My Grandmother

Annie Webster was the first live child born into a poor working family in St. Helens, Lancashire in 1914.  Her father was conscripted and spent the war years in the trenches.

In 1928, the death of her mother brought Annie’s education to an abrupt end, as she became the primary caretaker for her father’s household – a two-up two down with a coal fire,  gas lighting and no indoor plumbing, shared by Annie, her two sisters and her baby brother. 

The Second World War (to end all wars) opened up factory jobs for women -- as well as requiring the participation of the family breadwinner in the hostilities -- and so Annie was put to work.   Working, Annie met a boy, they became close; she became pregnant.  She did not explain her condition to the young man, but she explored the possibility of his being willing to give up his heathen Methodism and return to the true Catholic faith, but he was not willing to consider it.  So they separated.

Annie hid the pregnancy.  She wore tight bindings under loose clothes.  She was petrified of her father (who was a gambler and a drinker, and sometimes violent) so she told no-one what was going on.

She gave birth to her only child, my mother, alone, in the tiny back bedroom she shared with her three siblings.  When Catherine came into the room, and saw Annie with my mother at the breast, she became the second person alive to know that Annie was ever pregnant.  That my mother survived to later give birth to five healthy  sons, after such a pregnancy, is astounding.

When grandfather came back from the second world war, he was not an easy person to live with.  Margaret, and Catherine and Sam all married and moved out.  Annie stayed to look after father, and her daughter, Marie, whom her grandfather would frequently refer to as ‘the bastard”.  Annie went to early mass every day, as she did for her whole life, and she and her only child became very close.  There was never another man in her life.

Annie went back to work in the factory.  For thirty years she slaved away, doing the same job as the men, and getting paid half as much.  At the end of thirty years, an imitation gold watch, no pension, thank-you, goodbye.

She was still living in that two up two-down.  Electricity had been installed in the sixties, and there was hot water in the tiny little kitchen that had been added at the back.  The toilet remained outside, at the end of the yard, for as long as my grandmother lived, there was no bath, or shower.

I remember my Grandmother and her sister Margaret (Auntie Meg) coming to babysit for the ever growing tribe of little Rigby boys, every Monday night.  Mom and Dad were both keen on singing, they had choir practice (which eventually included all five of us) and amateur performance of musicals and light opera which usually included me.

Mother taught me how to make a pot of tea, and I remember competing with my brothers to see who could provide the most correctly brewed beverage.  Annie was a lovely person.  I remember her as being very kind, and how anybody I met in her company was always very nice to me. 

She was an excellent cook, and could produce the most delicious pies and pastries in her tiny ill-equipped kitchen.

After she retired, she would spend all day at our house on Mondays – helping mother with the laundry.  She taught us how to iron our shirts, and press our pants.  She let us know when things were different from what she was used to, and she supported all kinds of traditions that were disappearing from the world.

The last time I saw her was in 1980, and she looked absolutely radiant.  She was all dressed up for my younger brother’s wedding.  She had rented a fine white hat, and gloves.  She was clearly very happy to be on her way to a huge wedding with 400 guests.  She was immensely proud of her grandsons. I kissed her, and said, “see you in church”.

On the way to the ceremony, she became so ill, my dad had the limo go by the hospital emergency room.  She was clearly in great distress, but what do you do, you can’t miss your son’s wedding.

In the church, the ceremony was underway, after a delayed start, and the groom’s parents were not present.  Father was due to give a reading.  He went straight from the door of the church to the altar, didn’t even stop at the pew.  Mother sat down in front of me, and Grandma was nowhere to be seen.

We found out later that Grandma died during the service.  Her only daughter Marie, knowing this, but not allowed to speak of it, sat at the high table, in front of 400 jovial wedding guests.  We were told she was not feeling well, and she was being taken care of at the hospital.  When the guests were leaving, father told us what had really happened.

I was living in Texas at the time.  I stayed in England an extra week to help with the funeral, and one of the things I did was to call a house clearance company.  They agree to completely empty the house, and they will pay cash for anything of value.  My grandmother’s assets, after a lifetime of work, amounted to 30 pounds sterling.  In 1980 that would have paid for a halfway decent meal and a cheap bottle of wine.

Invasion

I have opened the front door about 10,000 times in my life. For at least half those times, the door wasn’t even locked in the first place. Thursday night I had an experience that has forever changed my relationship to the front door.

