I sit here late at night. About 10:30 when I start typing. I wait next to the warm light of my TV for the call. Tomorrow I will ascend onto the U.S./Mexico border. The call I speak of is the call that will tell me how exactly I’m getting there and back. I’m getting there. I’m coming back. Me and approximately 6 others of my guerilla media group will spend Friday to Sunday in San Diego. We go our separate ways and meet back when it is all done. I don’t know who will be safe, nor do I know what we will encounter.
We have been planning to document the FTAA (Free Trade Area of the Americas) protests for months now. Not until earlier this morning did I get the OK from my father for me to go. Seems that he will not fill in my mother, who is opposed to the idea of me going to San Diego for 3 days, that I am going until I am halfway there. I worry. The last mission we went on, we encountered our first casualties. I, myself, was hit by a police baton hard enough to leave a close to foot long bruise on my leg. Others were hit by rubber bullets or encountered tear gas. Now, it is San Diego. This San Diego that has revoked the permit for peaceful protest. Thousands upon thousands will pour in and unless San Diego reinstates the permit, the police will have a cookout.
7 rag tag kids. The oldest one of us no older than 18 and the youngest, myself, 15. Us 7 will cram into two cars and one hotel room for what could turn out to be two days in hell. I could be overreacting, but then again, better to be alert than sorry.
We are not particularly popular with the police. On our very first mission at the Democratic National Convention we were hassled by the police on the Metro Lines. Later, we were sent a ticket for (ironically) $187. The ticket was supposedly for illegal posting of bills. We had passed out flyers, but the police wanted us to believe that 4+ weeks after the convention that one flyer was still up somewhere in downtown L.A. Were they even serious? We went to court and easily won. We pooled our money together and hired a P.I., he came back with federal files on our group. We are now a target.
I was supposed to be meeting with world famous artist, Shepard Fairey. It seems now though, that I will not be able to meet our engagement. Maybe if the call goes my way I could find some time. As of now I think I will not be able to meet him. I have a 6:30 a.m. wake up call, whereupon I will hop back on the phones and find out what will happen. Our group is organized once we get there, but before that is anyone’s call.
This is the last you will hear from me until Sunday morning. I should be returning safe and sound. I’m sneaking away for 3 days, only my father knows about it. The money in my pocket will only be $20 and some change and that’s if I’m lucky. I face police who have the right to bash my skull in, blinding tear gas, hard rubber bullets, mob mentality, angry thousands. Wish me luck.
Until we meet again, my friends.
Mercutio.