work experience.”

“That’s fine. I remember them.”

“Phone numbers? Addresses?”

“Uh-huh.”

He laughed. “Well go ahead then, I guess. But maybe you’re overqualified.”

I took the paper from him. “I’ll just go take one of these chairs and use a book to write on. Can I borrow a pen?”

“Sure thing,” he handed me one, then he leaned towards me, that disarming grin grown familiar and a little more honest.

“But listen,” he said. “Don’t give it to me just now. I’m not gonna be making the hiring decisions. I’m the floor supervisor, but the manager’s not in today. Come back tomorrow, and ask for ‘Berto.”

“Roberto?”

“Dagoberto, he goes by ‘Berto.”

“Okay.”

“That’s the best I can do for you. If you make a good impression you might have a chance. But we’ve been getting a lot of applications.”

“I’m sure.”

There’s no way to gauge a stranger’s sincerity. Trevor knew this. After offering that hint at alliance he drew back. He’d given me an inside track, and he’d given me his attention. But he hadn’t yet given me his endorsement, and I had no way of knowing if he would. This much, he held back. His honest smile became a slit-eyed grin. Even he who took pride in his magnanimity could not help but draw pleasure from the power of the employer. Probably there are few who can.

“Thanks,” I said. “I mean that.”

“Oh that’s alright. I could tell you were a book person soon as I saw you.”

“I’ll just fill this out.”

“You do that.”

I nodded and retreated before he changed his mind. I went back into the shelves, despite what he’d said about coming back tomorrow. I was ready. I would fill it out now. This was the perfect place for it.

I selected an appropriately sized hardcover book, and I found a reading chair. I sat down, crossed an ankle up on my knee, and rested the book on the joint of my knee and thigh. I smoothed the application out steady on the book. I started to fill it out. Just as I’d known they would, the names, addresses and phone numbers of my prior workplaces unfurled out from my hand and down through the pen scratching across the paper, easy as water downhill, and when I blinked and looked up, the store seemed to have emptied, and the application was complete. I put it in my backpack, and I left.

When I returned the next day, I was wearing my best clothes. A pale blue collared shirt, tan slacks, and black imitation leather wait shoes that could’ve passed for dress shoes, at least by my reckoning. I’d combed my hair, maybe for the first time since I’d had my last job. I’d showered and shampooed, and I’d even used a neighbors’ conditioner naively left in the common shower for the taking. It felt good to look good, like wearing a clever disguise. I might as well have been a student.

Trevor wasn’t at the counter. There were three cashiers, and they were all women, and probably none of them were named Dagoberto.

I didn’t want to my application over to them. That would ruin my only edge. But I didn’t want to linger either. I didn’t want to lose my sense of purpose, my tenuous hold on normalcy.

So I stutter-stepped and started back into the bookshelves. What else could I do?

Over the last couple days, and for no reason that I could strictly pin down, I’d come to really want this job. I had to own this want. I told myself it was good. I told myself it was normal. I told myself to work it like I would the urge, with intelligence and savvy and a sense of excitement. Of real danger, because, when it comes down to it, that’s where I was, in danger. Life is like that. There is always danger, and I’d lived with it for long enough.

An hour later I’d read about 30 pages from a book I’d randomly selected. I left the book in the lap of the reading chair. I went back to the front of the store. And sure enough, I saw Dagoberto: A shortish man with pale copper skin and black-gray hair tied into a short ponytail, standing at the front counter, off to the side and removed from the cashiers, propped up on one straight arm and hand flattened on the counter, considering some papers in his other hand. There was no mistaking the solid, imposing carriage of the retail floor manager.

I opened my backpack, and produced my application, neatly paperclipped to a crisp and clean manila folder. I steeled myself, one last time, and I approached.

The Bears’ Lair, Part 1: Help Wanted (1 of 2)

“Hey. Hey, buddy.”

I didn’t respond. I hoped the voice wasn’t directed at me.

“Hey,” the unfamiliar voice said again, closer now. “Hey. Hey, buddy.”

I looked up, the book open in my hands.

I was greeted with a disarming grin, beaming from the face of an individual I vaguely recognized, an individual my age. He was black (black people are the masters of disarming grins). He was clean-cut, with a close shaved head, standing tall and bright and alive in crisp blue jeans and the distinctive Cal Bears long-sleeved shirt that was the bookstore’s uniform. A laminated photo ID hung by lanyard from around his neck. His grin told me that I had nothing to fear.

“Hey,” I said.

“Um. Do you need help finding anything?” he asked, but still with that no-harm-meant grin.

“No,” I shook my head.

A couple kids our age shouldered past us. The college kids, the kids who were supposed to be here. I tried not to notice them.

“You sure?” he asked, his grin taking on a strangely intimate element of concern.

“No, really,” I shook my head again, a little too vigorously. “I’m just, you know, looking.”

“You aren’t a student here are you?”

“No,” I grunted.

Jig’s up. Let the orders to vacate commence.

But no, I was wrong. His grin stayed strong and bright, almost as if he were expecting this.

I wasn’t sure what to think. It honestly seemed that right now he wanted nothing more than to know more about me. As if I were an unusual scientific specimen that had wandered onto a petri dish.

He nodded at the book.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

I closed it so I could show him the cover, though out of habit I kept my thumb marking the page I was at. Not that I was going to finish my reading. Sadly, this was pretty much a foregone conclusion. Even if he did decide to let me be, there was no way I’d be able to relax enough to resume activity.

Ernest Becker’s The Denial of Death,” he read. “Huh.”

I watched him. His grin faded slightly, left a shadow of careful understanding in its place. I’d seen that sort of understanding before, too. Usually it didn’t survive the first major confusion.

“Why you reading that,” he asked, “if you don’t even go to school here?”

I shrugged.

“It’s interesting,” I said.

“You like reading textbooks?”

“Some of them.”

“Funny.”

“Well.”

“Something particularly fascinating about this book?”

“Well,” I shrugged, and I gave him the first answer that came to mind, though it wasn’t strictly the truth: “Not really.”

For some reason, this made him laugh, and his grin became genuinely genuine.

“The reason I came up to you…” he went on, “is I recognize you from somewhere.”

“You do?”

“You live in Berkeley?”

I nodded. Was it so obvious? Not a student, neither by look or admission.

“I thought so. I think you were a customer somewhere else I worked.”

