http://www.alternet.org/story/152882/
Occupy Wall Street Protester, Arrested and Jailed for 30 Hours, Tells
Her Story for the First Time
An AlterNet exclusive: Manhandled, arrested, cuffed, searched, and
locked away in the Tombs, this is her uncensored story, in her own words.
/October 26, 2011/ |
/Photo Credit: OccupyWallSt/YouTube/
I spent a weekend in jail.
On Saturday, October 15, I went to Washington Square Park to take a
closer look at the Occupy Wall Street movement. There were many young
people who could be my children or rather grandchildren, but many older
people, too, all generations united, it seemed, under the banner: "We
are the 99 percent."
Different groups decided to go to a bank. I joined one that went to
Citibank at La Guardia Place and Bleecker Street. As we entered, there
were a couple of customers and a few banktellers inside. A teach-in
ensued. The story the students told, surprisingly calmly and politely,
was shocking.
“I am $100,000 in debt. The costs Citibank charges me go up and up. I do
not know how I can repay it. I find it deeply irresponsible that
Citibank makes the kind of profit they do from our indebtedness.”
Another student said, “I’m not $100,000 in debt, /only/ $30,000. So far.
And I still have two years to go. This kind of profit-taking cannot go
on. We are here to say we will not tolerate it. We need fundamental change.”
And so it went. After we were told to take our action outside, some
people stayed and continued to tell their stories.
I, by far the oldest, had not come to get arrested, but as we tried to
leave, several enormous undercover cops in sweatshirts and jeans
appeared, blocked the exits and quite literally pushed us back into the
bank. One giant in particular seemed to have it in for me, saying, “Oh
no, you're not leaving!” his right arm shoving me. Ready to pounce on
us, they made leaving the bank impossible. Two of the student
participants had come to close their bank accounts; customers in every
sense. They, too, were to be arrested. Police officers in white shirts
seemed to swarm from everywhere. They rushed into the bank and told us
we were being arrested. At no point was there a warning from anyone in
authority offering a chance to leave without being arrested, As they
handcuffed us, we did not anticipate the next 30 hours that was in store
for us.
The ride to Central Booking in the paddywagon was an ominous beginning.
Either New York’s potholes are beyond repair or the shock absorbers of
that car were non-existent. With our wrists handcuffed behind our back,
there was no way to hold on to anything as we were thrown off our seats
into the air during that ride in hell. After hours of “booking
procedures” -- standing in line, being handcuffed, getting uncuffed,
backpacks, wallets, phones and any other object, even a single tissue,
taken from us, our names shouted as we were inspected and lined up
spread-eagled across a wall – we were finally led into three cells,
allowed for the first time to sit down. It was early evening by now but
we were not allowed an extra piece of clothing for the cold, just a
T-shirt or whatever first layer of clothing we wore.
During an inordinately lengthy fingerprinting procedure, with the male
officers operating the machines and the female officers locking and
unlocking our cells as we were called out one by one, it sometimes
seemed the police outnumbered us. But still, it took what seemed like hours.
Barely back in our cells, we were taken out again, handcuffed again,
this time with a chain between our cuffs, and led “upstairs.” But there
had been some mistake. A female officer told "our" officer that, no, she
couldn’t process us. Some paperwork was missing, some order, some stamp.
Time to cuff us again and go down the stairs back into our cells. How
many more instances of handcuffing, uncuffing, leading us up and down
stairs and long hallways, waiting, returning, repeating what seemed
nonsensical procedures and reversals then followed I do not know and did
not count. But a deep sense of disorganization, competence fighting
incompetence, if not chaos, reigned. It seemed as if, in the name of
bureaucratic rules and regulations, in the name of "security," we were
witnessing a dysfunctional institution and people not used to daylight
shining in; people generally accountable to no one but themselves.
Finally, we were driven to the Tombs. We landed in a large collective
prison cell; there were 11 of us plus an Indian woman with her own sad
story and two run-down black women on crack or some other drug who
occupied the only three mattresses in that medieval cell, and whose
intermittent yells, shouting, and appalling screams made rest, let alone
sleep impossible. We spent many hours on extremely narrow, hard benches,
no blankets, with pieces of dry bread and a dry piece of cheese or
peanut butter for food. The young women, all in their early 20s, somehow
managed to bend themselves into shape to catch an hour of sleep here and
there. For my 70-plus-years-old bones and K., a 68-year-old
lifelong environmental activist, it was tough going.
The experience was depressing in every way. All of us could see the
irrationality, the nearly obscene bureaucratic time, energy and money
spent on our (probably illegal) arrest. During that constant cycle of
being cuffed and uncuffed at every step and during each transfer, some
of us couldn't help feeling that the 9/11 terrorists have indeed won.
The culture in this institution seemed a noxious mix of breathtaking
incompetence, disorganization and open or
just-beneath-the-surface-always-present brutality. Hardly a verbal
communication without harsh and loud shouting and orders to stand
here, move there, stop doing this or that.
Searching our bags and moving our belongings somewhere else took an
inordinate amount of time. Then everyone's IDs had to be returned for
the next step in the "arresting process." Which meant a new search by
the female officers for everyone's ID; all the bags and wallets had to
be painstakingly searched a second or third time. As it turned out, my
ID had somehow been overlooked. Or rather, the officer responsible for
it couldn't be found. Again, everyone had to be uncuffed, led down the
stairs, locked into their cells until the officer who had my ID was
found. Low-level chaos is the only word to describe it.
During the long, cold night in the Tombs, at some point we asked a
female officer if we could have some blankets. "We have no blankets."
Some mattresses since we were 12 or so people? "We have no more
mattresses." Some change in exchange for dollar bills so we could call
parents and loved ones? (The one public telephone in the cell would only
take coins.) "It's against regulations." Some soap? "Maybe we'll come up
with some soap." After no, no, no to every reasonable request, we wound
up with a small jar of soap. Distressing is hardly the word for a
culture of willful neglect and the exercise of what power those officers
held over us for those 30 hours.
But there were a few -- mostly black cops -- who, as we were transferred
from point A to point B, told us openly, "We support you. If I could,
I'd participate in what you're doing."
The initial charges of criminal trespass were finally reduced by the
district attorney to disorderly conduct, with the invaluable help of our
lawyers from the National Lawyers Guild. When we were finally released,
we were greeted like heroes from people in the Occupy Wall Street
movement standing in front of the huge 100 Center Street Building. They
offered us hats against the cold, dried apricots, chocolate bars,
tampons, water, self-rolled cigarettes. It was really touching.
But even the young women were seriously exhausted, physically and
mentally burnt out. Perhaps I and my older compatriot were better
prepared, at least psychologically. But by and large these young women
were very impressive. After this dismal experience no one even
considered leaving the movement. No hues and cries. Society must be
changed. They insist on it, and, I hope, will continue to insist -- and,
not withstanding the difficulties ahead, fight for it.
--
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