Occupy Forever

The Occupy camps are being torn down in several different locations, which is kind of sad. I mean, I wouldn't want a whole bunch of people camped out on my front lawn, but then, I didn't steal their money, their homes . . . If you were to walk up to the scattered remnants of a camp, and you had just come from some distant island and had no clue of what any of it meant, or why, or how it started, and you asked someone, "What was this all about?" And they told you, "It was about people asking for the truth. They wanted Wall Street and all the Big Banks to change their ways." And you said, "There must have been a lot of guns and shooting, fires and looting," "No," they answer. "None of that. Not from the protestors. The cops were the ones who had the guns. The protestors were just holding signs and camping out, singing and shouting." So you ask, "Then why was it torn down?" "Because it was messy," they say.

It was messy.

America is messy. And loud. We're like children who cry in our cribs and our parents stand at the door wringing their hands. "Should we go in? Should we comfort them? If we go in there, they'll cry again next time and they'll never learn that we are the parents. They'll think they can cry about anything, if we go in . . ."

I've always been a sucker. I could never let my children cry. I hold them, I ask them, "What's wrong? How can I help you? What will make this better?" It always seems much better to have a child who knows that, while I am in control, they still have a voice and freedom.

So the camps go, piece by piece. And the people leave, one by one. And the banks and Wall Street and the naysayers all breathe a sigh of relief.

But I can still hear the many voices that made one. It wasn't in vain. You didn't fail. Go home now and rest. Thank you for what you did. The message is still echoing. It is still being heard.