“Oh.”

Now I too was curious. I wanted to know where he knew me from, and why he seemed intent on sharing with me his good nature. So now I felt some pressure, because now I had to reciprocate:

“Where else have you worked?” I asked.

Sure enough, he withdrew and his grin wavered. I’d gone too far. I always do that.

“Well, I was waiting tables over at Homemade Café for a while last year, last summer,” he offered, a perfectly normal response, a perfectly popular restaurant.

No, that wasn’t it.

“I also worked at Barnes & Nobles on Shattuck,” he continued. “Before they closed it down.”

That must be it.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he said.

“It’s possible.”

I said no more. Yes, that was quite as far as I intended to pursue this particular story line. I was probably one of the only people in Berkeley to have been relieved when the Barnes & Nobles had closed down. There had been a period of time, a few years, to be honest, where I couldn’t comfortably walk down that stretch of Shattuck Avenue. A sense of impending embarrassment would douse me in cold sweat, only to relieve when I turned the corner or crossed the street. If this guy recognized me from Barnes & Nobles, I was in for it. I tried not to give anything away, but he must’ve noticed something in me:

“Why do I recognize you?” he persisted, his grin in danger of disappearing altogether. “Were you a regular?”

“I’m… Well. Yes. I mean, I’m a big reader,” I managed, “and I like bookstores. I like books. I don’t always buy them, but I like to read them.”

“So I saw you in there?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. You must have stood out.”

“I guess cause I was browsing so much. Eventually they told me that I couldn’t come back.”

His smile pulled inward and his eyes slitted. He shook his head, ever so slightly. A silence held and became awkward, and he turned briefly away from me, craning his neck over the bookshelf as if he’d heard something. Then he looked back at me, his grin renewed.

“Most Berkeley-ites don’t usually come to this store for browsing,” he said.

“You can’t find textbooks like this anywhere else,” I said.

“That’s true,” he answered, then he laughed. “I guess that’s cause nobody wants to read them.”

I flushed.

“Well,” I said.

He smiled again. He took a few steps back.

“Well,” he said, amiably, “I hope you have a good day, Jonathon. Take as much time as you need.”

What? What? What?

Gratefulness washed over me like a dash of water.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. This was one of the nicest things anybody had done for me in a long time. It felt strange. I didn’t know what to do with it.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

“My name’s Trevor,” he said, and extended his hand.

I looked at it. I looked at him. His disarming grin was back, wide as it had ever been. This was strange. This was encouraging. He didn’t think I was so bad. He saw me as someone not beyond compassion, not beyond repair. Black people often have this initially accommodating quality. It was understandable. They could probably rattle off half a dozen people way worse than me. But then again, they usually didn’t get to know me so well either.

I reached out and shook his hand.

“And what’s your name?” he said slowly, emphasizing “your.”

“Jonathan. Jonathan Billings.”

“Okay,” he said and laughed again. “Have a good day, Jonathan. You seem to be an interesting cat. It makes me feel good to do right by an honest book lover. Maybe next time you come in you can buy something then.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. Companionable and manly and wholly un-homoerotic. What a great gesture. What a cool guy.

I looked over my shoulder at him as he passed, and indeed, he walked fast and assured and turned the next corner in the stacks with just as much assurance, his mind already resetting to whatever challenge his freedom-packed life would offer him next.

A student. I could see it in his walk.

Huh. How about that.

That had been unexpected. Maybe I was alright after all. Maybe it was okay that I stood out so obviously.

I stood a little longer with the book. I even considered opening it up again. It really was a good book. I really was getting something out of it.

But then I saw another lanyard-wearing employee approaching, and I realized it was time to make myself scarce.

I replaced The Denial of Death on the shelf, and I left, with a slight welling of irritation at this stupid Trevor for preventing me from fully enjoying my chapter of this book.

And yet, later that week, by some unfamiliar combination of motivations that I’ll choose not to closely analyze, I chose to return to the Bears’ Lair Books.

This time of year, when the school year was right around the corner, a store like this would be at its busiest. Outside, University and Telegraph Avenues were thick with bright, clean, fresh-faced freshmen, as was the campus itself. Groups of ebullient youngsters, like me in age alone. Walking packs of grins and laughing innocence. You couldn’t help but resent their recognizability.

We’re not all hippies, we Berkeley-ites, not by a long shot, though supposedly we’re one of the only places in the country where the genuine article still exists. I know I look the part, but it’s not intentional. My appearance modifies itself. I have nothing to do with it. Sure, I can make myself presentable when I really try, but it never lasts. I can watch where I step, wipe my shoes when I walk through a door, change my shirt every day and shower every morning. I can color-coordinate when I dress, and I can make sure that my jeans are washed once a week. But I inevitably let my guard down. The cuffs of my jeans become worn and threaded. Long-sleeved flannel shirts become my choice of default. My hair, well, I haven’t combed it in years. I cut it myself, mostly the back, just so I don’t look like a girl, which my childhood classmates used to accuse me of, back in the day, permanently scarring me. The image I cut, shambling along with my dirty old backpack, my messy mop of hair, my dirty jeans and threadbare shirts, I know it’s the kind of thing people who don’t know Berkeley might stop and marvel at. They might wonder what I do to pass my days, how I could have got like this, why I don’t clean myself up and get a job. Well, most of the time I’d be hard pressed to answer. What can I say. It’s just who I am. Even crossing over into Oakland or El Cerrito feels like entering a foreign country (or how entering a foreign country must feel for regular people — I don’t even want to speculate).

How strange then to find myself drawn so strongly and decisively to the beating shining heart of the one place in my city I feel the least comfortable. Maybe this was my subconscious, having run out of all other options, finding one last way to kick-start me. People always talk of the subconscious as if it’s smarter than the person, outwitting us at every turn and making us guess. I guess it is. According to Ernest Becker and the rest of the psycho psychologists, it knows something we don’t. Even when we hate it, we would always do well to respect it. You never know what it’s going to do.

In the bookstore’s freshest of freshmen crowd, I was reasonably safe. As long as I avoided eye contact they would probably allow me my space relatively un-judged. For these first few days, they were the intruders, not me.

I wandered. They walked by me and around me. I found a textbook on European art history. I found a reading chair by the wall and I took a half an hour and I read a chapter. I even thought of buying it. More like I thought about what it would be like being able to buy it. Because no, this wasn’t an option. I have enough to get by, but I don’t spend easily. I probably could buy it, if I really wanted. But then, there goes about half of that week’s unemployment check.

