the human mic

It was chilly last night, and I was tired. I had meant to shut the world out, read my book awhile, go to bed early. But just after dark I started to wonder what they were doing two blocks away, at UNM, at the site that was until 3 days ago the Occupy Albuquerque encampment. I was out of town when the big action went down, UNM President Schmidly refusing to meet with protestors or to renew their permit, the advance on his office building, and later the face-off with police that ended in 15 arrests. Earlier in the afternoon university police had formed a line across the now-forbidden greensward, and the people had gathered, bunched up, quiet, and pensive, on the sidewalks just out front of them and on the other side of Central. It had looked like nothing or anything could happen. Somebody had told me the coffee shop on the non-university side had offered their patio for the evening, but there hadn't been any sign of that happening earlier. I bundled up, decided just to walk to the light by the Frontier where I could get a second look at the place.

Yale Park looked wide and empty with the signs, the info table, and the kitchen tent taken down. The police were still there, standing silent and evenly spaced. But out on the sidewalk -- in the six feet or so of undisputed, concrete free zone -- about 50 people were, with enthusiasm and great efficiency, holding the nightly General Assembly. As I approached I could hear them using the 'human mic': the practice of repeating a speaker's words in unison, in small increments, so that everyone in the crowd could hear them. They had it down to an art form, on this night. It was an immediate call-and-response that bounced one phrase, and then the next, around the tight concentric huddle almost as fast as the mind could process it. It was almost like an echo of one voice: "Next agenda item/NEXT AGENDA ITEM! We have a proposal/WE HAVE A PROPOSAL!" Without missing a beat they covered the day's announcements, read a notice of support from several of the city's unions, and then a statement about standing with our communities' workers and their families as they struggle to create a better world. I was elated to learn that 'consensing' is now a verb, and to witness that action flowing round the circle like the firing of synapses. Fingers waved their assent like live neurons in the moment made visible. The tide of rising and falling voices was a joy to listen to, and to join my voice with the others was to dive into a warm, translucent sea of shared optimism and competence.

The evening's four facilitators moved expertly through the agenda, following the agreed procedures of speaking in turn, acknowledgement, deep listening. But they were interrupted at one point by another voice. A UNM professor stepped up, a man who made possible the recent teach-ins, and possibly some of the dialogue (as one-sided as much of it was) with university administration. Facing the circle he announced (apologizing for the break of respectful protocols) that the UNM police standing several yards away wanted to express their appreciation for our fine way of handling the awkward situation which their bosses had put them and all of us in. A great cheer went up from the group, and about a hundred waving consensing hands. Somebody yelled, "Cops are part of the 99% too!" Since we were maintaining the human mic, most people immediately repeated this exclamation, as we turned smiling to face the quiet line of men and women. They made no response, having apparently said their piece and, possibly, risked their job security enough for one evening.

The meeting returned to the agenda. They had agreed to pause at 8 p.m. and observe a moment of silence in honor of Occupy Oakland, and Scott Olsen in particular. "Does anyone NOT know who Scott Olsen is?" called out the chubby young man keeping the minutes on his laptop. One hand went up in the back. "Will someone please get with that man and inform him?" the minute-keeper cried. Without a pause, someone moved in the indicated direction, and the talk continued.

As 8:00 drew closer, one of the facilitators motioned to a man standing just behind her. The man - stocky, late-40's perhaps, thin mustache, long braid down his back - looked Native American and Mexican, with the added, unnaturally intense coloring of someone who's been living without shelter for a while. "We have a proposal," the facilitator called out (WE HAVE A PROPOSAL)to include this man's girlfriend in the moment of silence. She died this week. Her name was Stephanie." "Would the man like to say a few words about her?" a woman asked. The facilitator turned to him in silent question. The expression on his round face was the saddest I've seen in a very long time. He was silent a few seconds. Then he spoke, not very loudly. "She died four days ago." The human mic, primed by now to a heartbeat-length response, echoed his words: SHE DIED FOUR DAYS AGO. People glanced around as they said this to each other. He breathed, looked down, spoke again. "She died in my lap." There was a just-audible pause, then SHE DIED IN MY LAP, repeated the people. I could barely see the man at this point, ducking down as I was to fight off a wave of tears. I only hope he heard the repetition the way I did: an honoring of his story, a momentary re-telling of his sorrow into the collective memory.

At 8:00, at someone else's suggestion, we spread out along the sidewalk holding hands, and began 5 minutes of complete silence. There were enough of us that our human chain stretched the entire length of the park - maybe a little over a city block. The cars that passed continued to honk their approval, but for this moment we made no response. When the meeting reconvened, I was too far adrift in the sadness, gratitude, and deep deep peace to join them again. I said goodnight to a couple of friends, and started home.

At the crowd's edge, the man we had held part of our silence for was sitting on a low concrete wall. His expression was as vacant and without purpose as the park behind us. Three or four young people sat near him, not talking, just keeping a sort of quiet offer of company or vigil. I crouched in front of him, said "I'm sorry for your loss." Without entirely looking up, he reached out his right arm to hug me. "I hear you, sister," he said in his bone-weary voice. "I hear you."

compliment

Best compliment today that I've had in quite a while. Some of the most heartening words, too. After la danza, a compadre I don't know as well asks me, "How long have you been dancing?" He's lived in NM awhile, but originally comes from Mexico City and has danced with other groups in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and Denver. So, he's seen the scene. I sigh and answer, full of the everpresent frustration at my slowness, "Two and a half years." "Really?" he exclaims. "You dance this well after such a short time?"

2Jungquotesforme

"Loneliness does not come from having no people about one but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible."

"The unexpected and the incredible belong to this world. Only then is life whole."

--C. Jung