Love It or Leave It

-Rachelle Linda Escamilla

Chris and I have always talked about moving to another country, specifically before #OWS.  I imagined having multiple books of poetry published (the dream is on target); building my resume; charting out a future in academia; and Chris dreamed his crazy-computer-science-minded dreams about making solar robots (which he does) and providing an adequate cushion for us to begin the relocation process.  Because that's how you do it, legally - in order to emigrate you must make yourself viable to the receiving country.  We contemplated Guatemala,  considered South-East Asia, and wished for somewhere like Germany, Iceland or Sweden (but I'm a California girl, having transplanted once to the cold climate, I don't know if I could do that again).  After a few passive sessions of wishing on the globe, we settled on Argentina.  I researched Universities I could either attend or be employed, and he became instantly lost on the internet researching the cost of an organic, grass-fed, lovely steak dinner. 

Today we were driving to Stanford to visit the Cantor Center; I was craving a dose of Rodin in the bleakness of current political events.  How nice it would be, I thought, to escape the world for a while and look at the glossy black forms.  During the drive we were wrapped in conversation about the recent police brutality on college campuses.  College CAMPUSES where free speech, non-violent protest, and activism has its strongest and most sensible crowd.  As we drove, Chris read the open letter to the Chancellor of UC Davis.  The letter addressed the recent bout of police brutality which included prying mouths open and spraying pepper spray down the throats of students who sat, arms-linked, in agony. In the letter, Nathan Brown an assistant professor in the English department at UC Davis, asked Linda Katehi, the Chancellor, to resign due to her inability to provide a safe environment for her students.  

I agreed with Professor Brown and was infuriated.  I could feel my blood pressure rising and my body become stiff with worry.  How could this happen?  This is AMERICA.  How does it occur that students, sitting, in non-violent protest, become victims of physical pain?  I don't question the police action (because, as a person of color, I expect police to be evil, unless they are the exception to the rule), but I question the one institution I've always believed in: Education. How could a University provide so much education, but make such disgusting decisions regarding civil liberties? 

Well, we proceeded with our planned day.  We arrived at Stanford later than planned, but ready to take a break from the world of activism and worry.  As we emerged from the parking structure on campus, we heard voices shouting in unison.  I assumed, because this is Stanford, not Cal, that it was just a bunch of kids getting ready for a pep rally. As we rounded the corner we watched a procession of students yelling "What do we want? JUSTICE! When do we want it? NOW!" I became instantly elated.  Had we stumbled upon a demonstration in solidarity with the recent police brutality on the UC campuses?  We picked up the pace and caught up. 

Sure enough, we had.  Chris and I blended in with the early twenty-somthings, and yelled our way around campus.  We trailed along in the back and midway through the march I nudged Chris to look behind him, we were now in the middle. He squeezed my arm, as if to say "see, my love, people care".

And sometimes, in this country, we do not care. Or we are distracted.  The clamor of television,  celebrities, and consumerism becomes so loud, so overpowering that the country seems lost. The overpowering diegetic nature of our lives: the worlds within worlds within worlds where information and power and civil liberties and love and peace are diluted with clothing and shopping and doggy pajamas and new release movies and everyday tasks and going to the museum; everything becomes lost in the shuffle of being lost in the shuffle of being American. And that's why we contemplated leaving America. It isn't slow enough for us, or clean enough for us, or progressive enough or nice enough or loving enough or peaceful enough.

But stumbling upon the cavalcade today made me realize that there might still be a glimmer in the darkness.  That we, as a country, can redeem ourselves.  We could cash in our trademarked blinders for clarity and care.  That all is not lost. 

When we considered emigrating to another country a couple years ago, it seemed difficult. Now, it seems to be the easiest route: leave the mess of America to the mass of Americans.  I don't know if I want to leave anymore, I've never backed out of a challenge before. I sure as hell won't do it now.

A Star Way to Start the Day!