After about an hour, I stood up. I was feeling my oats. I’d been watching the crowd, and you know what, they weren’t so bad. Sure, they were rich, sure, they were innocent, sure they had the world at their feet and they didn’t even know it. But you know what, I have something that they don’t. I have experience. I have authenticity. I know who I am, I know what life is like. They have no idea. If I wanted, I could eat each and every one of them for breakfast.

Anyways, I’d had enough.

I put the textbook back where I’d found it, and I headed for the exit.

And there, taped to the glass doors with the bright sunlight shining on beyond them, (somehow I must have missed it on the way in), there was a sign. A sign that until not too long ago used to be a fairly common sight, but was now a testament in itself. I’ve seen it. Even those who have jobs. These days, everybody pauses a moment at these signs, turn their heads to read as they walk by on their way.

I did too.

I stood at the door, and I looked at the sign.

Orange block lettering, black background, white border. Blank white strip underneath where the details for the position should have been, but weren’t.

‘Help Wanted’ is what it said.

Help Wanted.

Isn’t it always.

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The Lakeview Elementary Sit-In, Part 1: They’ve Done It Right

If this is to be one of the last of my Occupy hurrahs, as seems increasingly likely, at least on any kind of scale approaching grandeur, than it is a good one. The sit-in at Lakeview Elementary, one of four schools closed by the Oakland school board, is a perfect example of the impact Occupy has had on our local culture, the resilience of Oakland’s people and the merit of resistance, and, no matter how it turns out, it should be remembered as a prototype for what we should watch for in the years to come, the pockets of resistance that will spring up, which will need support. There might not be any such thing as an Occupy 2.0. At its best, there never really was such a thing as an Occupy 1.0. As soon as there became a “we”, rather than a “99%”, the way was lost. We can thank the repression of the government and the police forces, though we shouldn’t blame or hate them — they were only doing what they were supposed to do. Those of us who came together, and those of us who drift apart, should take to heart the lessons we learned. We should remember. It’s a good thing that so many of us were young. Our expertise will surely come in handy again, later in our lifetimes. This was an extremely important battle that we waged, and we never really did have a chance of winning, we all knew this.  When the time comes, we’ll still be here. And now we know that there are a lot of us, just waiting for something to happen.

Something like the Lakeview Sit-In. The People’s School for Public Education, staffed as it is by professional teachers, by parents, by enthusiastic volunteers, has been, in my opinion and from my perspective, an unqualified success. I’d been interested in the pending school closures as an issue for a while, because, in my rhetorical-political-Occupy mind, I thought of them as a perfect opportunity for a coincidental cross-section of labor, community, and Occupy-style protest. I’d remembered that the decision to close Lakeview Elementary’s had lead to flyering and speak-out campaigns months earlier. One of the multi-thousand person marches back in November had been organized around this issue. It had seemed such a strange and forgetful shock to remember that I hadn’t heard hardly anything about it since. While we were busy Fucking the Police (erm, for lack of a better term) and arguing about diversity of tactics, a real, painful and absolutely tangible injustice was playing out underneath our noses. How did we miss that?

Well, as it turns out, we didn’t. That is, if “we” were to include the full breadth indeed of the “99%,” and would therefore include the Occupy Oakland Education Committee, Occupy Education California, the Liberate Education folks, and Joel Velasquez, the Lakeview parent leading the charge at Lakeview Elementary. In the weeks prior to the sit-in, based on the OO Ed meetings I’d attended I was a bit dubious — I wasn’t sure that one parent would be enough. But, apparently, it was. Coupled with parents and students and like-minded teachers, that was all it took. Joel has been the forefront of the action, and he is a good one — good looking and well spoken, and when his kids take the mic they match these qualities with their sheer adorableness. Behind him are a few veteran left wing education figures such as Jack Gerson and Bob Mandel, and a few stunningly beautiful female teachers, including Feyi Ajayi-Dopemu. All of them have presence and charisma and deep knowledge of the issues both local and systemic. Underlining their arguments, literally right behind them on the steps of Lakeview, now draped in protest banners and alive with children and arts and crafts, is one of the most demonstrable failures of American society — the abandonment of public education, the gutting of urban school systems, the consistent and almost willful neglect of minority children. Concerning the Oakland school systems deep fiscal difficulties, the closure of the 5 schools (the 4 schools now, after Lazear’s application to become a privatized charter was accepted), seems just about one of the most clumsy and ham-handed solutions imaginable. At a dinner party a few weeks ago I actually got a chance to meet one of the school board members who voted for this closure, Jemoke Hodges. Ironically enough, her husband is a Lakeview alumnus. This was a source of tension between them — she became very defensive when I brought the issue up, and a few days later I noticed in a picture of one of the daily rallies, her husband, sitting on the steps, looking away from the cameras. According to what she told me at the party, her line of reasoning, that is, why they chose these 5 particular schools, consisted of their poor academics, and the fact that many of the students served lived in neighborhoods far removed from the school site — both of which rang to me as convenient excuses rather than thoroughly thought-out reasoning, given OUSD’s aggressive drive to charterization, the high levels of gentrification in the neighborhoods surrounding the schools in question, and the city of Oakland’s generally liberal and wrong-headed use of its limited funds. The former site of Lakeview Elementary will be the new home of OUSD’s administrative offices. Santa Fe has been auctioned off to Emeryville. At a town hall meeting about a month ago, the influential Coach Tapscott leveled the charge that the city wanted the buildings, literally wanted the brick and mortar real estate in order to make money off of them. Seems true enough. Of course, given the diminished population of children and families, Oakland probably does have too many schools — but it seems extremely unfair, and even suspicious which schools end up slated for closure. Rather than displace 1,300 kids at the stroke of a pen, why not roll back the “small schools” that were more recently opened? Could it be because they are charters? My elementary alma matter, Oakland Arts Magnets, was closed several years ago, ostensibly because of a re-orientation of priorities from the arts and music, which were used to buttress our education in maths and sciences and English, and in my opinion gave us all a pretty well-rounded education, given the perpetually high demands we inflicted on our over-worked teachers. What it comes down to is a question of priorities. Who are the indispensable ones, in the eyes of city leaders. Obviously, they are not the children of Oakland.

