THE FIRS TIME IT HAPPENED, I was in a stall in a public bathroom just off Wall Street in Manhattan. I was about to open the door when I heard two women talking about me.
“Did you see what Naomi Klein said?”
I froze, flashing back to every mean girl in high school, pre-humiliated. What had I said?
“Something about how the march today is a bad idea.”
“Who asked her? I really don’t think she understands our demands.”
Wait. I hadn’t said anything about the march—or the demands. Then it hit me: I knew who had. I casually strolled to the sink, made eye contact with one of the women in the mirror, and said words I would repeat far too many times in the months and years to come.
“I think you are talking about Naomi Wolf.”
That was November 2011, at the height of Occupy Wall Street, the movement that saw groups of young people camp out in public parks and squares in cities across the United States, Canada, Asia, and the United Kingdom. It was a collective howl against economic inequality and financial crimes that would, eventually, birth a new generational politics. That day the organizers of the original Manhattan encampment had called for a mass march through the financial district, and you could tell by all the black clothing and heavy liquid eyeliner that no one in that bathroom was on break from derivative trading.
This story is from the September 2023 edition of Vanity Fair US.
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This story is from the September 2023 edition of Vanity Fair US.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
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