A Mild November Night
“I knew the revolution was coming, I just didn’t know it would be so tedious.”
--over heard at General Assembly
The MYMD meeting on the other hand was like water over stones.
“I knew the revolution was coming, I just didn’t know it would be so tedious.”
--over heard at General Assembly
The MYMD meeting on the other hand was like water over stones.
The ten or so people assembled had either never met before or met only a few times. No one had communicated directly with anyone before the meeting. Most were in their twenties or early thirties. Before the meeting started I chatted with Short’n Smiley and the facilitator. In a tiny voice Smiley expressed a self-effacing form of chagrin about her inability to camp out. She was she said ‘too prissy’ to stay over. ‘I could never eat from the food tent’ she said. Instead she made the trip from the western suburbs three or four times a week. Later in the same bright inaudible voice she suggested breaking several major interstate commerce laws. As people slowly assembled I started to fidget, anxious for the facilitator to start the meeting. When I started bloviating about the Movement For A New Society, per had kind of floated away. That I understood, but now it was time for per to “take charge” and get things going.
We started with names and ideas. Short’n Smiley had made a flyer, brought paint and sheets. Smiley hates Bofa. I had downloaded the Move Your Money Day flyer from the website and had about five white copies with me. A few people wouldn’t be able to do anything on 11/5 but were willing to help out in the mean time. The next woman said she could photocopy as many flyers as the group needed, how many was that? She asked several times but no one, even the facilitator, answered. Per just kept saying “What do people think?” Finally I crossed the circle and asked her if she could do three hundred and she said, “Is that what people want?”
In my mind I saw a giant endless game of ping pong, only a little different from the one played at the Direct Action meeting a couple of weeks ago. That night two guys, one black, one Latino, from Occupy the Hood had come to the meeting to ask what kind of support Occupy Boston could offer them. Boston’s response, not once, but three times, was “What do you want from us?” Finally I couldn’t stand it any more and I blurted out, “They just told you, they want whatever you want to give. Just make a plan for what you want to do and do it.” This type of behavior doesn’t make me popular, but I can stand only just so much white guilt. Plus I was hungry. So I wandered over to the food tent and had another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly is to the Boston Occupation what pizza is to New York. The night of the MYMD meeting I had eaten two sandwiches before the meeting started and so was chagrined myself when stragglers showed up with leftovers from a Greek restaurant. The facilitator paused, again, and switched the topic to food.
The next woman in the circle wanted to make the MYMD fun. She suggested that after people came out of Bofa they should get little stickers that said, “I moved my money” like Starbucks gave to voters. She would make the stickers and she volunteered to drive stacks of cardboard boxes to the printer’s home. The printer had been working on signs for days. He had about forty and was willing to make more if he could get some more paper. The facilitator said per could get the printer some paper.
I watched the facilitator carefully throughout the meeting, my blood pressure rising each time another game of ping pong appeared ready to start. Not that it mattered. Things were, in some round about way, getting done. Finally I realized that either intentionally or because it was per’s nature the facilitator had devised a method of leading w/o leading. By just letting things hang and not jumping in, per forced other people to suggest the obvious and then volunteer to do it. This kept the facilitator from getting lynched and at the same time left per free to kind of check in and out at will. It is, in other words, a highly advanced organizing technique for saving the sanity of 24/7 organizers that requires a high level of personal responsibility by just about everyone.
For instance, almost everyone at this meeting arrived prepared and ready to work. The only time the facilitator showed even a hint of personal preference was when I mentioned the didgeridoo I wanted to aim at the Federal Reserve so that “Move Your Money” echoed over ten city blocks. Per laughed and said, “You have a didgeridoo player?” “No, but I have calls out to every possible player on the east coast. Per laughed again. I was kind of relieved. The other image that goes through my mind at such moments is from revolutions where ingenuity and initiative were rewarded with the guillotine. Not that anything like that would ever happen at OB. The worst would be glaring looks that say “You’re not being inclusive” or “Your ‘othering.’”