The sit-in itself started off quietly, relatively speaking. Arriving at the school at 4:30 on Friday, it seemed a scene familiar from my own childhood, the last hours of a school before summer break, when for some reason a slight surfeit of teachers and and children and attached adults seem to linger around as if reluctant to leave. In typical Occupy style, they held a barbecue in the back yard. The parents and teachers on the OO Ed committee set up their tents and began painting and dropping banners. The media was there in force, though when I watched it later that evening, the tone of this coverage had almost more a resigned than hopeful quality, as if this action were a slight poeticism rather than a militant resistance. When evening fell, Occupiers set up a sound system on the sidewalk, and engaged Grand Avenue in a manic dance party, booming Michael Jackson, the Coup and 2pac out into the up-scale Grand Lake District, catching a surfeit of supportive honks and quizzical looks, and even a slight degree of fear. When Occupiers are out in force, they are something to see. There’s anger and militancy even in their dancing. There’s the sense of fight in the very air, and potency to the very standing in the place you are standing. I am going to miss this feeling so much. I am going to miss them so very much. I wonder when we’ll all see each other again. Because I am certain that we will. We must.

The teachers though wouldn’t want the Occupiers to commandeer the event, and they packed up the sound system after about an hour and a half. Then, they told most of us to go home. This was a teacher-led action. This was a community-led action. Only those “directly affected” were to participate to the fullest extent. Lakeview Elementary was not to become an Oscar Grant Plaza. Not even a 19th and Telegraph. No, there was something in the very air telling all of us so. I would go back to this school again and again over the coming week, perhaps in the hope of influencing them otherwise. This was a real fight they had here, and I wanted to be a part of it. I believe that I was willing to get arrested for it. Why? It wasn’t even my fight. Maybe in part because it was Occupy’s fight. It was a part of the fight, a small, real example of the sickness in the system, one of the many reasons for the pain in my beloved Oakland. Thusly, I wanted more participation probably than my back-story justifies. But what fight could I make my own? I have no idea.

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Can Occupy Oakland Save Lakeview Elementary?

This weekend, something big is going down. This Friday is the last day of the school year, and the day that 5 public schools in Oakland are slated to close, all in the flatlands, all primarily composed of poor and minority students. A perfect example of the slashing of public services, of the slanted priorities of our country’s leaders, of the hopelessness of our political system to do anything to stop it. Lakeview Elementary School, long-standing, well-loved and prominently situated, will become an OUSD Administrative Building. Next year, its 300 students will attend school elsewhere, sometimes across town, with no extra money offered them to pay for the bus. That is, unless Occupy has anything to say about it. Or, more accurately, a coalition of parents, teachers and students engaging in Occupy-style tactics, with support from Occupy-style activists, minus the bad stuff. Minus the Black Bloc, police provocation and property destruction. They will engage in a sit-in, and if they make it through the weekend, they will re-open the school on Monday for a weeklong free summer program. If they make it through this week, who knows what will happen. Maybe they will want to stay longer. And maybe the police will be called out to stop them. But, if the crowd is truly composed of parents and teachers, and even students, maybe, just maybe, the police and their handlers will be forced to think twice before they storm the locked school doors.

This could be big. In fact, I’ll go so far to say perhaps the biggest since the second port shutdown, and, springing from the long-standing grievances of a long-ignored community, a true first of its kind. We all need to be at this. I don’t say this lightly, but this is important.

Last night, I attended my first city council candidate debate. Six of the seven 3rd District hopefuls showed up, including Alex Miller-Cole, Chair of the San Pablo Corridor Coalition, and the man who has just recently officially employed me as a writer, editor and advisor for his campaign (unfortunately, Jessica Hollie, the Occupy candidate, did not make it). My full-time temp work came to a conclusion in mid-May. Since then, I’ve been moving and house hunting, juggling re-entry into unemployment and struggling to get back into the writing gigs I’d been holding down before. Strangely enough, I’d been looking forward to this for some time. I’ve looked forward to pursuing community organizing, to pursuing Occupy, wherever it may lead, because I do believe it will lead somewhere. I will have to find my niche, and, in fact, I may be finding it. As a white kid from the lower middle class, with an education one would think that puts me definitively to a certain side. But furthermore as a born and raised local who has largely had to make it on his own since getting out of college, I believe I have a perspective that I am sure can be put to use in some way. I’ve found that I love organizing, and I strongly believe that the Occupy model offers something unique and truly powerful when it’s applied correctly, when it bridges divides, rather than exacerbates them.

Interestingly enough, my niche might be something of a political (dreaded word) liaison. I caught Alex Miller-Cole’s eye through my work with the Brooms Collective (our groups have partnered for weekly clean-ups in West Oakland for about four months now) and he soon recruited me to his campaign. While I was working full-time I wasn’t able to apply myself as much as either of us would have liked. Furthermore, I believe my independence is important. I do not want to be a simple employee, and I’ve come to honestly believe that Alex feels the same way. I think he needs somebody like me, who is trying to work within Occupy and who loves Oakland. And, frankly, I think Occupy needs somebody like me as well. That is, somebody who can help to represent their side to people like Alex, who, when we first started partnering with him, had a far different opinion of us than he does now. I do not believe this is co-option. I’m not important enough to influence Occupy in any major way. They can take it. But as long as they don’t completely exclude me I could bring some tangible benefits I believe. A whole different set of platforms to get our issues out there.

Well, to get back to the debate. Sponsored by the Adams Point Action Council (or APAC, certainly not to be confused with AIPAC), the event was held in the Bellevue Club, which, in its tony Old Money, Old Politics nouveau Roman building in the heart of the Lake Merritt Adams Point Park, could not have been a more fitting venue. I thought that Alex did quite well. He had creative, out of the box ideas, and he spoke with passion. People listened to him, and I believe they will remember him. I know very little about local politics. This was my first time seeing any of the other candidates in person (except Sean Sullivan, Alex’s chief competitor, the career politician of the bunch — the Hillary Clinton to Alex’s Barack Obama — Alex has introduced me to him fleetingly at other events). I found that Derek Yves came across as reasonable and likable and levelheaded, though I disagreed strongly with his politics — he supports OUSD Superintendent Tony Smith, for instance. When one of the audience questions called in the candidates to describe how they would have “handled” the Occupy protests, surprisingly enough for me, all of them went out of their way to label themselves supporters — initial lip service quickly reduced to meaninglessness through a surfeit of qualifications, and a condescending insistence that the best chance of “handling them” was through better police training (which is kind of like saying that the best way for NATO to deal with the Taliban is to shoot better weapons at them).

