I’d been invited the week before by an unlikely performer for the occupiers, Literary Death Match producer Alia Volz, who informed me that a performance series was being put on for the occupiers. It was too short notice, but automatically I was intrigued that someone would undertake such an effort. Knowing Alia from the spoken word scene, I couldn’t imagine street activists being terribly interested in poets or storytellers. They barely paid attention to musicians or stand up comics who always carried far more cache’. I couldn’t see a literary type having much of a satisfying experience doing such a thing.
But Alia knew my material; knew I could be very politically agitated with it. I spoke with her the next day, and she confirmed all the things I’d heard other people say: the vibe of the encampment is scruffy, like upper Haight Street kids being their typically transient and agro-hippy selves, but with tents. It was weird for her, but she encouraged me to go regardless and perform for the encampment with the sincere belief that they would be more receptive to my type of material.
A week later I found myself ascending the BART (our version of a subway in Northern California) escalator with nothing more than an address to text. The Occupy SF camp was only a block away, and the average tourist or pedestrian normally wouldn’t know it was there until they turned the corner to see a powerful albeit makeshift statement of…no question about it…rage. If one is to believe in “vibes,” then the feeling emanating from around a perimeter of SFPD squad cars and television news vans was one of suspicion, disenfranchisement and a nervous anticipation of looming violence, for certainly all these people must have known that just that morning, the Occupy Oakland camp had been evicted and were currently rallying and marching on the other side of the bay.
I checked the cell number I had written down for the series producer, a mysterious but energetic go-getter named Hiya Swanhuyser who had been encouraging me to come out since Alia had put me in touch with her. My text quickly was answered with a brief and terse “south side of the camp, by the MUNI trolley rail.”
I was on the North side, and feeling like a tourist in a place I normally felt at home, I decided to make my way to our meeting spot by plunging into the heart of the encampment, walking through huge waves of smoke comprised of sage, cigarettes and pot. It felt a little like being back in a Grateful Dead parking lot without the promise of a rock music spectacle but quite possibly a rock throwing spectacle.