I stop by the Occupy Boston site for the first time this past weekend and there, I meet “John.”

His neatly trimmed silver hair and long black coat stand out against the sea of ruggedness. I ask him if he has a family. He explains in long-winded fashion that he’s unemployed and divorced but remains a devoted father to four children, the oldest of which is 20. He takes them out every Tuesday after getting his check, which, you know, leaves him broke by Wednesday morning—but it’s worth it because he would do anything for his kids.

It’s the hardest thing to do, to watch someone try not to cry.

I ask does his family know he lives here, and what do they think about it.

“My oldest son came over once, and you know, afterward he looked at me, and said ‘Dad, what you’re doing is really great, it’s going to end up in history books, and people are going talk about it even years from now.’ And I thought, man, he’s right, you know. We’re making history.”

The Occupy movement doesn’t like to assign positions of leadership, but John is a leader nonetheless. He’s been at Occupy Boston almost since its conception, around the same time he found himself out of a job, and as a result knows the neighborhood well enough to keep the peace. Not a soul passes that he doesn’t hail down to perform an introduction. I can’t imagine John ever being less than outgoing, but when I ask him how he’s changed, the first thing he says is that he’s more social now.

“And definitely more political,” he adds in his Boston accent. “I like to keep up with the news, not just here, too, everywhere—internationally.” He pauses. “Compassionate. I’m more compassionate. I think that’s what all this is about, and what people need more of: compassion.”

He indicates toward a guy walking past us wearing a clash of colors and jewelry with a fat orange backpack on. “See that guy? He can come here, and no one bats an eye. Welcome.” And then John tells me about a transgender homeless friend of his who used to constantly get harassed at shelters. She now calls Occupy Boston her home.

The unfortunate result of campaign-style rhetoric, oversimplified posters, and slogans railing against or for the “one percent” is that all of us have fallen into the trap of seeing this as yet another “us versus them” battle between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” I don’t disagree that there is a political debate to be had or even an economic war to be fought. But perhaps there’s a reason that Occupy has coalesced more into a heartfelt community than into concrete demands.

We are, after all, not just a political state or a capitalist economy: We’re also a simple collection of people.

More than anything else, Occupy is a demand for a home from those who don’t have one. It’s a desire to belong—anywhere, somewhere—even if it’s within a tent community at a public park. It’s a cry to be cared for.

I think again about how hard it is to watch someone trying not to cry, and how you never know what to do when the tears start falling anyway. I wince, remembering that awkward feeling you get when you’re not sure if you’ve held them for a moment too long or an hour too short. They apologize for getting your shirt wet; you ask them if they’re okay. “Yeah, I’m fine,” they sniffle. I never know how to respond to that because I’m never convinced everything really is okay. The world is so messed up, who could ever be completely okay anyway?

John’s telling me about their plans to insulate their homes in time for winter when I realize I have to run.

“Make sure to grab some food on your way out!” he says.

I tell him I already ate lunch.