I didn’t come to the debate empty-handed — I’d brought fliers for Lakeview (I’ve got more on the way, and Alex says he’s printing as we speak). I distributed them to those around me, and they read with interest, including the ‘Principles of This Action’ section (a first inclusion on such paperwork), which specifically prohibits Black Bloc tactics, vandalism/property destruction, and confrontation with the police. I did not get into any arguments about this action. Likewise when I was handing out flyers on Grand Avenue the day before. You see respect come into their eyes. Even something like hope, the more they think about it. Maybe Occupy is worth salvaging after all, you can see them thinking. Because perhaps we are the last hope for saving the schools after all. Because, when you think about it, maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to do it.

Anyhow, it seemed somehow appropriate to bring fliers to this event. Nobody is in favor of school closures (though of course acknowledging that the issue is complex and must be fully understood before effective policy can be crafted). Certainly not most voters. Because if we are able to take and hold this school, if we are able to get ourselves onto the news, back into the dreaded Mainstream Media (which, after-all, played a big part in our getting the numbers that we did way back in October and November), that is the first step in just maybe winning a fight such as this. As of right now, that’s something that Occupy is still lacking — a political ally. That could be valuable indeed. They can only help, though of course they won’t all the time. We don’t have to owe them anything, and if we remember that than the threat of co-option should not worry us. If you ask me, if we can actually help to save Lakeview, or any other like positive and successful resistance, than we should not refuse or turn our noses up to allies of all kinds, politicians included.

So, this was a lengthy post. If anybody’s still reading, than I suppose you’ve seen that I believe in this pretty strongly. Of course I do. I hope to see you this Friday. Hopefully you won’t be alone.

Searching for Occupy 2.0: Here’s to the Fights Worth Fighting

It is probably facetious to say outright that Occupy is dead. At the same time, there’s truth in the statement. Since May 1st, generally seen as a disappointment if not an overtly spectacular one, it seems indisputable here in Oakland that things have changed. The Oscar Grant Plaza Gazette, which served an important role as a running catalogue of Occupy Oakland actions and events and related writings since the first camp’s inception, has officially packed it in, stating that in manic effort at self-preservation, “Occupy Oakland as such is on a slow and sure downslide as we fail to become less insular and self-referential and remain largely irrelevant to local struggles.” Bay of Rage, which seems to function as something of an intellectual voice for the anarchists and black bloccers, published an article entitled “Occupy Oakland is dead. Long live the Oakland Commune” (pretty well demonstrating the eternal elusiveness of any definitive statements regarding this movement). A working group has formed in effort to plan a re-thinking of the General Assemblies, whose attendance has dwindled and all but flattened in the weeks following May Day. My own prediction had been that Occupy Oakland, whose popular support within the city by many accounts has all but evaporated, would become increasingly irrelevant, but activists who had already connected, and the many virtually autonomous working groups which formed beneath the OO umbrella, would branch out to find their own battles to wage. Meanwhile, the state, with their ruthless persecution of the (honestly quite cooperative) Gill Tract Occupy farmers serving as a perfect example, has proven that they have no intention at all of pulling back the pressure. Many Occupiers these days are beginning to look a little worn, a little dispirited, in stark contrast to the energy and enthusiasm of only a few months ago. Indeed, many could be forgiven for declaring the American Occupy Movement dead, or at the very least on terminal life support.

And yet, while in many senses they would be right, they also couldn’t be more wrong. Occupy 1.0 is dead. The camps are dead, and they’re not coming back. But the new word buzz word now, repeated over and over on list serve e-mails and the endless underground journalism articles shared through them, is Occupy 2.0. Occupy, phase 2. While the first incarnation of Occupy Oakland may be dead, its spirit is very much alive. And, after-all, what more was there to begin with? Of the several list serves to which I subscribe, Labor Solidarity, Occupy the Hood (now called ROOTS), Brooms Collective, Occupy Education, none have shown any discernible drop in activity. Even Occupy Oakland, which (forgive me) I now almost exclusively identify with endless police skirmishes, still shows signs of potency and danger. This is perhaps best evidenced by the immediate and truly inspiring reaction to the shamelessly extra-judicial arrest of Christopher, an active, well-known and well-loved OO member, who was charged with assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon (which turned out to be no more than his own voice projected through a megaphone). Chris and others had attended a townhall meeting called for OPD officials to address the Alan Blueford shooting. It was a meeting which fast turned riotous, and the anger and shouting followed Chief Jordan and his entourage out of the hall when they left and into their cruisers. Chris was one of those leading the charge. Perhaps 30 minutes later Chris was followed and quite literally kidnapped by OPD Officers. This time they went too far. This was made evident that very evening, when the weekly Fuck the Police march drew numbers greater than it ever had before, and (somewhat uncharacteristically) remained peaceful. NLG Lawyers were out in force at Chris’ hearing the next day. And, sure enough, Chris’ bail was lowered and the charges drastically reduced. All of this within 24 hours of his arrest. Maybe it’s wishful thinking to detect a little fear in the immediacy of the city’s response. Had more peaceful protests continued, and Chris’ situation not remedied, the city at large might have learned a little more about the repression going on in downtown Oakland everyday, right under their noses, might have learned why those FTP marches have managed on for so long after all. It hasn’t happened in a vacuum, that’s for sure.

But FTP marches cannot define the movement. If they do, then, in my opinion, the state will have effectively won. Our message will have been subdued and many of the very people who should be joining us will instead bear the worst of a fight that isn’t theres. Right now, I think of the FTP marches, the vandalism and the police provocation, as last desperate attempts to cling to Occupy 1.0. So then, what is Occupy 2.0? Where do we find it? What will it look like?

To a large degree, it will look like what was already there. Just more so. Here I can only speak for Oakland. Oakland is what I know and I have never been to an Occupy elsewhere (except Berkeley, and I wouldn’t go back). Oakland has a long history of activism, and groups such as Just Cause, ACCE and Ella Baker have deep roots here. The “community organizer” title here is not an empty abstraction, and now, since Occupy, there are just a lot more them. With the camps disappeared, we have been forced to get away from our comfort zones. We have been forced out of our shell, to engage in the hard work of alliance building, to consider the issues that people face on the day to day, those problems that need fixing, that many have been working towards fixing for generations. Oftentimes we can provide numbers and energy to fights that are already being waged. Other times we can create self-functioning organizations ourselves.

