There I was standing in front of Los Angeles policeman. Shields up and club wielding, he was like a manic in some midnight b movie coming at me swinging. A black cloud of pain ready to stomp on me. I was amazed when this madman lurched past me to hit some unsuspecting bystander with darker skin. The young man fell to the ground beside me writhing in pain.
The day was sunny.
Here I was thrust into a full riot, fighting for my life.
I bent down to help this poor man, getting up from the grass.
“Are you okay,” I asked half scanning the area for more pigs.
The man was 44-year-old Jose Ramos. A day labor from Guatemala.
I told him I love his country. I remember going to Guatemala in 85’ tripping out on LSD with large hipped woman named Celina.
He told me he came here to support immigration rights. He spoke in broken english.
Too take a stand and do something he believed strongly about.
He had soft and gentle eyes. A large bushy dark mustache arched around is mouth, hard-callused hands that earned him a living.
He told me he has three kids. Two boys and a girl. He’s been in the US for 22 years.
Suddenly, the sound of small explosions started to cluster around us. White smoke started to billow around. Frantic people started leaping over us and running in all directions.
Is this the end? I stood up and looked around and saw the law enforcement lobbing tear gas at the crowd. I got Jose up to his feet and we both headed out of the park.
I’m lost in a combat zone.
Hoping to find my out soon.
Until next time.
