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COLUMN: 'Occupy' movement is a cause to get involved in now

by Arthur Dixon | February 6, 2012 | 2 comments

I’ve often thought I might quite like to “Occupy” something.

In recent months, the prospect has loomed prevalently in our American university consciousness, and I don’t mind admitting I have found it rather exciting. As if the surging, youthful crowds and impassioned chants and cries of a burgeoning economic and social revolution weren’t enough, the cultural phenomenon has opened the door to a host of new topical jokes.

And yet, despite my affection for Occupy Wall Street and its intellectual offspring around the nation, I remain personally uninvolved, at least until the publication of this column.

Tragically, chronological circumstances conspired to ensure I otherwise would be engaged as the flames of revolution ignited. Specifically, the inception of the Occupy movement caught me in the midst of reading-intensive classes and a daunting workload. These academic demands kept my head in books about scientific relativism and Victorian executions as the youth of America banded together to take on corporate greed and inherently corrupt politics without me.

I now wish desperately that things had been different — that I had signed up to be part of the 99 percent in September and actually done some research to back up my conscientious support for the protests. Unfortunately, I was simply too busy. Let that be a Jedi lesson to all new college students: “Distribute your course load evenly, you must, or feel like an apathetic loser, you will.”

My one fleeting moment of connection with the Occupy movement this semester was characterized by surreal, hazy confusion that I shall do my best to illustrate. I had completed my participation in the Union Programming Board’s section of our lovely Homecoming Parade, in which I joyously danced down the streets of Norman, made up to look like a zombie and accompanied by the full set of beloved UPB characters (the lobster, the hot dog, the Christmas tree, Mario — you know the rest). There was certainly no thought of economic reform in my mind as we progressed through the crowds in irreverent, bacchanalian style. It was a wonderful, sweaty laugh, but as I traveled south through campus to return to the towers, I had an unsettling experience.

A team of Occupiers also was progressing through the ovals, following much the same path as I was, and I briefly found myself surrounded and absorbed by the slogan-chanting marchers. These were not clean-cut Occupiers eager to analyze fiscal statistics; they were of the more primal and aggressive variety, and, while I’m sure they were genuinely well-meaning and decent people, I found them a bit frightening.

In the midst of their protestant maelstrom, a male participant about my age noticed I wasn’t carrying any of their information sheets. He seemed to realize at that point that I was an inadvertent newcomer to the group. He eagerly shot me an earnest greeting and rapidly proceeded with a series of well-memorized and deeply troubling facts about the evils of the 1 percent and the stratification of American society.

I haltingly responded with an awkward torrent of language in which I offered my undying support for the movement and its ideals and told him I would be present at the next meeting simply because I didn’t know what else to say.

I didn’t go to that meeting. I think I was writing a paper on the sexuality of native New Guineans at the time because that seemed the responsible thing to do. In hindsight, I am glad I wrote that paper and fulfilled my scholarly responsibilities, but I also deeply regret not following through on my promise to that devoted young man.

Admittedly, I typically accept the advances of any talking head on the South Oval — be it distributing tiny Bibles or proclaiming political ideologies through the time-honored medium of shouting — out of simple politeness and fear of disappointing it through my own lack of interest.

But, even without much background knowledge, I truly was supportive of the Occupiers’ cause. If only to indulge my interest in the romantic ideals of revolution, I wish I had gotten involved and demonstrated to myself that I am capable of protesting more than a slightly-more-difficult-than-usual essay prompt. I realize my own impact may have been miniscule and the protester’s interest in me may have been based purely because I still was dressed as a zombie, but I nevertheless always will feel a pang of guilt when I remember how I failed to come through for a cause that is laying bare the problems that plague modern politics.

As I stand today, I never have participated in a protest, and I never have held a picket sign. Although I am an impassioned fan of Alan Moore, I very rarely have donned a “V for Vendetta” mask, and when I have, it has been for the purpose of private roleplaying rather than intimidating anonymity. I never have used the Internet as a tool to foment civil disobedience. The only thing I can claim to have occupied in college is the Great Reading Room of the Bizzell Library, and even there only on sunny days when I fancied a more leather-and-wood-intensive place to study.

My various John Lennon T-shirts look up at me in disgust every time I wear them out into the changing world.

So, hypocrite that I am, I encourage you to get out there and Occupy something while you have the chance because your wide-eyed grandchildren will not be very excited to hear about how you sat alone doing calculus problems while a revolution passed by outside your window.

Arthur Dixon is a University College freshman

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