The Accidental Native (32 page)

Food kiosks were set up, where townspeople sold food at a reasonable price or distributed it free. The police, in riot gear, kept gathering, lurking outside, while the university guards walked around with their transceivers ready, making sure there was no major destruction to the college or its grounds. They were prepared to communicate any serious legal infraction to the police outside. Committee members also patrolled what the media soon dubbed “Villa Verde,” (then later, more cynically, “Villa de Payasos,” or Clowns) to make sure nothing got out of hand. I felt as if we were managing an unintended, perverse political Woodstock.

When did the large speakers appear? Did the bands bring them? What possessed us to let them play? We just didn't expect all of these people to come, and then to stay in protest. Now we had this responsibility toward them, and felt we had to keep them centered and focused. Did that mean keeping them entertained? Some of my colleagues thought it could not hurt, since the bands and performers were doing it for free and they were down with the cause. Besides, said Felipe, protest music had always been a part of the movement. I'm thinking what movement? But they all nodded, and what do I know about island politics anyhow.

Each band came with its equipment, roadies and groupies. They stacked enormous, loud speakers up on the stairs of the Administration
Building, which had become a makeshift stage with the customary huge Puerto Rican flag in the background, and large signs and banners all around. Once the music started, the mood got livelier, and the groups incited the crowd with patriotic tunes.

The musical highlight was when Roy Brown, the
i
ndependentista singer-songwriter, appeared out of the Baná fog onto the stage. A wiry young man, who had been serving as emcee, told us he had a surprise, laughed a bit at the buzz and then introduced the bearded, round-faced, gray-haired folk singer. As Brown jumped onto the stage with his guitar, an uproar erupted among the thousands gathered under the stars; they stood up collectively and applauded, whistled, screamed. He spoke about how those who pollute the island have to pay, to the cheers of everyone, and then broke into “Boricua en la Luna,” followed by a moving rendition of “Monon,” which had everyone up and singing the refrain, “fuego, fuego, los yanquis quieren fuego.” The intensity with which the protesters hurled these lyrics into the summer night air gave me chills.

During the week that followed the Brown concert, nevertheless, solidarity began to wear thin. It was hot, even for Baná, which sits at a higher altitude than the coastal cities, and tempers began to flare over the living conditions. For the less committed, the fun was wearing out, the fad quality fading, and they left. Except for the diehards, their outrage was not so easily dampened. They planned to stay as long as needed to make those responsible pay, one way or another. They did not believe in the judicial system, much less the government. They demanded those in charge be held accountable, that they pay for their horrific actions. Ahora.

The government also began to lose patience. The campers officially became squatters; they were informed to “desist and break camp or be in violation of the law.” The university became concerned about the ability to offer classes during the approaching Fall semester, to which the protestors responded with a demand to close the college because it presented a hazardous risk to students, faculty and workers.

Micco called me and asked if I could do something to ensure the start of the semester in two weeks. “Think of all those students graduating this year, Rennie.”

To which I answered, “This is bigger than me, Micco. I'm just one of many.”

He grunted and hung up.

Marisol called daily to tell me she worried for my safety, to question if this was all worth it.

A flurry of accusations flew across the airwaves. I was interviewed, introduced as “the son of the activist lawyer Julia Matos Canales, whose firm is pursuing a class-action suit against the U.S. government.” In my accented Spanish, I reiterated our committee's position on the protest, entering its third week. Sitting next to me in the radio studio, Samuel, our official spokesperson, delineated with calm and eloquence. He informed the media that we, under no circumstance, advocated violence and did not want anyone hurt. “But,” he said, “we strongly support the right of citizens to assemble and protest peacefully, even if it means civil disobedience.” Above all, he claimed, this is “a dignified, united front of indignation” over the continued contamination of the college and the island in general.

