March on Wall Street

So right before we get off the phone, I say, "Oh! One more thing I wanted to tell you guys. I'm going to be down at the Occupy Wall Street rally a lot this week, so--and I'm not like, trying for this, but--I may end up calling you for bail."

A beat of silence, and then my mom says, "Honey?"

"They arrested five hundred people today," I say.

"Honey..." her thought trails off into a tight sigh. Then, to my dad, "Mike? Micah? Is there anything you want to say?"

"Like what?"

"Is there anything you want to say to him?"


There's another beat, and then my mom says, "Honey, you may--and don't jump down my throat!--you may want to bring some wet paper towels with you in case they tear gas you. That's how it was in the March on Washington. Just put them in a ziplock baggie in your pocket."

My dad says, "Yeah," drawing out the word, "and don't forget that the cops here are jumpy and theyc an beat the shit out of you and have it not be a crime, so be careful, kiddo."

"I will, dad."

"And they have those looooong sticks, man." My mom says "man" a lot when she is talking like a revolutionary. "Keep safe."

My dad yawns and sighs, the big dad sound he makes, like we've been talking about old movies or rock and roll songs, not me potentially getting arrested and beaten up by the police. "OK, it's getting late. I think we need to go to bed."

I love you, mom and dad. Power to the people.