The meeting meandered along, a plan for the signs and the flyers materialized and then the meeting kind of dissolved into painting and box gathering. I looked at the young women painting words onto sheets and thought of my best friend when I was 23. I wanted to send her a picture of these two and that’s when I realized that I had left my phone in the car! More anxiety; how would I contribute to the revolution w/out my phone? Should I go and get it or stay here and have fun? I took a deep breath. This had been the easiest and most effective meeting I had ever been to in my entire life. Everyone was so entirely on the same page, it was as if a strong breeze was pushing us towards success. I looked up at the soft black sky. Instead of a ping pong ball, I saw the Mandate of Heaven drifting towards the Occupation. Back at my car there was a message from Didgetherapy in NH.
We started with names and ideas. Short’n Smiley had made a flyer, brought paint and sheets. Smiley hates Bofa. I had downloaded the Move Your Money Day flyer from the website and had about five white copies with me. A few people wouldn’t be able to do anything on 11/5 but were willing to help out in the mean time. The next woman said she could photocopy as many flyers as the group needed, how many was that? She asked several times but no one, even the facilitator, answered. Per just kept saying “What do people think?” Finally I crossed the circle and asked her if she could do three hundred and she said, “Is that what people want?”
In my mind I saw a giant endless game of ping pong, only a little different from the one played at the Direct Action meeting a couple of weeks ago. That night two guys, one black, one Latino, from Occupy the Hood had come to the meeting to ask what kind of support Occupy Boston could offer them. Boston’s response, not once, but three times, was “What do you want from us?” Finally I couldn’t stand it any more and I blurted out, “They just told you, they want whatever you want to give. Just make a plan for what you want to do and do it.” This type of behavior doesn’t make me popular, but I can stand only just so much white guilt. Plus I was hungry. So I wandered over to the food tent and had another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly is to the Boston Occupation what pizza is to New York. The night of the MYMD meeting I had eaten two sandwiches before the meeting started and so was chagrined myself when stragglers showed up with leftovers from a Greek restaurant. The facilitator paused, again, and switched the topic to food.
The next woman in the circle wanted to make the MYMD fun. She suggested that after people came out of Bofa they should get little stickers that said, “I moved my money” like Starbucks gave to voters. She would make the stickers and she volunteered to drive stacks of cardboard boxes to the printer’s home. The printer had been working on signs for days. He had about forty and was willing to make more if he could get some more paper. The facilitator said per could get the printer some paper.
I watched the facilitator carefully throughout the meeting, my blood pressure rising each time another game of ping pong appeared ready to start. Not that it mattered. Things were, in some round about way, getting done. Finally I realized that either intentionally or because it was per’s nature the facilitator had devised a method of leading w/o leading. By just letting things hang and not jumping in, per forced other people to suggest the obvious and then volunteer to do it. This kept the facilitator from getting lynched and at the same time left per free to kind of check in and out at will. It is, in other words, a highly advanced organizing technique for saving the sanity of 24/7 organizers that requires a high level of personal responsibility by just about everyone.
For instance, almost everyone at this meeting arrived prepared and ready to work. The only time the facilitator showed even a hint of personal preference was when I mentioned the didgeridoo I wanted to aim at the Federal Reserve so that “Move Your Money” echoed over ten city blocks. Per laughed and said, “You have a didgeridoo player?” “No, but I have calls out to every possible player on the east coast. Per laughed again. I was kind of relieved. The other image that goes through my mind at such moments is from revolutions where ingenuity and initiative were rewarded with the guillotine. Not that anything like that would ever happen at OB. The worst would be glaring looks that say “You’re not being inclusive” or “Your ‘othering.’”
The meeting meandered along, a plan for the signs and the flyers materialized and then the meeting kind of dissolved into painting and box gathering. I looked at the young women painting words onto sheets and thought of my best friend when I was 23. I wanted to send her a picture of these two and that’s when I realized that I had left my phone in the car! More anxiety; how would I contribute to the revolution w/out my phone? Should I go and get it or stay here and have fun? I took a deep breath. This had been the easiest and most effective meeting I had ever been to in my entire life. Everyone was so entirely on the same page, it was as if a strong breeze was pushing us towards success. I looked up at the soft black sky. Instead of a ping pong ball, I saw the Mandate of Heaven drifting towards the Occupation. Back at my car there was a message from Didgetherapy in NH.
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