A Day in the Life of a Sacred Activist
6am, my alarm goes off. I’m already awake. A combination of the August heat and both nerves and excitement about today’s action has kept me from getting much sleep.
I grab my phone to check my messages. I’m no longer surprised at how late (or early, depending on how you see it) my fellow activists post last minute reminders, questions, or ideas in our encrypted chat. Nothing’s come through in the few hours since I last checked.
I roll out of bed, straighten the sheets, pee, and brush my teeth, all the while running through the action plan in my head. I head downstairs to feed Atlas the cat, his name so chosen for the Greek god who was burdened with the task of holding up the heavens while on earth.
I try to ignore the racing thoughts and accompanying butterflies in my belly as I pull out my meditation cushion. Though I usually aim for 20 minutes, today I’ll only sit for about five. It’s already 6:25 somehow and I still have to pack up, get dressed, eat, and leave by 7am to get to our meeting spot where we’ll prepare for today’s climate justice demonstration.
I set my timer, close my eyes, and ease into my Centering Prayer practice. Though it’s often a nice byproduct, I meditate less to calm my mind and more to connect to something greater than myself. God, Spirit, The Great Mystery, whatever you want to call it. Knowing that I (i.e. my limited human consciousness) am not in control of everything alleviates my worries, which in turn helps me stay grounded and focused in the midst of intense situations like direct action. It’s not about naively believing that everything will turn out alright; it’s about practicing being with the unknown — which is more and more necessary in these times.
Mostly, meditation reconnects me to my Why. Why am I about to walk through midtown NYC with my breasts bared for all to see? Why am I about to glue my hands to the front desk of NBC studios to demand that they tell the truth about the climate emergency?
Because my dad can hardly take a walk anymore in his Northern California neighborhood without breathing in acrid smoke from yet another wildfire. Because the Water Protectors at Line 3 in Minnesota are being arrested and tortured for refusing to let yet another oil pipeline be built in sacred waters.
Because, even though there’s concrete and sewers and electrical wires between us, I feel the energy of Earth pulsing upward through my whole body. This energy compels me even more than my fear, rage, and grief about this crisis that unfolds before my eyes. And, all of my insecurities, my fears, and even my sense of modesty seem to pale in comparison.
The timer dings, I sigh and stretch, the fatigue of a sleepless night suddenly hitting me. I move in and out of a few downward dogs to get some blood flowing, and then I’m flitting about the house, making a smoothie, putting on pants and closed toe shoes (always a good idea when planning encounters with the police), tucking my ID and Metro card into my waistband, triple checking to make sure I have everything I need for a day on the streets.
A few butterflies still flutter around my chest as I walk into the already warm morning to the subway with other New Yorkers, most of whom are on their way to school and work. I arrive in our Brooklyn meeting spot with enough time to grab a coffee (decaf, because jitters) and a pastry for later. The excitement of the day makes it hard to think about eating, but I know I’ll need to keep my energy up.
I’m the first to enter the rehearsal space, where I open some windows and turn on a fan. I sip my coffee for a quiet moment before my fellow activists start to trickle in, women of all ages who have decided to take part in a topless action, to use our bodies and our breasts to (hopefully) bring attention to the climate crisis. Our plan is to walk down 5th Avenue, with words like FAMINE, FLOODS, and WILDFIRES painted across our chests, through crowds of tourists, to Rockefeller Center, which houses NBC’s headquarters and many of their television studios — including the Today Show, the Tonight Show, NBC News, and more. The mainstream networks’ coverage of the climate crisis is dismal: they spent more time reporting on Jeff Bezos’s ride to space than they spent on climate in an entire year.
We get to work painting bold, black letters on each other. The room is pretty quiet, but feels electric. I know I’m not the only one feeling some nerves about walking half-naked through one of the busiest places on the planet. It’s likely a few of us will be arrested today. Having gone through four arrests before, I’m not nervous about that part; I’m anxious about what happens just before, when four of us will enter NBC, glue ourselves down, and demand to speak to a C-level executive.
Pulling off an action requires a lot of choreography and the ability to navigate many unknowns. How will the police respond? Will the target location be free of construction, crowds, or other obstacles? Usually we have to scout a location multiple times and we devise alternative schemes in case Plan A doesn’t work. Switching to Plans B, C, or D in the moment doesn’t sound too hard until you realize that everyone involved needs to pivot with little warning. But in order to do that, we need to have a certain level of trust with each other. We have to stay calm and centered enough to be adaptable because it’s very easy to get frantic in intense, unpredictable, high risk situations — and franticness leads to miscommunication, impulsive decisions, and lack of group cohesion.
Building strong relationships means more than merely preparing ourselves for action. Learning how to care for each other while caring for the world is part of creating a culture based on principles of regeneration (as opposed to mere sustainability) and it’s a foundational piece of Extinction Rebellion (XR), the climate justice movement for which I organize. Regenerative culture is the recognition that outer transformation does not happen without inner transformation. It’s what drew me to XR and keeps me here.
