The Tent
Cathy Bryant
So many images come to me when I think of it: the tigerwoman, the tears, the neat passage, the poet, the tent. Most of all, the tent - it's the key to my Occupy experience.
When the movement took over the Peace Gardens in Manchester, I was very excited and proud of them, and desperate to get down there and be a part of it; but a little middle-aged weariness stopped me from rushing to get a sleeping bag and some wellies. I can't camp out - I have arthritis and a weak chest and all sorts of other problems; I'd need more help there than I could give. But my best friend Neil and I agreed that we at least wanted to meet the Occupants and be supportive if we could. The Media were demonising them so much that we were fairly sure that they were good people.
So we loaded up Neil's car with supplies - water was the thing they needed most, their website said, and we took all kinds of food, and some wind-up torches and clean dry socks.
I felt like an agreeably radical version of Santa.
After parking in the city centre - no mean feat - we pushed my trolley, black with bright red cherries on it, down to the Peace Gardens. By chance I had walked to the place the week before Occupy had moved in, when it was a mess of litter and dirt, and I did wonder what state it would be in now.
It was muddy, no question. It was late in the year and damp, and with so many tents - little splotches of colour in oblongs, circles and squares, like a child's shape puzzle - and people, it was bound to get muddier. But there wasn't a scrap of litter, and a neat passage through the encampment had been cleared for pedestrians. The Occupants either got on with what they were doing when people went by or smiled politely.
It seemed, however, that we'd arrived at a bad time. A meeting of sorts was in progress, and everyone was standing together looking earnest and concerned. If they'd had a table and some chairs then the scene would have been the clone of every committee meeting held anywhere since committees began. (They say that if there had been a committee to decide whether or not primitive humans should come down from the trees, we'd still be up and arguing about it. But is there a fairer way of making group decisions?)
Then a girl - a young woman in her twenties, I should say, though to me everyone under forty is a child - came out of a tent, dressed as a tiger. She came over with a smile and welcomed us, and we began to hand over our goodies, with that shame-faced embarrassment that always seems to accompany the giving of gifts to strangers, sadly.
The socks thrilled the woman, whom I'll call Barbara - not her real name. She shook off a boot to show me the socks she was wearing, borrowed from her boyfriend and about a hundred times too big for her tiny feet.
I almost asked, “Why the tiger outfit?” But I once met a poet/singer who performed in a tiger outfit, and when I asked him why, he said, “Because it fits.” There's never going to be a better reason than that, really.
So instead I asked, "What's the meeting about?"
"We've got some problems," Barbara admitted. "One is that some racist political organisations have been attacking the tents. The other is alcohol. We want to be open to everyone, but there's a real problem with drunkenness and aggression if we let any wandering stranger into the camp."
"I hadn't thought of that."
And I hadn't. My worries had been about the cold wet weather, but without walls these kids were at the mercy of every thug who wanted to have a go at them and compromised by any strange drunk who asked for shelter. Say no and be exclusive; say yes and be in danger.
While we had been talking, the meeting ended, and I was pleased to see people looking happier and more relaxed. Some of them came over to me and Barbara.
"What's happening about the alcohol problem?" Barbara asked a bearded man, who smiled at me in a friendly way before answering.
"We've decided to be open to everyone, but on the understanding that it's a dry camp," he explained. "That is to say, people can do what they like in their tents, if they fancy a beer on a cold night, but no public drinking or drunkenness."
I thought that was very reasonable, and I apologised for bringing a bottle of whisky with me for them. They were charming about my apology; they were charming about everything. Barbara put all our things on the communal table, though I begged her to keep some socks for herself and made her hang on to a pair.
Then she showed me the tent.
"This is our main tent, for everyone," she explained. "We got it out of a skip."
I was bemused. Who puts an expensive tent into a skip?
"Look," she said, pointing to regular large rips in each section. "It was slashed deliberately, so that no one could use or sell it. But we rescued it and patched it up."
And yes, plastic of all kinds, from tarpaulins to carrier bags, had been used to seal the great rips.
This made a big impact on me. Someone had thrown something away and deliberately damaged it, so no one would get something for nothing; the getting or giving of something for nothing is a mortal sin against capitalism. Yet these kids had taken this discarded piece of trash and mended it; and then, instead of selling it, they were sharing it for the good of everyone.