Such is the case for Occupy Education, and possibly the newly formed Workers’ Assemblies. Occupy Education in California is a mammoth list serve of teachers and educators, some employed and some not, some members of the union, some temporary hires and Teach for America alums. Some of them are just parents, and some of them, like myself, are unaffiliated with any of them. I’ll be attending my first GA for this group on Saturday. I attended a Townhall meeting at Lakeview Elementary, one of five Oakland public schools slated to close in a few weeks (all of which attended by primarily poor, primarily minority students). Then I attended an Occupy Oakland Education meeting the next week. These are groups that are not bound by the typical union/non-union strictures, and they lack leadership. They are Occupy, but at the same time they are specialized. Education and school closures, specifically the closure of Lakeview Elementary, is one fight I’m particularly interested in, because in my opinion it represents a wrong that cuts across many issues, and typifies a place where labor, community and Occupy-style protest could coincide and reinforce one another. When the building re-opens in the fall, it will be an OUSD administrative building. What better target could there be?

There’s Occupy AC Transit, which today has one simple and attainable demand, arrived at through months of planning and dealings with drivers and riders: that is, to make bus transfers multi-use. As people grow poorer, they won’t be able to afford cars. And yet public transit has never been a viable option either, and since I started riding BART and bus to school about fifteen years ago, prices have almost doubled. Piecemeal, five cents here, ten cents there, year after year. Service hasn’t improved, if anything it’s worsened. Well, how about 40 of us taking over a bus and refusing to pay? How about drivers taking us to our stops anyway? Yeah, there’s an issue that people could get behind, that people are already behind.

So, is Occupy dead? Absolutely. Are we still Occupying? You bet. At this point, the damage has already been done. People have woken up, and they have realized that they are strong. Politicians everywhere would do well to take note. Even if our GA’s don’t draw numbers, and our movement has disappeared from the headlines, expect continuing civil unrest throughout the country as people realize their ability to stand up for their lives and their rights.

Long live the Oakland Commune!

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Impressions from May Day, Part 2: Brooms Collective Goes to the Mission District

There was this… (okay, i guess)

But as far as my own May Day Occupy experience, the most interesting was to come the following weekend. While I’ve been working, I’ve been living something of a double life, with my weekdays dominated by 9-5 office work, and my weekends by Occupy and the Occupy-related. It’s interesting having a foot in both worlds, but I think it’s important. We should be able to speak intelligently and calmly with those who disagree with us. We should remember that to a lot of people out there, in a lot of ways, we’re still speaking Greek (pun intended?). We should remain open to differing opinions, and we absolutely must keep a study eye on the temper of the community. We ignore it at our peril, which, I’m sorry to say, I believe we have done. In our diminishing levels of support, numbers, and expectations, we are now reaping the consequences.

As a case in point: the Mission District on the evening before May Day, when an evening march from Dolores Park, sponsored by Occupy Oakland, turned violent down a stretch of Valencia Street. A group of marchers, ostensibly Occupy Oakland members, smashed storefronts and the windows and windshields of parked cars, and they spray-painted anti-gentrification and anarchy symbols over any flat surface that could accommodate. During the next week, Wells Fargo donated $25,000 to a community fund to support the cleanup effort. The day following the Brooms Collective received this e-mail from a Mission District resident:

“I was a staunch supporter of the Occupy movement until this morning. This demonstrates the sad truth that history has repeatedly demonstrated: given a little power, the oppressed will become the oppressors. Affluent multinational thieves or mindless local vandals–not much of a choice, is it? I find them equally repugnant and I don’t want to live with either. Thanks for destroying not only a load of property but my own personal faith that anything in this world will ever change for the better.

Don’t bother emailing back to say Occupy Oakland bears no responsibility for this. You have lost all credibility so nothing you can say will make a difference. To anything.”

I couldn’t think of an adequate response. Because, if you ask me, she has a point. We can’t say we have no responsibility for what happened. Of course we do, and of course it’s wrong and she has every write to hate us for it. The prevailing wisdom, and my first knee jerk response to her anger, would be to divert the blame — I can’t imagine how the vandals were Occupy Oakland members, it’s just too crazy, too out of character. If you ask me, it’s a textbook case of the work of agent provocateurs, one to be remembered and catalogued and used for future reference. Here is one account by another Occupy blogger, in which he corroborates what I’ve heard elsewhere, that the vandals were unfamiliar faces, well-organized in their actions, and just a little too beefy and crew cut to convincingly pass as your average anarchist (though perhaps some of the regulars joined in as well, you can’t put anything past people). But in a movement as absolutely inclusive as Occupy, the risk of outside agitation should never be an excuse. We should never have had space that would allow something like this to happen in the first place. I understand the frustration in wanting to smash banks, but if we can’t even make the distinction between the property of the one percent and those of our fellow struggling citizens than I don’t know how we could ever hope to offer any kind of coherent solution to anything.

… and there was this

So, we the Brooms Collective, with our friendly and positive and community-minded sensibilities, took it upon ourselves to claim responsibility. After our weekly cleanup at the park on 32nd and San Pablo, we headed over to the Mission District. I’d only posted the event on OO’s website the evening before, so I wasn’t expecting us to get many. A few of our regulars had other obligations. One person met us at the 16th St. BART Station so, in the end, there were only four of us. But we put on our Brooms Collective T-Shirts (which my mom made during some of the GA’s — my mom is a pretty important part of this group, making for a, well, interesting dynamic), carried our brooms and our buckets, and started off down Valencia. Of course, most of the damage had already been done, and had already been cleaned up. We only found one circled Anarchy ‘A’ to clean off a wall. But we made our concern felt. We went into the restaurants and asked the managers if they’d been affected, and if there was anything we could do to help. We expressed our concern, and we gave them our e-mail, brooms@occupyoakland.org, in case anything like this ever happened again. Most of them thanked us. Some of them did not. Generally, I felt little anger from any one, mostly bemusement and even thankfulness. There was a degree of understanding and acceptance, as if this sort of thing was but yet another of the times’ many crosses to bear, that you can’t help for a few stray whackos (because that is how many people see us, I’m coming to realize). I don’t know, if you ask me we can do better than that. We do have a message, and we do have a purpose, and if we act with just a little more direction and sensitivity and self-control we could reach, and speak for, a far greater slice of society than we are right now. Thanks to events such as those in the Mission District, and a general environment of hostility to conflicting opinions, we risk falling into irrelevance. We risk becoming a fringe group, easily isolated from a populace that fervently wishes that they could support us, and which, in the end, is our only hope for protection from a state which will otherwise systematically intimidate, arrest, discredit and destroy the few hard core who remain. This process has already begun. It would be a huge tragedy if we proved unable to do something about it.