Just after dark, about 9:30 PM. Two guys in masks, the first one put a knife in my face, and pushed me backwards. He shouted “This is real!” I think, is this a swat team, but there aren’t enough of them, the uniforms are wrong. Way too many tattoos, and that knife is not what the cops usually use. Reset – This is about drugs. I remember thinking I could die in the next few minutes if I am not careful. “Lie down” I get down fast.

Knifeboy says roll over, and the second, bigger guy shows me a black baseball bat. Knifeboy ties my hands with zipties. He has done this before - the first one loose, so the second one can loop through, then he pulls the second one very tight while telling me that I am not the one they have come for. At this point I think there is a reasonable chance I am going to survive this encounter.

“Where is the money and the pot?.” My housemates have a few grams of pot, and when knifeboy discovers I am alone in the house he tells me to get up and show them where the pot is hidden. I give up the stash under the bed, and then knifeboy asks me where the money is. I tell them I don’t know (the rent is due the next morning and I have all of it in my wallet, but they aint going to get that).

“Where is the money” he says again. That knife was carbon steel. At least a six inch blade, and it was sharp, so sharp I didn’t register I was cut for a few minutes, even though later I could recall the experience very clearly. The blade went into my bicep about 11/2 inches deep. I think it could have gone a lot deeper without very much effort. I told him I didn't know where the money was -- maybe he figured I was hiding something.

The brightly painted thugs both left immediately after knifeboy drew blood, making no search, but apparently grabbing a laptop on the way out.

As soon as the door closed I got up, and went to find some scissors to cut myself loose. Fortunately I had been unpacking all day (I just moved in) so there was a sharp pair of scissors very handy. I cut myself loose (they had tied my hands in front) and then I noticed I was bleeding quite a lot so I tied a towel round my arm.

Pretty tight, I hadn’t actually seen the wound at this point and I tied it off a bit low. But that was good, cos it did stop the bleeding, and when my friends arrived a few minutes later, I got help putting some tea tree oil on the cut, and a big bandaid. I started bleeding again, so I put the towel back on.

I was up for walking to the hospital and making up a story, but my friends wanted to call the cops, so I sat down and waited. The cops were there in less than five minutes.

One of the cops talked to me until the ambulance guys showed up, and then backed right off until after the medics had finished with me. I guess that is the protocol, cops don't interfere with the medics. My brother was an ambulance guy, the medic with the authority to administer drugs -- he does dispatch now, but that’s another story. The medics were really professional, and very pleasant people. I think they respected my declining the pain killer. (The cat scan guy was pleased with the quality of the needlework these guys did – still working fine several hours after I stepped out of the ambulance.) My blood sugar was 95 – (damn good) and I forget the numbers, but the blood pressure she said was “perfect”. Gotta love that yoga.


In the hospital the senior doctor says they have to do a cat scan to make sure the vein wasn’t punctured (god knows what that’s going to cost me – I shudda said, Doc, there's no bleeding, and there hasn't been any bleeding for a couple of hours. That knife was very sharp, I think he had sharpenend it as part of his preparations for the event, so the blade was reasonably clean, and the cut was very straight. I heal very quickly due to years of practicing meditation and yoga. Why don't you just put me in the corridor for a few hours, and if there's still no bleeding, clean the wound and sew me up. I cannot afford a cat scan. But there's no paycheck for shoudda.)

I reckon knifeboy just knicked the vein. I practice vipassana meditation, and soon after I put the towel on my arm I was working on healing the cut. People who know me can attest to the fact of my rapid healing. It’s not magic – it’s applied science and technique developed over years of practice. The stuff works if you do the work. Despite my many faults, I somehow manage to do the practice. May my teachers be blessed with great happiness.

I had a nice chat with Doctor Susan, she was impressed with my pain tolerance so I told her about when I hitch hiked home from the hospital with thirty six stitches where it really hurts. She said she was half way through a four year residency – I said WOW, I bet you have seen some serious bullshit in here in that time. “Never a dull moment”.

After the scan the doctor got an expert to view the slides, I guess that means it was too close for her to call. So the cat scan turned out to be even more expensive, and even less useful than if it had conclusively ruled out (or affirmed) vein damage requiring surgery.

The Doc said I was in pretty good shape for someone with my condition. I told her I did yoga every day and rode a bicycle. I didn’t give her my usual medical cannabis talk, cos there were all these cops hanging around, and I didn’t say anything to the cops about the weed in the house (although they clearly knew).

