Shout It Forward

I was an early enlistee for the People's Climate March held in late September of 2014, on a Sunday in NYC. I was enjoying the trip preparations, a high of expectations, when two family members came down with a bad cold just five incubation days from my flight day. Five days of mild panic to real hysteria as I body scanned for symptoms of a cold that would ruin it all. On Thursday morning, still wary but allowing myself to be excited again, I made it to the airport. Sitting at the gate, waiting for my flight, I was finally feeling both calm and giddy at the same time.

I haven't flown for several years, and wasn't quite prepared for economy class. Airline economy class is designed for very small people: everyone else just makes do. You can only sit in one position until your feet go to sleep and then you join everyone in the aisle waiting in line for the restrooms. The aisle is a one lane road with traffic going both ways. It's a clever arrangement because by the time you actually get to the restrooms and back, your feet are revived, and you go back to one position. I flew into Newark, NJ. Newark Airport and the nearby airport hotel were standard, nice enough, but leave little impression. The ubiquitous hotel room is my jump off place for the grand adventure. I was feeling bubbly; continuous body scanning assured me I was not sick.

While I'm probably a normal adult with a bad sense of direction, I see myself more dramatically as having a mild form of Developmental Topographical Disorientation (DTD), characterized by the inability to navigate through a non-verbal process, or generate cognitive maps. Catching the train to Penn Station in NYC the next morning was easier than I could have imagined as the crowd going there formed a human wave that carried me right along. That clarity ended at Penn Station. The subway system is a hot, brightly lit underground rabbit warren, and those rabbits move fast. I was in no mood to figure out the system at that moment; couldn't find my rabbit mode, so I headed for an exit. Twenty-five short blocks to my hotel, a moderate walk by New York standards. Wheeling my luggage heightened it to level moderate plus, but the pleasant, warm weather still made it a pleasure.

I had booked a room at the Park Savoy Hotel on W. 58th Street, a block from Central Park near Columbia Circle. It's a very expensive neighborhood, full of posh hotels, but the Savoy is a wonderful exception. The rooms are more like college dorm rooms than hotel rooms except that you do have your own small, private bathroom. The charm lies entirely in the affordable price at a great location.

Park Savoy Hotel NYC

While checking in, I met Susan, who had the seriously informal look, and the sturdy shoes of a fellow climate activist. After a brief conversation confirming we were both there for the march, we were instant comrades, and went with another couple Susan knew to find food. These people were prepared. Of the hundreds of workshops and other events planned for the days leading up to the Climate March, the couple had definitively chosen their events, purchased their metro passes, marked their subway maps, and were ready to rise at the crack of dawn to begin. Susan was not quite as up to speed but exuded confidence for getting about. I felt like the kid who didn't do her homework, can't read, and doesn't want anyone to know. I could have tagged along, of course, but the very competent couple struck me as quite humorless and I preferred my own confusion.

Comrades from the Hotel Savoy 

The four of us met again at our complimentary breakfast site next door to the hotel. The competent couple rushed off in order to stay on schedule. Susan was ready to launch before I was, but she stayed in contact with me through texting. It was perverse, but while I very much appreciated the navigational help she gave me, I wanted to do it on my own. It didn't go smoothly. I got turned around a number of times, but I emerged from the subway station on the right street and with my very own metro pass.

Of the approximately one thousand organizations that participated and supported the march, Global Climate Convergence was perhaps the best organized with 40 or so different workshops presented. A conference of very serious people all networking. I made it through two workshops; The Climate Crisis is a Water Crisis, and Toxic Trade Agreements. I had planned to attend three or four workshops but was feeling overloaded with depressing information. Had the urge to immerse myself in serious subject matter not been so strong, I could have been sight-seeing on such an idyllically beautiful day. I did consider going to a Bee In with Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir, but I would have had to travel to a distant Bowling Green Park. I could manage a subway backtrack to my hotel. I could not manage a whole new subway project and then find my way back. In retrospect, je regrette profondement. I love Reverend Billy.