The metaphor is obvious.
At this point I looked round for Neil and was amazed to see him relaxed and chatting with a group of Occupants. Neil is extremely shy, and this was a bit like seeing a hermit in a football crowd.
As we left, we were given some typed sheets explaining the aims of the movement. One of the biggest criticisms of Occupy was that "they didn't know what they were protesting about". However, anyone I asked seemed quite clear regional distinctions aside: corporate accountability, the need for some compassion in economic models, and a social programme that upholds basic human rights. Admittedly the typed sheets were misspelled and badly written. But the message was clear enough.
As I left I called, "Thank you," to the camp.
"Thank you," smiled a young man. "You've really brightened up the camp!"
I thought that was a lovely thing to say.
A couple of weeks went by and the weather grew colder and wetter. The media had split into two camps when it came to Occupy: on the one hand they were dirty layabout hippies wanting free handouts; on the other they were well-intentioned peaceful protesters who represented the majority of us - the 99%, as the slogan said, though even I thought that figure was a little on the high side.
Neil and I headed for Occupy Manchester again with fresh supplies. It was a grim, grey day with a biting wind, and most of the Occupants were in their tents. I recognised one figure, though - a talented local poet, often troubled and tormented, but always worth listening to. I went over and said “Hi” and talked for a bit, but he looked terribly desolate. I didn't want to ask what was wrong in case he broke down. Besides, it was none of my business anyway.
But at least I had tried to express my appreciation of what the Occupants were doing. Like many people I felt that they represented me and were undergoing all sorts of privations and problems on our behalf.
After a while I joined Neil, who was talking to a young man I hadn't seen on our last visit. He was looking at our supplies.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you," he said in confidential tones. "Some of us are thinking of leaving. There have been some problems...we might set up somewhere else."
I nodded and thanked him for the info, but I wanted to see and know more.
"I'd really like to see Barbara," I said. "Is she about?"
"Well..." said the young man. "She is, but she's had a drink."
I thanked him, and went to Barbara's tent.
She had indeed had a drink, and she was crying her eyes out. Her boyfriend had dumped her, and the authorities wanted to take her children into care, she wept. She was wearing normal clothes this time, and I could see how painfully thin she was, pelvis like a wishbone, face all sharp angles under the tears. I wished I could have donated some of my spare fat to her! She looked older than I had remembered, or perhaps she was just overloaded with suffering.
She had a friend with her who seemed kind and concerned, and tried to get Barbara to eat and keep warm. We left our supplies, again begging her to keep some for herself.
I hugged her, just once, and my tears met hers.
As we left the camp she came out with all sorts of dire predictions, including plans to close the Peace Gardens and build on the area. We nodded, but didn't really believe it. The Peace Gardens are one of the loveliest landmarks in the city, and it would be crazy to get rid of them.
The struggle continued for a while, but eventually the Occupants left. The media managed one last malicious lie: they took their photos at a meal break during the clean-up of the camp, rather than afterwards. Thus the Occupants were made to look like litterbugs.
The movement didn't die, though, and still has a cohesive presence online. I wonder about the people involved, and how it will affect them. If it's anything like the demonstrations of my youth, some members will grow cynical and see such movements as naive and woolly-minded; some will feel that they've done their bit and have little political input afterwards; some will tone down their activities but remain supportive (this is where I am, I hope) - and some will forge lifelong friendships and spend their whole lives finding ways to campaign for a better world.
And good luck to them all.
I hope they remember the tent; the damaged rubbish that was patched up and transformed into the warm heart of a community. And I hope that Barbara's heart is mended, and that her tiger spirit returns to shine through the city rain. We need people like her and the other Occupants. The City Council has just announced plans to remodel the whole area where the camp was, and in none of the proposals do the Peace Gardens survive.
When the movement took over the Peace Gardens in Manchester, I was very excited and proud of them, and desperate to get down there and be a part of it; but a little middle-aged weariness stopped me from rushing to get a sleeping bag and some wellies. I can't camp out - I have arthritis and a weak chest and all sorts of other problems; I'd need more help there than I could give. But my best friend Neil and I agreed that we at least wanted to meet the Occupants and be supportive if we could. The Media were demonising them so much that we were fairly sure that they were good people.
