Like many others I know, I am
angered by the current economic conditions people all over this country (and
the world) are facing. Nothing makes you feel smaller than not knowing what you
as an individual can do to make a change for yourself and others. Indeed, as
children, we are taught if we work hard and follow our dreams, we will have the
success we have earned and undoubtedly deserve. Without that opportunity to do
what we were trained to do, without menial jobs to put food in our bellies, it makes
it almost impossible to believe this country has the American Dream to offer
anymore.
I have been following the
Occupation of Wall Street with more than just a healthy curiosity, but with
genuine interest in contributing in any form. When I was invited by a friend to
join the protest of the 10-year anniversary of the war in Afghanistan, of
course I jumped at the chance. If anything, I told myself, I’ll take a few
pictures.
Initially, I was intimidated.
I was surrounded by such impassioned people and I couldn’t seem to find my voice to repeat the chants. Mainly because it taps into my
rage that innocent people are being killed every day. And that the war is
costing $330 million a day. The soldiers that come back who are suffering from
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are not receiving proper care. That it’s
been going on for 10 years!!! The list goes on and on. How could this modest
protest make a difference in the face of our country’s incessant war mongering?
It seems our government has outgrown us, we the people, and our voices no
longer matter. Even as I write this, the president I voted for, who promised to
bring our troops home, has not made good on that promise. I don’t know who or
what to believe anymore.
At one point in the protest,
they played the sounds of an air raid over loud speakers and asked everyone to
lay down on the ground. I took a photo from a crouched position and really
began to listen to the sounds over my head. I imagined I was a soldier fighting
over there, and that this was a sound that I awoke to, alerting us of an impeding
air strike. I was overwhelmed with emotion and began to cry. I buried my face
in my hand, fearful for all those men and women who are fighting a war they no
longer believe in. Watching the people they served alongside them dying every
day. How unfair it all seemed to me. Justice for no one.
As the sun set, a group of
Aztec Indians, dressed in full garb, came forward led by a beautiful Elder. They performed a ceremonial dance that had everyone standing around in delight and awe of the beauty of such ancient, skilled formation. The Elder began chanting, asking for dignity for all. The word Dignity took on a new
meaning. As I write this, I still am not sure what it means. Defined, it is the
quality or state of being worthy of esteem or respect. Inherent nobility and
worth: the dignity of honest labor. Poise and self-respect. And I ache for all
those who share in the loss of dignity for a day’s work well done. Who have
lost their self-respect because their homes have been taken away from them.
There is no nobility when you are unable to care for your children. And how can
we respect those who govern when they continue to lie to our faces and strip
the fiber of this country? There are too many without the means to live
decently, and too few who are indecent enough to eat the largest pieces of
the pie.
I’ve asked
myself for many years, in the face of extreme wealth, how much is enough? How many
houses, cars, and lavish trips does one person really need? How many nannies, how many expensive shoes? Now, that question
has shifted. How much is enough - to survive? When you are willing but unable to make ends
meets, willing to work every day but finding nowhere to turn and see your standard of living slipping through your very fingers,
unable to sustain and provide for yourself and your family, how much injustice can
you possibly take before you’ve had enough? How much is enough?