Stop Shopping Choir 

I was a mere subway ride away from singing along with the Stop Shopping Choir whereas if I wanted to join them again, my next opportunity would be St. Louis, MI, where they will be celebrating a pesticide free, non GMO organic Thanksgiving meal at Monsanto's headquarters. Whimsical activism is obviously more fun than the normal shuffling about with signs and banners except for the going to jail part. 

In a departure from the usual protest march agenda, there were to be no speakers at the end of the Climate March on Sunday. The speakers were instead holding court the night before at several venues. Susan and I were able to take a modest hike from our hotel to the All Souls Unitarian Church to hear a panel discussion with Bill MiKibben, Bernie Sanders, Naomi Klein, Chris Hedges, and Kshama Sawant; all rock stars of progressive politics. The audience was hyped for the march and high on just being together with leaders who could articulate so perfectly why we had come from all over the country to be part of this event. Bernie Sanders, Independent, socialist senator from VT is the political man of the hour to fight the corrupt corporate takeover. Kshama Sawant, socialist city council member from Seattle, is a charismatic and effective politician who can always deliver a "Storm the Bastille" speech. Naomi Klein and Chris Hedges are journalists with sharp edges, and Bill MiKibben is the 350.org instigator of the Climate Change March.

For Progressives, it was like being at church with nearly one thousand of us in attendance, all warm and glowing. Somewhere inside my inner glow, I'm vaguely becoming aware of my sore throat. When church is over, I'm eager to get back to the hotel, go to sleep, and maybe lose the sore throat. I'm really trying for a state of denial about impending doom. As I'm standing outside the church impatiently waiting for Susan to join me for the walk back, I nearly stumbled over Amy Goodman of Democracy Now. I wanted to gush and proclaim my admiration for her, but this is NYC and some sophistication is required.

Amy Goodman & Juan Gonzalez on TV set. Democracy Now! 

As I wake up on Sunday morning, the cold is now inevitable, but my energy is still good and I can hold it off for a few more hours. I head out to meet my Seattle friends at our designated starting point for the march. My hotel is easy walking distance from Central Park, and I'm early enough to engage in pre-march photo ops.

Poster Child 

The World At Rest 

It has been advertised as the largest climate march in history; it's certainly one of the most organized marches in history. We are neatly divided by city blocks in order to allow traffic to cross periodically. Consequently, there is a lot of starting and stopping to this march, and we are marching for hours to cover the two and a half mile permitted route. The anarchists among us are disdainful of all the coordination with the city police force. A relatively small contingent of anarchists do join the march anyway and are rewarded with their very own police escorts. Otherwise, the police along the route are very relaxed and non-threatening. This is definitely not a hostile crowd. It feels to me more like a Macy's day parade or maybe a ticker tape parade with NYC mayor, Bill de Blasio, out in front of the approximately 400,000 exuberant marchers. The props, banners and costumes on display are more elaborate than I was expecting. I'm marching with 350 Seattle and we are taking turns pulling a huge globe with large and heavy accompanying banners. Marching bands are tucked in at random, and for most of the route, we are entertained by a talented four person drum band.

Alex Garland photographer 

It's difficult to feel the true impact of the crowd, or to have any idea of the numbers when we are folded somewhere in the middle. An inspired piece of the march plan is that at a given time, we will all stop marching and have a full minute of silence to be followed by exuberant, joyful noise making to let the world know we are here. The silence is almost eerie. Whether by design or by chance, the joyful shouts begin at the back of the line and the human roar travels forward toward us on a wave of incredible volume and intensity. We join the wave in turn and shout it forward. We are single drops of water flowing together in a river of white water noise. We look at each other in surprised awe; the moment passes, and we are groups and divisions of people marching forward.

Adam Smith photographer

As we cross the finish line, we are already going our separate ways. The cold virus has taken over; my head is stuffy and my energy is drooping. In a parallel universe where I didn't get the cold, I would have helped my friends to dismantle the props and joined them for the dancing in the street and general merry making that followed. Instead, I took to the sidewalk and followed the march route back to my neighborhood. Since my division was somewhere in the middle of the march, I got to experience the last half of the march as a sidewalk spectator. I was too weary to photograph it myself, but there is no shortage of march documentation.