So we loaded up Neil's car with supplies - water was the thing they needed most, their website said, and we took all kinds of food, and some wind-up torches and clean dry socks.
I felt like an agreeably radical version of Santa.
After parking in the city centre - no mean feat - we pushed my trolley, black with bright red cherries on it, down to the Peace Gardens. By chance I had walked to the place the week before Occupy had moved in, when it was a mess of litter and dirt, and I did wonder what state it would be in now.
It was muddy, no question. It was late in the year and damp, and with so many tents - little splotches of colour in oblongs, circles and squares, like a child's shape puzzle - and people, it was bound to get muddier. But there wasn't a scrap of litter, and a neat passage through the encampment had been cleared for pedestrians. The Occupants either got on with what they were doing when people went by or smiled politely.
It seemed, however, that we'd arrived at a bad time. A meeting of sorts was in progress, and everyone was standing together looking earnest and concerned. If they'd had a table and some chairs then the scene would have been the clone of every committee meeting held anywhere since committees began. (They say that if there had been a committee to decide whether or not primitive humans should come down from the trees, we'd still be up and arguing about it. But is there a fairer way of making group decisions?)
Then a girl - a young woman in her twenties, I should say, though to me everyone under forty is a child - came out of a tent, dressed as a tiger. She came over with a smile and welcomed us, and we began to hand over our goodies, with that shame-faced embarrassment that always seems to accompany the giving of gifts to strangers, sadly.
The socks thrilled the woman, whom I'll call Barbara - not her real name. She shook off a boot to show me the socks she was wearing, borrowed from her boyfriend and about a hundred times too big for her tiny feet.
I almost asked, “Why the tiger outfit?” But I once met a poet/singer who performed in a tiger outfit, and when I asked him why, he said, “Because it fits.” There's never going to be a better reason than that, really.
So instead I asked, "What's the meeting about?"
"We've got some problems," Barbara admitted. "One is that some racist political organisations have been attacking the tents. The other is alcohol. We want to be open to everyone, but there's a real problem with drunkenness and aggression if we let any wandering stranger into the camp."
"I hadn't thought of that."
And I hadn't. My worries had been about the cold wet weather, but without walls these kids were at the mercy of every thug who wanted to have a go at them and compromised by any strange drunk who asked for shelter. Say no and be exclusive; say yes and be in danger.
While we had been talking, the meeting ended, and I was pleased to see people looking happier and more relaxed. Some of them came over to me and Barbara.
"What's happening about the alcohol problem?" Barbara asked a bearded man, who smiled at me in a friendly way before answering.
"We've decided to be open to everyone, but on the understanding that it's a dry camp," he explained. "That is to say, people can do what they like in their tents, if they fancy a beer on a cold night, but no public drinking or drunkenness."
I thought that was very reasonable, and I apologised for bringing a bottle of whisky with me for them. They were charming about my apology; they were charming about everything. Barbara put all our things on the communal table, though I begged her to keep some socks for herself and made her hang on to a pair.
Then she showed me the tent.
"This is our main tent, for everyone," she explained. "We got it out of a skip."
I was bemused. Who puts an expensive tent into a skip?
"Look," she said, pointing to regular large rips in each section. "It was slashed deliberately, so that no one could use or sell it. But we rescued it and patched it up."
And yes, plastic of all kinds, from tarpaulins to carrier bags, had been used to seal the great rips.
This made a big impact on me. Someone had thrown something away and deliberately damaged it, so no one would get something for nothing; the getting or giving of something for nothing is a mortal sin against capitalism. Yet these kids had taken this discarded piece of trash and mended it; and then, instead of selling it, they were sharing it for the good of everyone.
The metaphor is obvious.
At this point I looked round for Neil and was amazed to see him relaxed and chatting with a group of Occupants. Neil is extremely shy, and this was a bit like seeing a hermit in a football crowd.
As we left, we were given some typed sheets explaining the aims of the movement. One of the biggest criticisms of Occupy was that "they didn't know what they were protesting about". However, anyone I asked seemed quite clear regional distinctions aside: corporate accountability, the need for some compassion in economic models, and a social programme that upholds basic human rights. Admittedly the typed sheets were misspelled and badly written. But the message was clear enough.
As I left I called, "Thank you," to the camp.
"Thank you," smiled a young man. "You've really brightened up the camp!"
