Born Out Of Occupy: Project 222

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Above: People before profits at an Occupy encampment. Lisa Doherty lost her job in the mortgage business three years ago and says she can’t find another job, in part because banks and credit unions aren’t hiring people with bad credit scores. By Chris Arnold for NPR.

To think that Project222.org  was born with a bang. Real bang. Human dignity over spineless puppeteering. Winston was living in a tent at the time. It was the Fall of 2011, an eventful time around Pennsylvania Avenue.

Thousands had massed and camped outside the White House gates. The Occupy Wall Street movement had spread like wildfire. DC would have to put an end to the carncirogenic economic injustices of America.

Many capitals and capitalist cities around the world started toppling down like dominoes: London, Paris, Frankfurt, Geneva, Milan, Amsterdam were #Occupied. The abhorrent domination of greedy bankers and corrupted politicians had to end. The common taxpayer was deprived of the most basic living standards because of the capitalist system.

Winston had just bought his favorite vegan Fat Dan’s sandwich. It cost $2.22. As he approached the mall’s car park, the electronic clock showed 2:22 PM. While he waited for the pedestrian lights to turn green, there was a loud bang in the parking lot. The whole mall area turned into chaos, with screams, shopping trolleys flung, plastic-bags flying, families looking for cover, while more and more cars caught fire and exploded. His car was ablaze. He’d named it Angel22. Had cost him $2,222 second hand.

The fire brigade and police rushed to the scene and the crowds and fire were contained. He recognized these two figures husked in foil blankets:  Jaden and Angie, a homeless couple who lived in their old car.

‘Hey Jaden, what happened?’ Winston asked through the Police cordon.

‘Sorry man, your Angel’s gone too. We were making some lunch and next thing I know our car’s on fire, the whole park’s burnin.’

‘You guys gonna be alright?’ he asked Angie.

‘Didn’t get to finish my bacon. Hey officer’ she said to the Policeman escorting them,’ I wanna fry yow ass. Well done slice o’bacon, that right; you fat pig.’ She sniggered.

’Just keep walking, meth-head,’ the officer grunted.

allen a step lower, right there. You wouldn’t think that was even possible. Jaden and Angie had had jobs, a house, a dog. Every day, work-nine-to-five ‘normal people’ who had barbecues in the garden, once. They were Wall Street’s first casualties. Statistics at best, collateral damage at worst. Down a spiraling fall. They didn’t matter. The collapse of large multinationals mattered. Those money-making-money-grabbing-money-churning machines called investment banks, hedge funds, family offices led by insatiable vultures wearing designer suits, white collar rats commuting to the office in Lamborghinis and parading at five-star hotel lounges, mattered. Those self-important Alpha-Dicktards, whose gums swabbed more coke than dental floss, were the cause. Their meretricious business cards made them Bankers and Traders and Asset Managers. They were being crucified by society, vilified by the media. When all was well, no one wondered who span the wheels of capitalism; no one asked questions.

But the countless anonymous, unremarkable Jadens and Angies living rough now, were the real victims of a flawed system. The whole stratum had to be shaken off and rebuilt. Built anew. Winston had to do something meaningful.

That was it, Project222.org :

Every human being in America and the world had the right to live with a minimum of dignity: 2 gallons of clean water, 2000 calories a day, 200 ft3 of secure shelter.