A Star Way to Start the Day
-Rachelle Linda Escamilla


Sitting in Starbucks this morning, a place where I regret entering, but as a result of corporate branding I lack willpower to refuse my once-in-a-while soy misto. Anyhow, here I am sitting in Starbucks, composing myself before my long Thursdays which include driving to Los Banos to teach, driving back over the mountain to Gilroy to teach, driving back into Hollister for a small break, late-afternoon/early evening dinner, gather my things and head out for what I like to call Protest O’Clock.  Starbucks is always warm, always cozy, sometimes busy, but mostly satisfying.  The corporation aided my funding through graduate school, when there was a lack of funding and I was bumped out of the T.A.-ship, I was devastated. I was hired as a barista and assumed my position in working-class America; a position I was not unfamiliar with.

Growing up in Hollsiter, California, my story is probably just as recognizable as any other small-town girl’s.  I grew up sheltered, in an overtly evangelical Christian church, a meager education (thanks to wonderful teachers and no thanks to budget cuts, but lucky enough to have missed the no-child-left-behind time), and a thirst to go beyond the parameters of my small town.  And I have.  I was an attendant of Gavilan, San Jose State University, and the University of Pittsburgh for graduate work.  My future was bright and ubiquitous, grad school - met the love of my life - marriage - career - saving - buy a home - start a family - live the American Dream.  

My father told me, on the day of my graduation from San Jose State University, that he had worked his whole life at a job he didn’t particularly care for in order for me to pursue my dreams.  And that’s the American Dream - the hope that if you work and work and work you or your children will see the dream come into fruition.  They will reap the benefits of your toil.  And I have - combining the provisions from my father and the stable, two-parent household - a fine foundation for my success in this country.  Even as an underrepresented college student.  

But this is a forum for the 99%, and you know that this story isn’t complete.  During my final year in graduate school I received a call from my mother saying that Dad had lost his job. After 23 years at the same location, after giving them his youth, his muscle, his all, (and he did! Never missed a day of work, even when he had pneumonia - they had to send him home) he was cut.  The politics behind the layoff were many, but let’s save that for another post.  The fact of the matter is he worked in the construction world, for Milgard Windows, and when you work in construction, and the housing bubble bursts, you are most likely going to lose your job.  

I was called home. Not overtly by my mother or father.  Not because it was my duty, but because that’s what you do in my culture; problems at home = come home and help.  So I brought my soon-to-be-husband to California and we proceeded to re-imagine our dream.  Now I would find work locally, he would transfer his duties with the Military locally, we would not think about buying a house because our family’s house was our priority, and children? Well, who can afford them in this economy, and why would we bring kids into a world so full of rotten, disgusting, self-serving, government tyrants and a country of passive, uneducated, consumers. That’s just unfair.

Fast forward to now: I tell my students that they have the burden of knowledge. And I can’t stop thinking about my students while sipping my misto (yum). I am  thinking about the conversations and  the blank looks when I urge them to get involved, the fear I feel when I discuss political topics because I know that my 50 minutes of lecture is undone by the 24-hour cycle of news which is owned and operated by the powers that be, and gobbled up by the masses.  I care about my students because I was one of them, I am one of them.  

In Starbucks I am  listening to the squawking by the early morning gym birds hopping about in their tights with their discussions of spa days and lattes.  I’m no different than them either.  I wish I had money for a spa day - I have a limited amount for my lattes, and I am here, in Starbucks.  We are no different from each other. I bet they have a story like mine. Our stories link, if our stories were people, and those people linked arms, we could fill every bank, every landmark, every government agency, every Starbucks, college campus; if our stories were people they wouldn’t ignore us. They couldn’t.

Occupy Hollister Begins

The goal of the Occupy Hollister Blog is to provide a place where the 99% of Hollister can post essays, critiques, well-constructed rants, suggestions, photos, links, etc... regarding our occupation of this nation.  There is much to say, expose, discuss, and share about sleepy, little Hollister and this is where you may submit safely. 

This blog will be an open forum, but comments will be moderated to keep the morale of the organization going as well as prevent tirades. If you would like to submit to the blog, please email the moderator at krysztov.sweeney@gmail.com