Miki Tavárez had other ideas. “Protestin' don't mean you can't have fun, am I right?” That was his mantra for the first few days in the camp. And most of us had to admit he brought humor and needed levity to the situation. Just running around in his wig, clown pants, clown shoes and make-up made us laugh. He had a horn he kept blowing at people's behinds—that always got a laugh. His fellow clowns, twelve in number, patrolled the environs, cheering people up, telling jokes in between the musical acts. He put up a tent for face painting and balloon sculpting for the children and set up a few games in there; soon it was always crowded with children. Why parents brought their kids to a protest-squatters camp was beyond me; they were just kids, and not interested in politics. Restless, they ran around the camp without anything to do, taxing the fragile nerves of everyone, creating tension among parents and tent neighbors. So, we thanked Miki for taking the initiative on that one. Encouraged by our response,
he organized kite flying. At first for the kids, but after a few days the adults got into it and scores of kites brightened the cerulean sky, every one of them scribbled with a political slogan.

Maybe we emboldened him too much, who knows. It's strange the way these things happen. Another night had fallen on the camp. Fires burned everywhere; the university had turned off all the electricity. The music continued, as townspeople donated generators that could power mikes and speakers. The music pacified everyone at night; it was the glue which held everything together.

That night I was pleased to see Rita Gómez's niece show up on stage. I had invited her and wasn't sure if she would show up. She came on with a young man who played guitar beautifully. First, she introduced herself, talked about her aunt who worked for the college and had died recently from cancer. To loud cheers she simply asked, “Why can't the university investigate and make sure my aunt and others have not died from this contamination? From those responsible: We want the truth.” And the crowd began the chant, “The truth, the truth, we want the truth!” She raised her hands and told us she wanted to sing for us.

Her melodious soprano voice then went through the haunting lyrics of the danza, “Verde Luz,” to a silenced, mesmerized audience. I had heard of the song, never heard it sung, and was moved by the beauty of the words and how she cradled every metaphor with love and sincerity. The perfect song for the moment, and everyone there that night knew it.

The last note brought a roar that made me tremble. She left the stage, wiping tears from her eyes. They wanted her to sing another, but this wasn't a concert performance for her. She had come to sing this song and no more, for her aunt and the cause. The audience kept clapping, even after she had left. From the darkness like a mischievous demon, Miki jumped onto the stage. He brought an empty milk carton on which he stood to reach the mike. That brought a laugh from the crowd. In his clown outfit, he started telling rowdy, raunchy jokes about gringos, and then got serious, talking about the serious problem with the environment in Puerto Rico. He pumped everyone up with the previous chant, “we want the truth, we want the truth, now.”

Then he silenced the crowd, putting his small hands up in the air. “Gente, I want to inform you that the Puerto Rican colonial government has mobilized the National Guard.”

There was a groan, then a wave of murmuring across the multitude.

I turned to Felipe, who looked at Samuel. We scrambled for our cell phones. A few calls confirmed what Miki had said. The Guard was already positioned by the athletic track across from us, not even a quarter of a mile away. The police, in turn, had been ordered to stop any flow of traffic coming into the vicinity of the college. We soon received phone calls and text messages informing us that we had twenty-four hours to evacuate the college or the Guard would dislodge us and arrest any violators.

Foley texted me: “Warned u. Get ur asses out of there now!!!”

Our faces turned grim and anxious, and we stared at each other trying to figure out what to do next. We decided that Samuel should first calmly update the campers on the situation and then try to convince everyone to follow the instructions to avoid harm to anyone. But Miki Tavárez was on a roll.

“We will not be intimidated,” the clown Miki shouted.

Samuel struggled through the agitated crowds, now pumping fists, shouting slogans.

“We won't take this anymore.” Miki unleashed a harangue of the angriest, most intensely hateful anti-American venom. “Those yanqui sons of bitches are killing our people,” he yelled. “They're destroying our island, filling it up with their shit and flushing us down with it!”

He was literally foaming at the mouth, spit flying in all directions. His head's wild movements started to make his wig slide, so he took it off, bringing a strange cheer from those gathered. He had them captivated. And then he started screaming that we should chain ourselves to the bulldozers at the clean-up site, pointing in its direction with his orange wig.

