Where Will You be When They Come for You?

I didn’t get very much sleep last night. I was up until almost 1 a.m., watching news come in from Occupy Oakland. If you didn’t already hear, a bunch of protesters were injured last night, including Iraqi war veteran, Scott Olsen. In the greatest of ironies, Scott survived two tours of duty and is now in the hospital with a possible brain injury.

Today, one of my Facebook followers wrote that she basically couldn’t get behind the protesters because they were breaking the law, messing up the park, and protesting for no good reason. I tried to respond to her, but let’s face it — this is a complex issue with a bunch of layers. So let’s try this. . .

There’s a family with two kids, Johnny and Frankie. From the very beginning, Johnny not only got some boots with straps — he got someone to help pull them up. His parents called it “boys will be boys” when he got caught cheating on a test. They always let him cut the cupcake and pick the half he wanted. And they didn’t even make him pay them back when he borrowed money to start his “Hats for Cats” business that went under when social services busted the sweatshop he was running with kindergarten labor at the local aftercare program (not to mention, cats hate hats, so it was basically doomed to begin with).

Frankie, on the other hand, always had to play by the rules. Not to mention, he never even got boots, let alone straps. He was grounded if it even looked like he’d done something wrong. He was lucky if he ever ended up with part of the cupcake. And even though he worked hard, doing every crappy, scut-work job in the house, his parents pretty much laughed in his face when he asked them for an advance on his allowance. “Don’t even think about getting something for nothing — there’s no such thing as a free lunch, mister.”

Now imagine that one day, Johnny accidentally starts a fire in his room while trying out a new product for his latest leveraged business, “Saunas for Iguanas.” His parents feel terrible for the poor little guy and move him into the guest room while they apply to Extreme Home Makeover (because Johnny is such a deserving candidate). Meanwhile, Frankie’s room has become uninhabitable because of Johnny’s recklessness. But his parents decide it’s best for Frankie to sleep in the garage. After all, it was his fault for choosing that particular room in the first place (he really should’ve read the paperwork more closely).

Finally, Frankie just gets fed up. He stops doing his crappy chores. He sets up a sleeping bag in the front yard, sits there all day, and tells the neighbors what a lousy family he has.

So in response, his parents believe their best course of action is to wake Frankie up at 4 a.m. one morning and yank him out of his sleeping bag (as my husband says, he wouldn’t even be happy to see someone with beer and pizza at 4 a.m.). This would piss most people off, but Frankie keeps his cool. Then throughout the day, his parents keep pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to get a rise out of him. They don’t listen to anything he has to say. Every time he tries to talk to someone who’s walking by, his parents tell him he’s violating one of the neighborhood CC and R’s. They don’t notice that he isn’t pushing back. Then finally, as evening comes along and he tries to go back to his sleeping bag. They push him back. He tries again. They push back harder. Now there’s yelling. And shoving. And scuffling. And eventually — rather than realizing they’re having an argument over something really ridiculous that’s not worth someone actually getting physically injured over — Mom, Dad, and Johnny gang up on Frankie and throw him a nice blanket party (“It’s just a bad dream, fat boy.”).

Now I know there were problems with the Oakland Occupiers. I’ve heard the stories about problems with sanitation and drugs in the park. Truth be told, that stuff is there all the time anyway (add more bodies, you do the math). But the bigger issue is this: if you want people to act like respectful citizens, you treat them respectfully. If you want to start a fight, you come out in riot gear, ready to beat the crap out of someone.

The Occupy protesters weren’t looting or rioting or tearing stuff up when police started shooting them with rubber bullets, tear gas, and flash grenades. Sure, they were pissed. I would’ve been pissed, too, after repeatedly losing my right to free assembly over the course of the day. And we all should be pissed that the video coming out of there looks like something from one of the Arab uprisings.

I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can find justification for shooting people with rubber bullets because they camped in a park, walked down the “wrong” street near the “wrong” buildings with “too many” people, and then stood up for themselves. And the fact is, there are great examples of police using restraint and humanity in similar situations. They de-escalate. They protect and defend all of us.

And we should all remember that agree or disagree with the protesters, these were American citizens. American citizens. On American soil. Exercising their First Amendment rights.

And there’s no way we shouldn’t all be angry about that.

First they came for the communists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, 
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

—Martin Niemöller