Alex Garland photographer 

Doing my job; helping to carry the world. 

According to GobalClimateConvergence.org, a mere two days after the People's Climate March, the UN Climate Summit ignored the mandate from the street, fulfilling lowest expectations for inaction and empty rhetoric. The cheer-leading was led by President Obama who called for other countries to follow U.S. leadership in pledging a puny 3% emissions reduction by 2020.

Bill and Hillary Clinton were elsewhere on People's Climate March day, though not far. It was rumored that they were otherwise occupied in a meeting with Wall Street bankers at the Sheraton Hotel. True or not, they were in NYC but did not find it politically expedient to join the march or express support.

We, the marchers, did not expect more from the politicians. The People's Climate March was for show, and for fun, and to energize and inspire us for the less glamorous work ahead.



“Into the Streets”, a gorgeous 9-minute video about the march from our friends at Meerkat Media

It's All Open Space in Costa Rica

We wake up in a tree house to surround-sound, exotic bird songs as the windows here are always open. Sunrise around six, no curtains on the windows; adjust bedtime accordingly. Each morning is a fresh start but the weather changes little. The air is soft and warm, so full of moisture that nothing is completely dry. A natural moisturizer for skin and hair; my clothes don't get a chance to wrinkle.

The morning view of the valley always delights me, almost like a programmed response. There are other houses hidden in the vegetation, but it seems to be exclusively our view.

We join Frank in the open air kitchen for strong coffee and quiet conversation as he prepares breakfast for us. Eventually, we all gather for another incredible meal, heavy on tropical fruit that we can barely afford to buy in the States. The mist is lifting from the valley, the sun is warmer; we are encircled by vegetal greenery and bright flowers.

If it's Thursday, we can travel a short distance to an open market, a farmers' market on steroids. Fruit and vegetables for sale in such abundance, it looks like it could feed the world.

The market has a county fair like atmosphere as local residents come to socialize as much as to shop. All fun stops at the Mennonite lady's table. Her breads are popular but do not smile here where life is apparently very serious and certainly not joyous or carefree. The cheese lady stands alone. Her cheeses may be superb and her hat is festive, but she is not having a great day either.  

On another afternoon, we stop at a local, neighborhood bar. There is little separation of the
inside and outside; windows with no glass or screens keep nature close. Anything seems possible; a jaguar or ocelot might be wandering the dirt road below our open window.

Given enough privacy from passers-by, glass and screens are completely optional here in the countryside. Our friend has lived here for nearly twenty years with artfully liberated windows.

But real open space begins at the beach. We're on the Pacific Ocean side where there is a stunning lack of commercial development blight. People friendly beaches abound that are nevertheless not crowded with people.

Paradise doesn't exist, and in other parts of Costa Rica there are bars on all the windows and razor wire is a prominent feature. But bars on the windows is also a state of mind, and I'm going for the open space.

Wrong Man

I am walking down the bike trail near my home in the late afternoon on New Years Eve. The trail is not empty but certainly not very busy on this late December day. At a good distance, I see a white haired man coming toward me who looks very like one of my neighbors who moved away but still visits family members on our street.

Love Israel, my former neighbor, is the grand poobah of a long established commune conveniently named the Love Israel Family. As befits any grand poobah or successful salesperson, Love is charismatic and exceedingly outgoing. You are his new best friend the moment he meets you. A good recruiting tool of course, but the man is a totally legitimate extrovert.

As the man is approaching me, he turns on a beaming grin and, full of cheer, asks me how I've been. It's like taking a drink of iced tea when you were expecting lemonade. The man looks and acts like Love, but is not quite Love. I find I've already launched into a conversation with the man about gardening, and he's telling me he once had an organic farm in England. That explains the British accent that I'm just now taking into account; further prove that he is definitely not Love Israel. But now we're talking about the horrors of genetically modified organisms and the Evil Empire of Monsanto.

He decides to introduce himself; his name is Walter. I try to explain to him that I had mistaken him for a neighbor. "Oh don't worry," he says, "I'm a terrible flirt."