“We won't let them dislodge us, compañeros. ¡Venceremos!” Miki pumped his little fist in the air, his real hair, long and straight, falling all over his face.

“To the bulldozers,” he shouted.

By the time Samuel got up to the mike, the other clowns had taken up the people's solidarity chant, “El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido,” as they followed Miki to the clean-up area, located about two hundred yards from the center of the camp.

“Amigos, compañeros,” Samuel shouted, but his words were lost amid the yelling, chanting and shuffling of feet. The crowd moved like the angry, disgruntled mob it had become, toward the equipment at the clean-up area.

The Guard had received orders that any move toward the equipment justified action. As the mob moved toward it, Miki and his clowns leading the way, the Guard was given the order to move forward.

Faced with the Guard coming toward them, they hesitated. Sane individuals would have stopped as soon as the Guard had circled the equipment area. But Miki gave the command to charge. It was more like a loud screech of frustration.

Felipe tried to calm people down, shouting instructions through a megaphone to stop, and some of the protestors backed off. But dozens charged, following Miki and the clowns, some now running with anchor chains and locks to tie themselves to the equipment. They attempted to break the barricade of soldiers, and as these pushed back, some protesters dropped to the ground but got up again in defiance and anger. They had no weapons, but with their fists they pummeled the soldiers, who continued to force back the horde. Then I saw Miki wrapped around a soldier's leg, biting him. The soldier yelled, and in a flash, he was butting poor Miki with his rifle. The other clowns jumped the soldier, Jaime Cruz, a twenty-four-year-old graduate student from Salinas. Chains started to swing, punches thrown, scuffling, pushing, a litany of obscenities and shouts.

A warning shot was heard and then a high pitch wave of screams. Like a flash flood, there was a massive retreat. I was trying to hold back demonstrators from moving toward the brawl and was knocked down by the retreating mob. I huddled myself into a fetal position on the ground, covering my head. People wailed obscenities, the Guardsmen yelled to move back. I smelled
the scent of dirt and grass, and in the distance, heard the steady beat of a lonely drum.

I would have been injured worse if Felipe, who had the body of an offensive lineman, had not blocked people from trampling me, at times pushing others to the ground, while Marco and Mercedes, two student leaders, helped me up. Felipe leading the way, we ran toward the safety of the water fountain in front of the Administration Building.

Luckily, no one was killed. I received cuts and scratches, had to put my left arm in a sling, but nothing was more bruised than my spirit. The weeks that followed the “riot of clowns” were even more painful, though. The media ran with it as a big joke, deviating from the seriousness of our claims and demands. We had to work night and day to bring the issue back to the gravity it deserved. My mother was incensed.

“So much work, René, down the toilet,” she said. “How did you let it get to this?” I had no answers. No one could have seen this coming. Felipe and Samuel shook their heads, even laughed, saying you had to take it all in stride and move on.

Marisol visited me in the hospital, hysterical. When she saw my minor injuries, she proceeded to slap my good arm a few times and to tell me she had warned me this political stuff was risky. Then, she sat by me and kissed me on the forehead and face.

“Why do you put me through this, Rennie? What would I do if something happened to you?”

I couldn't respond. It was the best thing to do, not to continue discussion on the topic, and she dropped it.

Marisol was relatively calmer because Mom had recommended her to the Dean at the Bayamón campus, and he had authorized the transfer. She was happy to have her job secured, despite the driving it would involve, and was spending the remaining summer preparing for the move to the new college.

“At least you weren't hurt as bad as that poor little clown,” she said, to change the subject.

Miki had sustained serious injuries and had to remain in the hospital for a week. A lawsuit was expected, and he had even
approached my mother, who declined the case. But on release from the hospital, Miki became a celebrity. He hit the local talk shows and was invited everywhere to give a speech or talk about his experience in the riot. People celebrated him as a folk hero, or as one of the talk show hosts introduced him, “a man small in stature who stands like a giant in comparison to our politicians.” The buzz on the street was that he was a “little guy with big balls.” We had to contend with and deflect his status as the face of the movement to end the dangerous pollution of our college.