Occupy sounds like a filthy word. It’s half-hiccup, half-oath, leaking history from its double-c cuts and contusions. Heaping, loaded with the weight of iron chains and bullet shells; Occupy only means something special to those select few who can hear it and hear, at the same time, victory.
But when everyone else hears “occupy,” they hear the boots of a GI or the humble edict of an emperor defeated. They see twin clouds on the horizon.
They see the ships arriving, hear bullets firing, feel their gods pulled down from the sky, replaced by one whose only virtue was to die.
They feel the stones on their feet and the salt on the grass from the tears of the hundreds that stretch out in front of them like a line scratched out on a map, pushing through the seasons and dropping dead like buffalo, flies and all.
Some people hear Occupy and think of taking space. Of winning it back. Some people hear Occupy and think of losing ground. La Malinche. Bloody Jackson. Giving up.