Impressions from May Day, Part 1: A Problematic Spring

I went to work on May Day. I believe that the vast majority of Occupy supporters did, at least those lucky enough to have work. I walked to the 19th St BART Station, and I didn’t see any shuttered businesses. During my lunch break in San Francisco, I went out to observe the protest just down the street on Market, and the crowd was exuberant and cheering and they were drawing friendly honks from the diverted motorists. It made me smile. But, unlike last November, this time there was no way that I would be willing to skip work. For one thing, my days at this job are numbered. It’s temp work, and I need the money. For another I just wasn’t sure that there were that many actions I was all that interested in joining. The build up to May Day, which I’d observed from a relative remove, myself having somewhat drawn away from Occupy over my last few months of full-time work, had seemed fraught with contention and worry. There was talk of a few scattered strikes, such as the shutdown of the Golden Gate Bridge, but that was dependent on the union’s participation (which ultimately fell through); perhaps another port blockade, but this perhaps would have seemed a bit redundant and mean-spirited. Some seemed to think that a reckoning of some kind was coming. Perhaps there were no good actions. Perhaps, things had changed.

But while a general strike of any real significance didn’t come to pass, neither did the reckoning, at least not in so dramatic a fashion. There were no spectacular arrests or instances of violence. Indeed, I was pleased and surprised, if not by the numbers of the specific protests, as by the level of support they still enjoyed. The Bay Area public is not yet completely exasperated with us. Even the vandalism and property destruction is still met with a degree of understanding. This is testament to the intelligence of the American people, which manifests in surprising ways just when it seems that all hope is lost and everybody else is just worth writing off.

After work I went home, ate some dinner, and decided to pass by the protest en-route to a Wifi café. I’m moving apartments soon, and I’ve felt the need to get out in the meantime, the walls a little too stir crazy and close. Internet cafés have been my best place for getting work done over the last few weeks, and I’ve come up with a nice and sizable little network of them (favorites being House Café on Grand, Urban Blends on Broadway, and the Barnes & Nobles Starbucks in Emeryville on Sundays, for the outdoor seating and people watching).

It was about 8:00 when I pulled my bike to a stop on 14th and Broadway. The crowd was diverse and fairly sizable. Speeches were still blasting away from the Dignity and Resistance March, an annual event that traditionally disembarks from Fruitvale BART and terminates at San Antonio Park, but this year made the longer trek downtown, perhaps in honor of the Occupy Movement. This was, from the accounts I’ve heard, the piéce de resistance of the Bay Area’s events, in the numbers it drew (up to 5,000), the manner of the demonstrators, and, of course, the inherent cultural strength of this action, having sprung from the activism of people like César Chavez and Oakland’s strong and proud Latino community, which has grown so spectacularly in recent years. My own impression is that many Latinos seem to sympathize with Occupy, and are pleasantly surprised to find more people responding to some kind of the same pain that people within their own community have experienced since ever hence. But this sympathy has limits, generally defined by the actions by protesters that will draw the police, and therefore precipitate risk of arrest. One well-respected speaker at an OO GA several weeks ago went so far as to say that the OO’s employment of the so-called “diversity of tactics” was becoming a race thing — that if Occupy couldn’t cut out their destructive behavior they risked further alienating minorities, who inevitably bear the brunt of police aggression. I’ve heard this sort of sentiment from other places that have reached out to us as well, such as activists out of Allen Temple Baptist Church in East Oakland, to which a group of Occupiers were invited one day to participate in organizing against the Goldman Sachs credit swap scam, and who, upon arrival, attempted to commandeer the event, and left their hosts with an impression of arrogance and pomposity. I’ve heard black people refer to us as “entitled.” How unfortunate that I even feel the need to write “black people,” as if our movement were distinct from this population, as, unfortunately, it seems largely to have become, with a good portion of Occupy Oakland still remaining the blessed exception. Perhaps tensions of this sort are unavoidable. Indeed, the genuineness of these controversies can’t help but inspire a little pride in my own lily white heart, which, pre-Occupy, had been all but convinced that my people and my generation were good for little else but iPod-buying and afternoon beer-drinking. Thank God some of us at least are willing to take stances, to take risks. Such are the qualities of a strong and healthy populace. Such is the essence of the true American way, which is at its best when at its most disobedient.

OPD shows of its new hardware

As it turns out, I never made it to the internet café. I locked my bike up in front of Walgreens, and then I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in months and we decided to stick around to see what happens. It was only a few minutes later that the sound truck packed up and left, and the officially sanctioned dignity and resistance march ended. Soon after, the police began to mobilize on 14th East of Broadway. Protesters at the intersection would not be moved. Skirmishes broke out near the front. A man in a suit came down from one of the office buildings to heckle the crowd, and, sure enough, a crowd formed around him. Yelling ensued, and police approached, and after a tense few minutes, the man disappeared into their protection, followed by calls of “That guy’s the 1%! That guy’s the 1%” Some people had to be pulled back from following him further. The energy in the crowd was intense and passionate, and it wasn’t all white people. Far from it in fact, even as the dignity and resistance marchers left, though the crowd grew increasingly thick now with masked black bloccers, some bearing shields. I pulled my friend a little ways back from the front. I had the feeling that she’d never been in one of the bad protests before (Julie, if you read this, please feel free to correct me J), so didn’t quite understand how quickly these things can spin out of control. I for one had no interest in being arrested again, and I doubt that she did either. Mostly I think she came for the spectacle, perhaps a little late for the good stuff. Everyone should know by now that when the night falls, generally, everything goes, and that if you remain, you do so at your peril. I was not into peril on that day. When I heard them announce unlawful assembly, then I knew it was coming soon. And sure enough, not ten minutes later, the line of police charged us en masse, in effect arresting everyone who was not fast enough to get away from them, and, in one fast and screaming crowd, we ran. Julie and I ducked down 19th Street away from them. We stopped at a bar on Broadway, and watched out the glass windows as lines of police and white riot vans passed by over the next several hours, together with periodic sirens, and groups of shabbily clad, backpack-bearing kids, moving in groups intent on a mission of some kind or another. Luka’s was just as busy as it should be on a Tuesday night. Apparently, the fear of Occupy’s May 1st re-birth wasn’t enough to keep the revelers away. Or maybe they weren’t aware that Occupy had been planning anything in the first place. At this point, I’m not sure which is the preferable truth.

