I heard the news on NPR shortly after 7 a.m.: Zuccotti Park raided, Occupiers evicted. At that point, the Bloomberg administration was still saying the park would be re-opened at 8 a.m. I spent an uneasy morning of desultory work and frequent Internet checking. That’s how I heard about the temporary restraining order that said the city had no right to bar the Occupation from the park, which was flatly ignored for most of the day, as police continued to barricade the space until word came down that the temporary order had been overturned by a second judge. As I continued to check in with a variety of on-line sources, I was struck (though not surprised) by the disparity between the bland accounts of what had happened at the park overnight that were being purveyed by NPR and the Times (most left quietly, with about 70 arrests, according to these respectable outlets) and the outrageous details of a military-style operation revealed on progressive blogs. Apparently the Brooklyn Bridge and subway lines serving the downtown area had been shut down; police helicopters had shut off the airspace above the park; reporters had been barred from getting anywhere near the action. The use of pepper spray, excessive force, and resulting injuries were being reported. The OWS infrastructure, including thousands of library books, all the supplies in the medical tent, and all the electronic gear belonging to the media crew, had been hauled away by Sanitation. (Early reports indicated that these things had been destroyed; the city is now saying that personal belongings can be retrieved at a midtown location, but it’s unclear that many if any Occupiers have actually succeeded in getting their stuff back.) When I left the house a little before 2 p.m., the police were still the only occupying force inside the park perimeter; the Global Revolution live stream commentator was saying, “What we need most down here at Zuccotti Park right now is people.”

Zuccotti Park looks different now that it’s been power washed. I was able to see that what looked like white stripes on the ground in the live stream coverage are actually light bars embedded in the fancy concrete that covers most of this decidedly non-bucolic space, with its pattern of carefully spaced, identical trees now in the last stages of golden color before they fall to the ground. Dozens of cops stood scattered around the area, surveying the territory or schmoozing in pairs, while a few guys in reflecting vests went around with brooms and pans, obsessively sweeping up bits of trash. The metal barricades surrounding the park made them look self-penned. “Tell us your demands!” taunted the former Occupiers, now on the outside looking in. On Liberty Street, a small drum-and-brass circle was holding a jam session. Up on Broadway, the crowd was so thick that pedestrians moved with difficulty, or not at all. “How come all these weeks the cops made us keep moving, and now they’re in the park, they’ve forgotten all about that?” somebody asked.

I positioned myself on Liberty, wearing my lightweight UAW poncho against the few raindrops that had begun to fall, and read Meridel LeSueur’s “What Happens in a Strike,” a piece of reportage from the 1930’s, republished in her 1977 collection Harvest (West End Press). The surrounding din was substantial, the sidewalk was crowded, the 99% were distracted, and even though a couple of people asked what I was reading, I doubt they heard more than a few sentences. But I heard what I read, and it spoke wonderfully to the moment: “What happens in a strike happens not to one person alone. It is  the same all over America. What happens now does not happen from or for a few people. It is a crisis with meaning and potency for all and prophetic of a future” (11).