It used to be that you could hear the game-day crowds when something big was going on. You didn't even have to know who our football team was playing, or that there was a game at all, but by 8am you'd awaken, drowsy on a Saturday, to the streets crowded with blue and gold fans. I would follow the cheers of the crowds at Kip's or the lair, and even during intense studying new when to refresh my screen to see the updated score. That was in 2007, just before the effects of the economic bubble burst had spread across the nation, when tuition was just $6,000 a year, when our interactions with the police meant you were probably drunk in public.
Now it's the helicopters that signal something big. From my apartment I hear them fly south to occupy Oakland, north to UC Berkeley. They come in the afternoon when I am at work, and this time I know to look at my screen for the headline, the protest, the shooting. I check in with my volunteers, and figure out whether or not I should hold class that night. The buzzing of the choppers stay into the night, and not even my double-paned windows can block them out.
Now it's the helicopters that signal something big. From my apartment I hear them fly south to occupy Oakland, north to UC Berkeley. They come in the afternoon when I am at work, and this time I know to look at my screen for the headline, the protest, the shooting. I check in with my volunteers, and figure out whether or not I should hold class that night. The buzzing of the choppers stay into the night, and not even my double-paned windows can block them out.
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