The LaGuardia Airport was deceptively peaceful last Friday night in New York City. Only moments ago I had skimmed over and plunged into a sea of endless glittering light, the cabin doors opened to a dim, soundless terminal, and I had no idea what I was in for, yet. I was greeted by pair of very loud, very Italian family friends who ushered me to their rundown Chevy sedan at a pace I would quickly grow accustomed to over the next two days. This was the Big City pace. On an average night after a day of traveling it would have exhausted me, but the sights I had fogged up my cabin window to take in had stirred my energy reserve, and Antonio and I blasted through small talk at an impressive rate. As he jabbed his index finger at various notable skyscrapers, half-shouting their names at me, I couldn’t help be distracted by the incessant presence of the late Twin Towers. They were glowing at me in humorless red, white and blues from mercilessly righteous billboards flanking the highway.

“You see? There, with the half-circles, the Chrysler Building!” I glanced down while he wasn’t watching where my eyes were looking and saw the headline of a newspaper wrinkled at my feet. It read: “Occupy My Job: How Occupy Wall Street Cost Me My Job.” I was here, on the battleground. Only 15 minutes out of the airport and I was already being inundated by patriotism, and yet I knew this city as the symbolic frontline of the “We Are the 99%” protests. A brief lull in my tour told me it was appropriate to get down to brass tacks;  I wanted to get a local perspective. “Yes, this Occupy Wall Street, well, we don’t care! You see, these people, with no jobs…” His bold condemnation turned into skepticism toward their mission, and eventually to his distaste for their sexual promiscuity.

The most insightful bit of his tirade came right at the start, “We don’t care!” This shouted phrase typified everything I would come to learn about the protests in this city, and how seemingly irreconcilable dualities thrived within the same crowded streets. In a city this loud, there is no dominant voice, just a messy mosaic of contenders, each asserting their own as pre-eminent. I had come to New York City hoping to get an unbiased, clear look at how the protests were progressing. However, I quickly realized that, diving into this city, clarity is nearly impossible to come by. What I got instead was a firsthand look at how New York City does protest; pretty much exactly how it does everything else: loud, proud and uncompromising.

Some two weeks ago I was in Oregon, pacing through Occupy Portland, which couldn’t have presented more of a contrast to the busy protests and protesters of the protests on the streets of NYC. Portland was subdued, their protest reserved. Both cities’ movements stand under the same banner and demand the same change, but because this demand is aimed at their immediate surroundings, it is, consequently, defined by them.

The effect this polarized experience had on me is that, while our nation is constantly identified as a unified whole, it is incredibly diverse and culturally fractured. The fact that these protests have gained a strong foothold in these two cultural and geographical extremes validates them. As a generation that grew up knowing only national prosperity, we must recognize their validity and steel ourselves for the building storm they represent: a social disquiet we have never known.

To be continued next week…