How we interact with each other has to radically change if we want to create the world our hearts know is possible. It’s not a linear process like the eye-roll-inducing “you can’t change the world until you change yourself” line you may hear a lot from spiritual types. These things have to happen simultaneously. Otherwise we will simply recreate those same patterns and seed them into the “new” world we think we’re creating. Our culture is built on systems of extraction and dominance and even though those are big words, they show up in our day to day relationships. Far too often in social justice spaces, we see each other not as fellow humans, but as means to an end. We just have to work really hard and push ourselves until everything is better and then we can relax, right? No. We’re in it for the long haul. The challenge is living a different way of living as we’re creating it.
We have to learn how to heal our own egos and listen to each other. This is hard work, but it goes a long way to fostering a movement built on radical care — and a world where people actually care for each other and the earth is an equitable and just world, where humans, plants, animals, the soil, the air, and the water can truly thrive. In XR, we try to incorporate these ideas into everything we do. We encourage self care as well as communal care, have processes for conflict resilience, and often craft our direct actions to serve as public spaces for grief and celebration.
As my friends and I paint each other, moments of tension do arise. There’s a lot to get done before we leave for the action. One woman urges us to choose a word quickly. Another wants to go over her part of the performance before we’ve even begun rehearsing. There’s disagreement about parts of the plan and everything feels a bit scattered.
Finally, we circle up to practice and something in the room shifts as we get a chance to connect with each other. It feels good to look into each other’s eyes and remember why we’re doing this. I’m moved by the bravery of the women next to me, which make my own possible.
Going through the action flow always takes longer than we expect, as questions and concerns arise. We walk around our little room, pretending that we’ve stopped to take a photo at the Atlas statue across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, walked past the crowds watching the Olympics at the Today Show, and finally come to our position in front of 30 Rock. This is where we’ll sing and scream and chant, demanding that the media TELL THE TRUTH.
Together, we make our way to midtown where we meet other Rebels. No action could happen without a community. There are people to photograph and film, hand out flyers, and greet us when we are released from jail. Even though we are about to do a serious thing, there’s an air of fun and excitement. The pandemic took a toll on our membership and the frequency of our actions, so this feels like a reunion of sorts. I greet friends whom I haven’t seen in a while, except from behind a computer screen. With vaccines and low infection rates across New York, we are able to gather more freely than we have in more than a year.
I’m always amazed at the anonymity of NYC. Of course, a few passersby look on or give a side glance to our little group as we touch up each other’s paint, take a few final sips of water, and review the action plan. But, mostly, we fade into the white noise of this city that’s full of performance artists and quirky people.
I hand my phone and keys to our jail support coordinator. It’s time to go.
I’ve been praying the rosary lately, so I say a quick Hail Mary to myself. Suddenly, I’m the calmest I’ve felt all morning. Somehow, I trust that everything will unfold as it should. We come to the spot where we’ve planned to take down our tops. And, we just do it. It feels surprisingly easy to suddenly be half-naked in the middle of New York City.
We continue to walk, slowly, eyes forward, holding hands in pairs. The feel of my friend’s hand in mine emboldens me and I feel connected to women all over the world who have spoken up when no one else has. I think of women who have gone on sex strikes to bring peace to their countries, I think of how often women get overlooked in movements, how they’re often doing twice as much work as the men, sometimes with a child at their breast. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to have my boobs out. I straighten my shoulders and breathe, feeling the sun’s warmth upon my naked body.
We line up in front of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, behind the iconic Prometheus statue where we did our first XR NYC action in January 2019. We sing and chant, scream and wail.
“The climate crisis is happening NOW!!!”
“Wildfires are happening NOW!!!”
“People are dying NOW!!!”
I hold a smoke flare with plumes billowing red to signify the emergency we’re in.
A small crowd gathers. Cameras click and phones are tapped. Tears rise to my eyes as I scream again, but there’s little time for more emotion. In a moment, I’ll have to focus.
Our line of women gathers in a clump around a bright red banner emblazoned with the words “TELL THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT CLIMATE CRISIS.” This is the cue for those of risking arrest to make our move. Within seconds, we pour superglue on our hands, push through the revolving doors, and plant our hands on the desk inside.
The four of us stand there, breasts still bare, in the ostentatious lobby of Rockefeller. Our voices echo off the Art Deco ceilings as we yell, “No news on a dead planet! No TV on a dead planet! No sports on a dead planet!” This last one is directed to the security guards and police officers who have surrounded us.
All of them are men. Some are clearly nervous around four half-naked women, keeping their gazes oddly turned to the side as they talk to us. They keep saying that we need to leave and we helplessly glance down at our hands cemented to the marble. Some take photos with their phones, some are unfazed. I’m sure we’re not the first naked women most of these cops have seen on the job. Perhaps the difference is we’re not drunk or high, we’re not involved in any domestic disputes. We’re here because we believe in something.
