Thursday, January 3, 2013
Jane: There he is. I see him in the crowd, he wears a dirty, torn tee shirt, and his hair is greasy. He lives here. He is one of us. One of the 99%, and one of the occupiers, and I love that he is so young, too young to care, yet he does.
He doesn’t know I watch him. From our tent, I peek through the mesh window, and can just see him, where he’s set up camp. Rolf has taken him on as one of his own. The boy argues with Rolf, he wants to hold a sign, he wants to join the throngs who push back the barriers, keep the police out. He wants to yell and shout and mean something, be something.
I can’t hear what Rolf says, but I know what it is, because it’s the same thing my mother says to me – “Stay here and watch the younger ones. That’s where you’re needed. That’s your part. To keep our camp.
I’ve become a stay-at-home housewife, when I came here with my family to join the revolution. I came here to make a difference – I’m sixteen! – but I have to stay home and watch the kids and prepare the meals while my parents fight for us. They say I’m important, but all I feel is dirty, greasy-haired, no make-up, no life, no purpose. I left school for this? To be a nineties housefrou? I am young, I want excitement, I want love!
Maybe I’ll talk to the boy.