My parents told me that I used to yell at the top of my lungs at the beach. I am not sure if it was the waves or the sand or just the epicness of it all, but I used to scream. It wasn’t that terrifying “I am getting dragged into a windowless van” type of scream, but that thrilled scream. I was a kid; a kid who liked to have a good time at all hours during all seasons. What I think enjoyed about my childhood was that I really did get to be a kid. And while it was sprinkled with moments of adulthood and responsibility, my childhood could not be taken away from me.
My reasons for attending Occupy L.A. were just as blurred as the bi-partisan issues we were protesting. As a twentysomething, I don’t have this aching desire to re-live the 60’s; at least not the later part of it anyway. To compare the two would be like comparing a war to another. The shell may look the same, but the issue within is completely different at its core. I had convinced myself that I was attending an event that was worth seeing with my own eyes before I made any rash judgments on the movement myself.
My sign, since I have always been a huge proponent of sign holding, read: “Laid Off Twice- One Year.” I had found a niche within the movement in which I was to protest, and to tell the truth I have been blazing mad for the past year or so. And while I am now currently employed, the sting from the past year hasn’t gone away. It was traumatizing; and taxing on my mental health. Which is why I wanted to protest; I actually had something to load my gun with.
I was an angry twentysomething. I was angry about what was happening to me and millions of other people. But the protest itself was fairly peaceful; quiet even. Reminiscent of the sounds of the rainforest; animals making their own noises independently of those around them. I quietly looked up and down the streets; I think I was waiting for something to light on fire or a car bomb. But nothing ever happened; just signs and the honking of supportive car horns. But then it got suddenly loud:
The picture doesn’t do the moment any justice. The kid was holding a Ron Paul sign, and on the back he had hand written “fight the system.” The quiet streets were suddenly littered with the sounds and screams of this pint size occupant. His father, quietly standing behind him, watching his own Pinocchio be a real boy. The young boy screaming things like “bring our soldiers home, it’s a senseless war” and “stop the people in charge, power to the people!” The passion in this child’s voice was brazen, with a tireless fervor. The faces of those were a lot like mine; intrigued at first, but quickly wiped away by the severity of the situation. Reality was staring us right in the face; the protest may still be too late for us twentysomethings. Are we in such a state that 7 year olds are the only ones worth listening to? Is this all for them? And what difference would it make if we got the whole third grade out here on the picket line?
All the while, I couldn’t help think about my younger self, yelling at the beach. Screaming at my own adolescence, as thought I was trying to find it among the endless waves. Screaming in the hopes my childhood would never end; screaming for an endless summer. Screaming because I was a child who could feel the moment; not screaming because I could quickly feel my childhood slipping away.
-
greatmomentsinselfesteem posted this