The security guards have locked the doors, though three Rebels are allowed to remain to support us and liaise with the police. But eventually, they’re told to leave and it’s the first time that I feel a twinge of nervousness around all of these men. There are probably thirty of them, staring at us, puffing their chests out as they walk back and forth acting the role of tough guy. I realize I’m not used to so much machismo. It feels so put on. I don’t really think that anyone will do anything to us women — most of us are white, there are half a dozen people taking photos through the glass doors, and I don’t believe that all cops are just waiting to pounce on people. But I am reminded of just how vulnerable we are in this position.
No one can do anything until the higher ups show up. Eventually, the “white shirts,” as they’re called, arrive, but then there’s a fuss about getting “female cops” to remove us. So, we wait. We sing, we make more statements though there’s no one but cops to listen to us, which they aren’t.
Is anyone listening?
Finally, we’re arrested and escorted to a van by the policewomen, who seem slightly amused. They’re gentle and almost apologetic. “We’ll try to get you all out soon,” they tell us.
Every time I’ve been taken to jail, most of the cops try to get chummy with us. They complain about their supervisors. They act like they don’t want to be here anymore than we do and insist that they’re trying to process us quickly, that the delay is always someone else’s fault. Some activists will tell you that cops are like this in order to see if they can get information from you. I’m sure that’s true for some of them, but honestly, I don’t think most cops are thinking that deeply about it.
Maybe they don’t see us as real criminals so they feel like they can relate to us. It also might be the nature of our crime. In fact, some of them seem sympathetic to the cause. One time, a cop told us proudly that some of the NYPD’s car fleet had been transitioned to electric. Another time, a corrections officer was visibly impressed when we told her we had glued our hands to a boat in Times Square. She shook her head and said, “Somebody’s gotta do it. I’d be out there with y’all if it wasn’t for my job.”
I often feel torn between the vicious ACAB and FTP rhetoric of my fellow activists and recognizing the God-given humanity in every person. I feel torn between everyday people taking what they think is a good job that will provide for their families and the very real pain, grief, and rage of communities tormented by this brutal arm of the state, which was created to uphold racism and poverty.
We’re taken to a precinct on the West Side where we’re patted down and escorted to a cell on our own, away from others who have been arrested that day around Manhattan. There’s confusion, there’s always confusion, about which cops are responsible for us, which forms they need to fill out, “where the hell is Zelinski and O’Malley?!”, but somehow we’re processed quickly — more quickly than any of the other times I’ve been in jail. I’m surprised and relieved. Jail is not a fun place. Every surface is stained and sticky, the air stale. Fluorescent lights glare overhead, there are rarely windows. Often it’s impossible to know what time it is or how long you’ve been in your cell. The cops seem perpetually exasperated, many of the inmates — most of whom are Black or Brown, of course — seem resigned, as if they’ve done this before.
We walk out to 8th Avenue, where many of our friends wait. Often, we’re released at odd hours of the morning and the jail support team will have snacks and bottled sports drinks on hand — gifts to a parched mouth and growling belly — but it’s still afternoon and we’re a small group, so we go out to a late lunch together.
I’m dehydrated and almost too hungry to want food, but grateful for some decompression time with my friends and comrades. It takes a lot of energy to put on an action and go through the arrest process. I don’t want to say that no one else understands, but sometimes it feels that way. Of course, there are people who understand far better than I do what a harrowing process it can be to deal with the police. I know that my whiteness — and in some ways, but not others, my womanness — protects me a great deal in this situation and the exhaustion I feel is probably an ounce of what it might be if I were a person of color or poor.
And yet, there’s something beyond the physical fatigue. Often, an action is a profound spiritual experience for me. I don’t know how to describe it exactly or say it without sounding woo woo, but it’s real. During an action, Something surges through my entire being. I feel taken over by It in a way; I lose some sense of who “I” am. Don’t mistake this for dissociation. I feel grounded. Fear melts away and I’m in flow, solidly in the moment, trusting Whatever comes through me. Going through that, though, for hours on end, can exhaust the body and mind.
At the cafe, I drink several glasses of water and manage to eat half of a sandwich, but my body feels too tense to eat more. I yawn. Being with my friends and co-conspirators has been nourishing, but it’s time to go home. I walk to the subway, past people who keep glancing at DEATH, now slightly smeared, above my heart. I chuckle to myself. Would any of them guess where I’ve just come from?
I arrive home and, as I begin to relax a little, waves of emotion flow through me. During an action, my mind is sharp as I focus on the next move, my body tense as I scan the situation for threats. It’s only now that I can really feel my sadness and anger at all that’s happening in the world. More and more, I’ve come to discover many facets of my climate grief — heartbreak at apocalyptic images of whole forests being burned to ash on the West Coast, horror at photos of my fellow New Yorkers wading hip-deep in sewage-laden storm surge in the subway. Yet, somehow, hope persists through it all as I think about the hard work, care, and courage of people here and around the world, trying to make things different.
The sun begins to set behind the window. I breathe in the quiet and, as I sit in my oversized chair, petting Atlas, I feel a weight lift from my heart.