The cops didn’t ask me about weed, in fact they didn’t ask me about much of anything, just my name and DOB over and over, and they asked me to describe knifeboy and batbuddy over and over. Could I pick ‘em out of a lineup – no chance. Interview over – name, DOB, address, phone number, I am Detective so and so, nobody left me a card. I don’t know who they all were.

The cops asked for my shirt - one of my nice yellow ones, although I don’t think my laundry detergent could have made it wearable again. So now they have my fingerprints, DNA and blood. And a bunch of photographs. The police photographer took about six full face shots and one shot of my stab wound. I mean – no attempt to be subtle – the cops now have a fat file on me. Four cops interviewed me, so that’s four reports right there. I am certain I have not heard the last of this. Maybe I need a lawyer.

Home invasion is the official name for this class of crime. And I reckon these dudes were not virgins. Lousy actors – tried to pin the blame on some other dude – kept claiming to have been sent by this dude. Thing is I know the dude, and there’s no way. Nah! somebody else put these guys up to it, or they were working for themselves, and they wanted to send the cops running after the wrong dude – payback for something else I reckon. Either that or my first reaction was right. These guys were cops and the whole point was to gather intelligence.

If knifeboy hadn’t cut me, there would have been no cops, therefore knifeboy or his employer wanted to bring the cops down on somebody. Everybody else, possibly including me, is just collateral damage.

Welcome to Baltimore.

Dr Susan, Nurse Joy Lee and Evan the nursing assistant were all busy dealing tactfully and skilfully with the very sick, the badly damaged, and some dude who smashed himself up in a car. (I think he might have been drunk.) He got loads of visitors. And his arrival caused my bed to be wheeled out to the nurses station.

I was out in the nurses station for most of the time – maybe four hours, quite a while, anyway, so I got an overview of what was happening in the emergency room all night.

Doctor Susan was very thorough with the wound cleaning. In fact she did it twice, cos the first time she had to stop and go deal with some serious stuff. By about four thirty am all the bays were full – they couldn’t send any more patients - so the Doc finally had time to sew me back together – she did internal and external stitches. I lost count, but it was double digits. I could tell she had lots of practice. My first stab wound ever.

Pain is getting less. I'll be back doing yoga on Sunday. And I am putting a serious chain on that front door.

Occupy Baltimore Shut Down

Occupy Baltimore was shut down on Tuesday morning at 3:30 am.  I wasn’t there.  I had spent the night at a friend’s house in an effort to subdue the dreadful cold I have suffered these past three weeks.  I was in the Bohemian café, enjoying my second cup of chai, and engaging in the conversation with three pretty awesome females, and the guy from Zeke’s Coffee.  Zeke’s and Bohemian are early adopters of the Bnote, so I try to patronize these establishments whenever I can.  Only the most awesome places take the Bnote, a fact soon to become common knowledge in Baltimore.

I was bragging to the group about how we were not going to be shut down until we decided to leave, and one of the women said “you guys were shut down last night.  Riot police cleared the site at 3:30 in the morning.”

http://www.baltimorebrew.com/2011/12/13/early-hours-raid-by-riot-police-shuts-down-occupy-baltimore/

“There’s a GA at ten”

“What time is it now, I asked.

“Ten”, she said.  I didn’t finish my Chai. 

My bike is in need of some time on the stand, and it shrieks like a banshee in half a dozen gears.  I didn’t give a rats, I just went for maximum speed.  I shot through some lights in a manner that would have required a full emergency stop if there had been anything in the sweet spot where you just can’t see until you are right on it.  If you ride a bike in the city, you know the fastest possible speed is just in that sweet spot.  Anything else would be reckless.  My ride was borderline reckless.  On one intersection there was a fast moving bus that required a tire-burning  brake (gotta tighten those shocks).  Anyhow.

On the plaza, in front of McKeldrin fountain, there were barriers, and riot police, and nothing else.  Almost everything I owned in the world, save what was in my backpack, or clothing my body, was in that tent.  My six year old Dell laptop, was, fortunately at my friend’s house, and I do have a couple of boxes stored in Faye’s basement.  Everything else was in the tent. 

I rode over to the barricade, and I shook my fist at the cops.  “You bunch of Wankers!, I shouted.  Just you wait.  I said.  Just you wait!”

The cops were amused by this, and I had another coughing fit, so I don’t think it was one of my finest moments.  I rode over to the General Assembly in progress on the steps of the Transamerica building across from the fountain.  It was hard to hear much of what was being said.  There were a few media people.  Well, quite lot of the media, actually.  And some of them stayed all day.

