WASHINGTON — I am the 1%. I am 22, working my way through
school, attending part time and working full time. My mommy and
daddy don’t pay for me to go to school. I pay my own rent. And even
my own cell phone bill. I am the 1% of American youth.
Friday I started my day like any other. Wake up at 6:00
and get ready for work. Now, to those of you who have never worked
a day in your life (millennials whose parents prefer to pay you
than love you), this isn’t just throw on sweats and sit through
class. This is make yourself presentable to the world with a
shower, makeup, and even — god forbid —
heels.
I spent the day sitting through a freedom convention at
the D.C. convention center, meeting endless individuals to plead
for names, email addresses, and donations to the 501(c)(3) that I
work for. Every smile I made and every face I met, I thought to
myself late afternoon, in two hours you get a TGIF drink. In three
hours I can take a shower. In four, glorious bed.
When my 14-hour work day was over, I loaded up the 13
pounds of materials that I’d brought and would have to carry home
and headed toward the doors of the convention center, working my
way through the crowds of people trying to leave as
well.
On reaching the ground floor I heard convention organizers
telling us to remove our name tags. There were protesters outside
and it was for our own safety. OK, fine, name tag off. Now, how do
I hide the 3’x5’ American Spectator sign I was lugging? Oh
well, I’m sure the protesters won’t notice it.
I picked up my things and turned toward the front door
only to see punks banging on the windows, and convention goers ten
deep being refused an exit. Not letting people out the front door?
Fine, I’d try the back door. I headed in that direction, only to
hear, halfway down the hall, more pounding on doors from the
outside. A large security guard told me to turn around and head
toward another door.
Of course lugging magazines, bags, signs, and other
program paraphernalia is what I love to do, so what’s another extra
few feet? I reach my new exit. Thank god doors opened. Dang, doors
shut — right in my face. I hear a nervous security guard scream,
“Call the PD!” Just the line every girl wants to hear on a Friday
night.
After ten minutes of pleading with the guards to let me
through, I’m greeted by shouts of “you should go to jail!” and “you
got bailed out, we got sold out!” Funny, I don’t remember getting
bailed out. My bank account doesn’t look bailed out, my pending
student loans aren’t getting bailed out, and the name brands on the
clothes these punks are wearing to yell at me versus the ones I
worked in all day tell me these people are liars.
I’m directed to yet another exit. Picking up my load I
follow several terrified elderly women being helped by their senior
husbands up stairs, through a corridor, and down another flight of
stairs only to face another door full of twenty-somethings blocking
the exit.
At this point I was getting a little irritated. An
irritation that grew when I was pushed back inside and had fists
shaken in my face by men much bigger and physically stronger than
me. I know D.C. is not known for its chivalry, but never before in
my life have I faced little boys, posing as men, using physical
force to intimidate women. Perhaps it was the long workday, perhaps
it was the wine from dinner, maybe it was my feet tired from
walking all over the D.C. convention center in heels, but this was
the point at which I lost it. I screamed in frustration for these
little punks to quite protesting and get a job. I yelled for them
to just let me go home after doing an honest day’s work. I received
the mature response of curses, being flipped off, and the ever so
classy, chest exposure. (What does that even mean?)
Finally, I was directed to an open exit. Out the building
and on my way home. Past a group of young male protesters, still
hurling their insults.
All I could think was what a waste. What did this pathetic
protest accomplish? Occupy D.C., was it your mission to terrify
elderly women? Was it your goal to make a 22-year-old, unarmed
woman fear leaving work and getting home on her own — in her own
neighborhood? Was it to entrap hundreds of convention goers inside
the convention center so that next time you could burn the place
down with them inside?
If I could I would have told them: I hope I’m not the only
one-percenter. I will go to bed tonight praying that there are no
more that 1% of you in the world. Because if I have to believe that
there are more like you, more selfish punks with a complete,
criminal disregard for other people, I dread what the future holds
in store for our generation — and our country.