I thought that was a lovely thing to say.
A couple of weeks went by and the weather grew colder and wetter. The media had split into two camps when it came to Occupy: on the one hand they were dirty layabout hippies wanting free handouts; on the other they were well-intentioned peaceful protesters who represented the majority of us - the 99%, as the slogan said, though even I thought that figure was a little on the high side.
Neil and I headed for Occupy Manchester again with fresh supplies. It was a grim, grey day with a biting wind, and most of the Occupants were in their tents. I recognised one figure, though - a talented local poet, often troubled and tormented, but always worth listening to. I went over and said “Hi” and talked for a bit, but he looked terribly desolate. I didn't want to ask what was wrong in case he broke down. Besides, it was none of my business anyway.
But at least I had tried to express my appreciation of what the Occupants were doing. Like many people I felt that they represented me and were undergoing all sorts of privations and problems on our behalf.
After a while I joined Neil, who was talking to a young man I hadn't seen on our last visit. He was looking at our supplies.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you," he said in confidential tones. "Some of us are thinking of leaving. There have been some problems...we might set up somewhere else."
I nodded and thanked him for the info, but I wanted to see and know more.
"I'd really like to see Barbara," I said. "Is she about?"
"Well..." said the young man. "She is, but she's had a drink."
I thanked him, and went to Barbara's tent.
She had indeed had a drink, and she was crying her eyes out. Her boyfriend had dumped her, and the authorities wanted to take her children into care, she wept. She was wearing normal clothes this time, and I could see how painfully thin she was, pelvis like a wishbone, face all sharp angles under the tears. I wished I could have donated some of my spare fat to her! She looked older than I had remembered, or perhaps she was just overloaded with suffering.
She had a friend with her who seemed kind and concerned, and tried to get Barbara to eat and keep warm. We left our supplies, again begging her to keep some for herself.
I hugged her, just once, and my tears met hers.
As we left the camp she came out with all sorts of dire predictions, including plans to close the Peace Gardens and build on the area. We nodded, but didn't really believe it. The Peace Gardens are one of the loveliest landmarks in the city, and it would be crazy to get rid of them.
The struggle continued for a while, but eventually the Occupants left. The media managed one last malicious lie: they took their photos at a meal break during the clean-up of the camp, rather than afterwards. Thus the Occupants were made to look like litterbugs.
The movement didn't die, though, and still has a cohesive presence online. I wonder about the people involved, and how it will affect them. If it's anything like the demonstrations of my youth, some members will grow cynical and see such movements as naive and woolly-minded; some will feel that they've done their bit and have little political input afterwards; some will tone down their activities but remain supportive (this is where I am, I hope) - and some will forge lifelong friendships and spend their whole lives finding ways to campaign for a better world.
And good luck to them all.
I hope they remember the tent; the damaged rubbish that was patched up and transformed into the warm heart of a community. And I hope that Barbara's heart is mended, and that her tiger spirit returns to shine through the city rain. We need people like her and the other Occupants. The City Council has just announced plans to remodel the whole area where the camp was, and in none of the proposals do the Peace Gardens survive.
Working notes
The theme of (pre)occupation grabbed me at once. If I hadn't been preoccupied with feminism and politics then I wouldn't have become involved in the Occupy movement - one's preoccupations lead to activism. There is a creeping sense that we have no right to exist in our own space - any official body can rope off any stretch of anywhere and we'll all keep away voluntarily, without any explanation of the necessity for being limited. Simply walking down a street will be filmed on camera, and there are special programs to pick up on any 'unusual' behaviour - such as stopping to smell the flowers. One thing I love about the Occupy movement is its reclamation of our places for us - cities, towns, villages, the country.
About the author
Cathy Bryant won the 2012 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize for the worst opening line of a novel, and is a former blogger for the Huffington Post. Her stories and poems have been published all over the world in such publications as Prole, Women Writers, and Melusine. As well as winning the Bulwer-Lytton, in 2012 Cathy won the Sampad 'Inspired by Tagore' Contest, the Malahat Review Monostich Contest, and the Swanezine Poetry Contest. She co-edits the annual anthology Best of Manchester Poets and her collection, Contains Strong Language and Scenes of a Sexual Nature, was published recently. Contact Cathy at cathy@cathybryant.co.uk