We were discussing that night’s GA and whether we should march on the children’s prison as originally planned that day, or whether we should have a big rally at City Hall, or do both, or neither, and some of the speakers were eloquent.  There was the usual tedium of those who need a wheel-barrow for their ego, mixed with the pleasure of some excellent oratory, and the occasional demonstration of increased competence of the part of the formerly hesitant.

It was a good crowd.  Lots of people I hadn’t seen for a while were still arriving.  Outside of the media, there were twenty-one men, twelve women.  And two beautiful children.  

I went around the circle, sharing a hug with all the women, and most of the men.  I like to do this during the first part of the GA, although during the two weeks I had been unable to walk, following the accident where I damn near broke my right leg, I sat down for those two weeks. We were meeting inside the tent, but some nights it was really cold.  That morning it was a bit chilly even in the sunshine, especially before my clothes dried out.  I was wearing a bike undershirt, wool, designed to wick the sweat away.  Being diabetic, I sometimes sweat a lot.  I was not feeling too good.  Damien bought me a coffee, and he told me he had already been to the dump, and his van was full of stuff that would be useful for having demonstrations.  Stencils art supplies, boards and stuff like that.  Smart kid Damien.  And when I later saw the pile he had to deal with in order to find that stuff, then you would know why it is that everyone who knows Damien loves him.  Everyone.

I drank my coffee and passed around cigarettes.  I had a smoke, and another coughing fit, and then I checked my blood sugar.  It was 545.  That’s just about off the scale.  Some people collapse at 500.  I am pretty fit, so I can still function, but I felt lousy.  I took eighteen units of insulin – three times my usual dose.  I had woken at six with a low reading.  Low enough I had to wolf down a bowl of cereal to regain my composure.  I had skipped the insulin, so, even though I’d eaten very little, the adrenalin, the caffeine, and what have you.  I knew I was in for a very rough day.

                                                ******************

Damien drove us to the dump.  It was a bit awkward because I don’t currently have ID (wallet stolen), but they let me in, and I found one of my tents – I was in process of setting up a second larger tent and most of my property was in that one.  I didn’t find my main tent where I lived – the one that contained $600 worth of insulin. 

We had a lunch break at the excellent taco place in Federal Hill – really nice people, gave us the TV remote and we watched OccuopyWallStreet and the Young Turks.  Went back and just about squeezed my stuff in Damo’s van. Damo dropped me at my bike and I rode to Robin’s house and then  to a meeting on the Recreation Centers – the city plans to close twelve rec centers. See kids in Baltimore are OK on the street – there are no drug problems in Baltimore, and there’s certainly no violence, so the city can waste millions on a stupid Grand Prix, but cannot fund the rec centers. Mark that down as Rawlings Blake welshing on a campaign promise.

I rode to the meeting and then went down to City Hall for the big General Assembly.  After listening to person after person talk about how empowered and invigorating they felt now, I asked for a place to sleep for four of our best volunteers.  Crickets.  Shameful!

Jamaica and his wife spent the night riding the bus, and me and Danny walked around in the cold all night.  Danny found a chef who let us stand in his nice warm kitchen for a couple of hours. And then we went back into the cold.

The next day we took the light rail to the dump – walked around for an hour looking for it. I found my other tent, with the insulin and some other important stuff –my engraved cigarette case and pen –my bike helmet and so on. Camera and Zoom audio reorder(c $1,000) remain missing.  The guy with the truck dropped me and my gear at City Hall.

I was sleeping in front of City Hall when some guy – a Jamaican I think, woke me and said You can’t sleep here –all your stuff will be stolen by morning-follow me I will show you a safe place to sleep.   I had too much to carry –my hand tools weigh about 50 pounds, and I had two sleeping  bags, a  yoga mat and a big duvet as well as my back-pack, and a bike panier. I left the tools with another guy who was sleeping in a doorway – I said I’d be back for them in a few minutes.  The Jamaican guy took me to the parking lot behind the night club – Sonar. I dropped off my stuff behind a concrete pillar.  It was a nice secluded spot, under the overpass. The Jamaican guy introduced me to the legless guy sleeping nearby, and then I went back to pick up my tools.

I stored all my stuff under the duvet behind the pillar – I made it look like someone was sleeping under the duvet.  I went back to McKeldrin fountain in the hope of finding some food, but first I had  chat with a couple of kids who were playing Sonar that night. I told them my situation, and they said they would get me on the list, so I could go to the gig without paying the ten dollar cover.

