Bruising the Queers
The night before, my brother told me he´d dreamt of a room full of beds. We went lux; We went Paris-Hilton-meets-Queer-Barrio and we paved the floor with air mattresses. It wasn´t for nothing.
5 or 6 or maybe 4 - it didn´t matter - I mean, it did because I know my revolutionary brainpower was stifled by still-forming eye crusties - and the sirens of Anti-Capitalist Queer Resistance are all up in our faces.
"Wake Up! Wake Up! Please Wake Up!"
The police surveillance helicopters that had beaten the air above the campground all night were soothing mommy-whispers compared to the cries of the messenger, voice husky with unanticipated urgency.
(At least she said please).
The police are here. Or not.
The police - are they here?
The police, they´re coming, at least.
Then we save the children, and we save the camp.
Decisions were made. I didn´t get them. More decisions were made. We were given the option to defend, but I wasn´t sure how or where, though I understood when. We were given options: passive resistance, non-violent resistance, queer anarchist resistance, legal resistance, or to take refuge if the police were to come (if the police were already there...).
What do we, as feminists, as women, as queers want to do?
They raided camp XXXX, they attacked XXXX, and they´re coming for XXXX.
No, the legal team saved them.
Where´s the coffee? Somebody make coffee.
And then the announcement came. They were gone, or they had never come, or they weren´t coming anymore. Some faces registered ease, while others regestered at-ease disappointment. I registered coffee and sleep.