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Thinking Global, Acting Local: Occupy the Farm Takes Gill Tract

In my opinion, the Gill Tract takeover, hands down, was the most well-planned, well-executed, and worthwhile action that any segment of Occupy has taken in some time. At least any that I’ve heard of. The weekend prior I was invited to a planning meeting at the home of one of the organizers, attended by perhaps thirty to forty fellow comrades. Supposedly each member of this group was personally connected to at least one of the original organizers. We were all told to keep the action under wraps. This is polar opposite to the strategy taken for the January 28th Move-In Day, which was all about publicity, press releases and flyers. The prevailing wisdom in Occupy seems generally that if you know about it, chances are the cops do too, because, chances are, at least one of those you see around you at any given moment are one of them. At least in this case, the prevailing wisdom stands corrected.

The next Sunday we gathered at the Southern end of Ohlone Park for a pre-march rally, complete with speakers, music, and even a belly dancer (and of course, free food, a reliable constant at every Occupy event). A friend of mine told me that she’d heard a rumor that we were taking a UC Berkeley plot of land, and I assured her, that if this were the case, then I wouldn’t be staying. Only a select few of the core organizers knew our final destination, therefore the rest of us were putting a lot of faith into the strength of their choice. If it was a poor one, than there was a chance that we all could end up spending the weekend in Santa Rita.

The march got started at about one o’clock. And we didn’t head towards the UC. Instead we snaked West and North through residential streets of single-family homes. Comrades on bikes criss-crossed our flanks, helping to divert traffic and direct the march. People came out onto their porches and watched us from their windows. I didn’t see a single cop along the way. Not one.

And when we arrived at Gill Tract, which occupies a generally desolate stretch of San Pablo Avenue in Albany, near enough to the waterfront that you can almost smell saltwater in the air, there was a phalanx of pick-up trucks, flat beds, and 14’ semi’s waiting for us. Some protesters began handing out a thoughtful, well-written and well laid-out information sheet on the plot of land. After some people in the front line broke the fence, they took us in, and as soon as we entered into the tract itself, a vast expanse of shoulder-high weeds and forgotten planting projects, they put us to work. They’d developed a system of arm-bands, green for the gardeners, red for the carpenters, etc., so that we inexperienced urban farmers would know who to turn to for direction. Within an hours time, we’d cleared enough space to begin tilling the soil and setting in the seedlings and infant plant starts. The action was coordinated and methodical, in such stark contrast to the chaotic and ultimately disastrous Move-In Day on January 28th. If nothing else, this action demonstrates the good of a little unashamed leadership.

But of course, that isn’t all that this action demonstrates. If you ask me, this is exactly the direction that Occupy should be taking: that is, actions that are locally relevant, yet systemically significant. Think global, act local. Rather than attempting to manufacture interest in an arbitrarily chosen date (such as the upcoming May Day, which many of us seem more apprehensive about than anything else), we should set our efforts to the small, nearby, worthwhile fights. Identifying those places where the rage under the surface runs deepest, and is only waiting to find an outlet. The Gill Tract fits the bill. Urban farming is huge in the Bay Area. Development, well, that’s huge too, but in far more conflicted and divisive a fashion. The tract had been purchased by UC Berkeley (hence my friend’s relative misinformation), but it is pristine farmland, and over the years has been haphazardly employed for genetic research and small scale grow projects. The next slated project: a Whole Foods supermarket. So, in a word, in this case I believe that even your many average joes will have to agree that we Occupiers here have a pretty good point: the Gill Tract had sat pointlessly vacant for years, and yet in just a few short hours we had put it to productive use, transformed it absolutely, testament to the power of protest and positivity — the wonderful feats that “we the people” can accomplish when we get together and put our mind to it. The Wells Fargo action the other day seems to have been another general success. I wasn’t there, so I can’t speak to it personally, but this is welcome news indeed.

Me myself, I had begun to worry a little about our movement. Worried that we were losing direction, that we were pulling off message. The General Assemblies had become increasingly, consistently frustrating — little more than a churning mill for rally after un-related rally. The same faces every week, over and over. Occupy Oakland seemed to be losing the support and patience of the community — I never used to have to work so hard to defend this movement. Increasingly, people were wondering what we were doing, what we were trying to accomplish. I was beginning to wonder the same thing.  But perhaps this is just the direction that Occupy will have to take, where the regional offshoots, Occupy Oakland, Occupy San Francisco, become increasingly irrelevant to the autonomous actions that we can take from within the framework and networks that Occupy has established. After all, without the camps, there is little reason to feel tied down to any particular town or city, but as long as we all keep showing up, keep coming to the meetings, and keep trying, again and again, to support one another, than the possibilities will present themselves. We can go wherever the fight takes us.

So, what next? If I might put forth a modest proposal: more of the same. Well-researched, fully understood local issues with system-wide significance. More foreclosure defense. More bank protests. Perhaps a few of us could take it upon ourselves to learn more about the Goldman Sachs credit swap scam, whereby the city of Oakland has been trapped into paying one of the worst villains in the system millions of dollars a year through financial trickery. Perhaps we could identify a way to inform, and apply the public pressure. We could find out if other cities are facing the same problem. Or, perhaps we could start thinking about education. The teachers union could be an incredibly powerful ally, and with the advent of charter schools and school closures perhaps there’s something there that we could tap into. Perhaps, and this is just a suggestion, we could start thinking about Lakeview Elementary, one of five schools slated for closure at the end of this school year. I remember receiving “Save Lakeview” fliers and petitions long before Occupy started. What could we do with that? We’ve started a free farm. What about a free school? Is that idea outlandish? I wonder. Maybe it is. But perhaps it’s also worth thinking about.

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