At McKeldrin there was the GA, and some food – cold pasta and salad – not the best choice for a freezing person, but you just make do when you have to.  I walked back to Sonar, to tell the band where they could get a free meal, and then I went back to the fountain to eat. I couldn’t eat much because I was too cold.

On the way back to Sonar I passed by City Hall, where I met Sun. Sun had arrived at the occupy site the previous night, and had the pleasure of being woken up at 3:00 am by a hundred cops in riot gear. He was looking for a place to sleep, so I told him about Code Blue, and then he came back with me to Sonar.  I showed him my tools- I said I was going to have to sell them the next day, because they were too heavy to carry around.  We were sorting through the tools when Sun told me he hadn’t eaten. I sent him off to the fountain to get some food, and continued sorting through my tools until the police pulled up next to my pillar.

They wanted to know where I got the tools, and they told me I could not sleep where I was.  I explained to them that the tools were what I had managed to retrieve from the dump, where their colleagues had sent all my possessions the previous day. The cops were obviously not happy about what had happened to me, and they said I was OK to stay where I was for one night, but I had to leave the next day.  I thanked them, and they left.

I took my tool-bag out to the street, near the diner outside Sonar. I was hoping maybe one of the bands would need a couple of tools – maybe I could get a cup of coffee and some hot food- but then I started feeling very ill. I tested my blood sugar – it was 17 – that is very very low - coma territory.  I had no food, no sugar, no emergency candy bars – I was in trouble.  I knocked on the window of the diner and I begged the woman in there for a couple of bags of sugar.  She ignored me.  I asked a few other people – there were not many people around – but they all either ignored me, or just blew me off.  I was starting to loose consciousness.  My vision was flashing in and out, and all my clothes were wet because I was sweating so heavily.  I staggered to the diner again, and again the woman ignored me.  I could barely stand up, when I saw the cop car.  I flagged him down.

I explained my situation to the cop as best I could.  I was slurring my words, and finding it difficult to talk.  The cop told me to walk to Mercy Hospital – it’s only three blocks. I picked up my bag and tried to walk, but it was hopeless. I collapsed back onto the bench.

The cop drove off, leaving me dying in the street.

                                                ************************

Sun came back.

He was upset with me because by the time he got to McKeldrin Fountain the General Assembly was over and the food was all gone.  Somwhere he had managed to score some bananas and a sandwich (Code Blue?) and he also had some grape flavored candy.

It took a while to get through to Sun, but eventually he gave me one of the bananas, and a few minutes later I was able to walk to the 7-11 on Baltimore Street.

In the 7-11 I grabbed a few packets of sugar and was about to pour the contents down my throat when Timothy came into the shop.  He said that Athena and Jim were outside in a car, and they were looking for me.  So I walked/staggered outside to the car where I found it easy to pursuade Jim to buy me some coffee.  Athena could see I was in bad shape - she asked me if I had taken any drugs - I told her it way hypoglycemia, but I am not sure she believed me.

Jim dropped Timothy at Bum Park and took me a little further so that I could find my gear in Sonar's parking lot.  I got in my sleeping bag, rolled myself up in a duvet like a cocoon, and fell into a deep sleep.

I woke about 5:30AM. It was still dark, but there was a small packet of cookies on the ground near my head.  God bless Code Blue.  I was a bit perturbed by the fact that someone had managed to get so close to my sleeping form without my being aware.  Good job it was a volunteer from Code Blue, and not one of the more dangerous entities that patrol the streets at night.

I ate three of the cookies, and then I rolled up my gear - There was just the duvet, one of my bike panniers and the sleeping bag.  I took the tools with me and went to wait for the circulator.  My plan was to find a big building site and see if I could sell my tools to the construction workers.

After a few minutes I found a building site next to a small park.  I approached one of the hard hat guys, I told him I had been evicted and before I could say any more he informed me that he was unable to help me - I guess he thought I was a beggar.  I asked him where the guys went for lunch and he indicated the park where there were a few benches and some small stone tables.  I set my tools out on one of the tables and waited for lunchtime.  I had another cookie.

Very few of the construction guys came into the park.  Over the next three or four hours I talked to maybe six of them, and none of them wanted to buy any of my tools - in fact only one of them did me the courtesy of looking at what I had to offer.  My plan was beginning to look a bit feeble.

