He was on his way to meet his students and observe the Occupy movement first-hand. The windshield was briefly bleached in the sun’s glare, then the streets were suddenly eclipsed by a dark cloud. He got stuck behind a streetcar. In the back window, a small boy waved and smiled, but when Harry waved back, the kid gave him the finger. Harry turned south, parked and walked toward St. James Park. The Occupy campers had received eviction notices but were standing fast. His class was waiting for him near the gazebo, as specified. Harry did a head count. One short. “Who’s not here?” “Davis,” Verma said. “He’ll find us,” Harry said. “So, as we discussed in class, we split up, move around. Talk to people. Record your impressions. I want a sense of not just what the people here are saying, but how the media is working it. How will this history be written? What is this moment? Is this the beginning of a revolution? And if not, what is it?” They nodded and moved along, a few staying in pairs, nervous about integrating and approaching strangers, even these open-armed Woodstockians.
