you can call it what you want:
it can be a protest, sure;
it can be an uprising, yes;
it can even be a revolution,
perhaps; a sustained political action;
a mass consciousness awakening;
a transformative–and inevitable–
progression that rises and falls like
the crashing waves of history.
but, we grow weary of being invisible,
of dreaming invisible things, of
having visible hands bound with
visible and white zip ties; of visible
and audible hunger that must be
quieted while standing in long lines
at food banks, or hearts that must be
told to slow down while waiting for
unemployment deposits to go through.
yes, we have grown real goddamn
tired
of being sold economic policies that
accommodate the extended careers of
CEOs; we are tired of the previous
generations preaching majestic reforms,
that of tides only turning with time.
no, we don’t ask for change–our
hearts and hunger demand it.
from new york to orlando, from
chicago to phoenix, from san
francisco to los angeles, from all the
occupation movements in the country
and world,
we have always been a majority, but
never quite felt like one.
we do not wish to abolish one or
two laws; we do not wish to oust one
or two office holders, but all–all
that have been enemies to our class.
we don’t want to regulate capitalism;
we want to bury it.
we have awaken, risen and, yes, the
revolution will not be televised because
television is owned by these enemies,
but it sure as hell will be tweeted (and
retweeted); and it will be on facebook;
the revolution will have a tumblr page;
and when it comes, they will deny its
existence to its face, however
premature; they will deny its necessary
beauty, its beautiful necessity and its
budding hideousness; but, like a dark
and poor child born in south los angeles,
like a child born in cabañas, el salvador,
like a child born in oaxaca, mexico,
screaming from pain and shock, it will
come like that,
like the newborn eyes of hope sparkling
with wonderment and future, like a bright
shining new day; and the world will
finally see that we exist, that we have
always existed, that our dirty working
hands have stopped showing their palms;
they have tensed into fists.
–Luis Rivas