While I was waiting I picked up all the cigarette butts and the other trash in the park.  

Lunchtime came and went, and I still had all my tools.  I had eaten nothing but a few cookies all day, and there were only two of those left.  I had nothing else, so I made an executive decision to abandon my plan and go back downtown to find some food.   I got back on the circulator.  Green to Orange.  Then on Lombard at Howard I saw some faces I recognized.  I got off the bus and gave the tools to Squirrel who said he could probably sell them for me.  I told him I'd be happy with fifty bucks -- the tools probably cost me upwards of $400, but desperate times .....

My next mission was to find some food.  I knew the GA that night was to be at First Presbytarian and that we were going to eat there before the GA, so I assumed that we would be preparing the food at the church.  Purple line takes you there, but I walked because I wasn’t sure where the church was having never been there before.

The church was locked, but I saw the pastor and he opened the door.  I explained that I was there o help in the kitchen, but there was nobody else there – apparently food was to be prepared offsite and served at the church.  I explained to the pastor that I was diabetic and had very little to eat that day and I asked him for some food.  Al he had was three carrots.  Now raw carrots are great food, and were it not for the fact that I am missing nine teeth I would have started gnawing at the carrots.  On the stove was a container labeled “Mac n Cheese 12/15”  - now that is something I can eat.  Iasked the pastor if I could have the mac and cheese – he said it was probably for someone else, but he would ask.  The bad news was swift in coming and I resolved myself to eat carrot, but just moments later one of the ladies who volunteer at the church came into the kitchen and told me to eat the mac ‘n cheese – she would get something else for the other guy.  The Mac n cheese saved my life.

After eating I boarded the purple bus and headed for 2640 where I suspected food was being prepared for that night’s meeting.  Leo and Zack were in the kitchen when I got there, so there was coffee, a chance to clean up and – sometimes He smiles on me – a bag of clothes destined for the free shop.  I asked Leo if he thought it was appropriate for me to go through that bag and see if there was anything I could wear ( I had only the clothes I was wearing when the site was shut down, and those had already been on my back for a couple of days).  I found a sweater and some long underwear.

We finished cooking (I mostly do the pot scrubbing), loaded up Zack’s truck and went back to 801 S. Light Street where the GA had already started.  No-one had told the church that we would be serving a meal there, and the dining room was booked for another meeting at 7:30.  I promised the pastor we would have the room clear by 7:30PM and we set up the food.  There was a bit of a panic while we found plates and forks (7-11 to the rescue) then I announced the arrival food to the GA, and then went downstairs to eat.

Despite two more announcements the GA did not break for food, and only a few people had eaten when 7:25 rolled around and we had to clear the dining room.  From that point, food was served from Zack’s truck.

The GA was discussing reorganizing the occupation, setting up a board of directors – that sort of stuff.  I told several people that I thought it was a terrible waste of time to be discussing organizational matters when we had several volunteers who had been living on the street, or in bum park for several days.  This was the emergency that should be addressed now – reorganization should be put on the back burner until that emergency had been dealt with.  It was hard to get through to people who have nice warm homes to sleep in that half a dozen occupiers had no place to sleep, but eventually one or two people realized that maybe, just maybe the GA should address that problem, before continuing the endless reorganization discussion.

It turned out that we had an opportunity to occupy a house that was in foreclosure.  The owner was looking for some help.  Finally a break in the endless stream of bad luck.  We had a place where we could stay – at least until January 10 when the eviction was due to take place.  We piled into the car and left to check out our new accommodation.

Now, it came to pass that the personnel moving into the house on Lombard street included one guy whom I shall not refer to by name, but only as “the guy who stole my camera” for the duration of this story.  The guy who stole my camera was trying to convince other people that I had cut open the back of his tent and stolen his property.  He knows that this completely untrue, but he has to convince others because he knows that I am on to him – whoever did cut open that tent did us all a favor, for it was full of property that rightfully belonged to the occupiers and had been stolen from us by the guy who stole my camera.  Not only had he stolen that stuff, but he had made regular trips offsite, laden with bags of stuff that had been donated to the occupation, and was now stored offsite where the occupiers did not have access.  Not only that but he had also stolen cash (the finance team had taken the cash box key away from this person due to credible reports of theft) and his tenure at occupy Baltimore was in serious jeopardy unless he managed to convince people I, and not he, was the thief.   

To be continued

Where do all these white people keep coming from?

Who gets the food?

At the Food Tent

Occupy Baltimore - My Tent