Our Revolution

Growing up working class I watched my Mother hate herself. Not in any sort of obvious way. First because of her addiction and later because of her inability to 'get it right'. No temp or deli counter job ever seemed to bring in enough to feed us, clothe us, house us. A fact she never needed to tell us to hide. So often we went hungry. Or more to the point we learned to do without, expect little and make it work. I ate peanut butter on slices of deli turkey she'd steal from work and my brother got used to macaroni and cheese made without any trace of milk or butter. This is not to say that my mother was weak or sad or fragile. Quite the opposite. Her quick wit, strong shoulders and brave voice made her powerful. Made it near impossible to see the self loathing. To see her deep longing for love. Made it near impossible for me to know that love was something I could want.

In the course of 50 years my working class Grandparents had managed to buy a home, own a car and feed themselves. They did everything right by capitalist standards by working late, doing whatever was asked of them, and minding their manners. They played it straight. Their reward was the ability to climb a few rungs on the class ladder...but it cost them their daughter. They lost her first to the work that prevented them from spending any formative time with her. Second, to the addiction she developed to cope with deep loneliness and neglect. Third, to the shame that came after she got clean and was still unable to properly care for her children. A punishment, it seemed, for being incapable of being as 'good' as my Grandparents.

In my family, worthiness of love is tied to self sufficiency. A contradiction that still ripples through my life on the daily. Well before the age of 10 I had internalized the idea that I should be able to provide for myself and my loved ones without the support of others. To succeed meant earning self respect and the respect of others, which loosely translated to love. To fail meant to stay steeped in the shame of needing to work harder and be better before letting anyone see you.

When I was younger this meant we went without dinner while my Grandparents ate less than a mile away from us. This meant trying to keep my Grandmother out of our kitchen when she would come visit. This meant lying to her when she asked if we needed anything. This isolation, these lies, were important to us. They were how my Mother was supposed to win my Grandparents respect and therefore their love. Love and care were simply commodities to be earned by putting your head down and getting to work. And if you didn't have them then it was your own failing. I helped maintain the illusion because supporting my Mother and striving to meet my own needs seemed to be my best shot at getting the same kind of care she was searching for.

Nothing has been so formative as this early isolation, this early quest to meet my needs, this early lesson about love. I have learned to do without, expect little and make it work. This dynamic has played out in my relationships where I have stayed with partners who had little to offer me, didn't love me or met me with violence. And I am not alone. This is a cycle. A generational wounding that I have seen seep into even the smallest corners of our communities.

The recent economic collapse is nothing compared to the emotional collapse that has been present for decades. And the two are not unrelated. It is unreasonable to think that people can exist within a system that treats them as if they were expendable, worthless and insignificant without internalizing those same messages. It is unwise to ignore the devastating impact this has had on our ability to form connections that nourish and sustain us.

The Occupy Movement means so much more to me than wealth distribution or the state of the economy. Yes let's rally under the banner of the 99% because we have lost our homes, our education, our health. But let's also rally because we have lost each other. Our loved ones. Our ability to connect. These wounds are not just economic, they are emotional. They are wounds that tear at our ability to form full and vibrant relationships with one another. That encourage shame and shutting down and shutting up. They are wounds that sustain the system which creates them.

The power of this movement is not in it's ability to effect economic change. The power of this movement lies in it's ability to shatter our isolation. It is powerful because it has created a moment where the streets hum, you are not alone. Not in your trying, not in your failing, not in your inability to protect the little that is precious in this life. You are not alone. You are not broken. The system is.

We have been told that we are only worth what we produce, what we are able to make for ourselves. So for those of us with access to little raw material, capital, resources, it means believing somewhere under the layers of fierce resistance that perhaps we aren't worth much at all. For me this moment is about more than defending public protest space or shutting down banks. It is claiming my worthiness to be loved. It is about making an internalized struggle public, finding unity and breaking down the barriers to intimacy that have cost me my Mother. My family.

It is about believing that we are worth so much more, knowing we have the numbers to fight for it and saying to the person beside you in the street, you are not alone. There is our revolution.