A few hours before I was arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge, I met Nicole in Liberty Park. She wore tight dark blue jeans, a grey sweater and a blue and white scarf that hid behind her long auburn hair. She wore the same pink lipstick she had on at the bar when we met. It
I desperately wanted to see the world, not the one I read about in history books or heard sound bites of on television, but the real world, with all of its agony and all of its gluttony.
For a few weeks last fall if you visited the occupation in the financial district you could taste it in the air; the world was about to turn over. Occupy Wall Street stuck a chord of discontent so profound that thousands gladly went to jail, yet so simple everyone understood. It was a visceral outrage