“Oscar Grant Plaza,” said one of the guys, “that’s our Tahrir. Every week we come in and take it, then they come in and raid us, kick us out. Then we take it again, and they take it back. It’s like a fist in water. They make a fist, and we become like water. We flow right through it and move somewhere else. But then we keep coming back, doing it again and again. They can’t stop it. Just like water.”
“But I’m concerned that we don’t have a center,” said another guy. “That we don’t have roots.”
“Well, that’s because they kicked us out, uprooted us, made us move. That’s why we keep moving.”
“We’re just like the jews,” said another.
“Anyway, I mean, I wouldn’t take tear gas for this place,” said a girl, looking around at the yard of the foreclosed-upon house they’d just taken over. “No, not tear gas. I mean, not yet, anyway. Maybe someday, but not yet. I’d take tear gas for Oscar Grant, but not for this. If the cops come and tell us to leave, I’ll be like, ‘hey, man, that’s cool,’ and I’ll leave. No problem.”
“Just like water,” said the first guy, lighting a match.