Derretiendo el ICE /Melt the ICE

one of the first things we learn to do
is move
its what we do

movement is embedded in our existence
strung on the chords of our DNA songs of resilience

SO AS WE EXIST
WE MOVE
SO WE CAN EXIST...
an excerpt from Migrant Movement a poem by freddy gutierrez

There’s something exhilarating about Halloween. The air is different, charged with an electric current, and this breathable voltage makes anything seem possible. Taking a deep breath, I’m filled with the feeling an all-or-nothing gambler gets when victory is imminent, despite all the odds. It is a day of transformation, where the janitor strolls the Embarcadero in Super Mario overalls, a restaurant worker struts by in checkerboard mod, and where victimized youth don the skeletal, war-painted faces of their ancestors to fight for the safety and wholeness of their families.

For these youth, Halloween doesn’t mean candy and frivolous costume parties; today, dressed head-to-toe in black, they simultaneously mourn and fight against the abuse inflicted by ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the agency that has been terrorizing their mothers and fathers and destroying their families.

Two brown, white, and black faces meet mine.

"Excuse me, do you know where the ICE protest is?" "Yeah, two blocks down that way, to your left," one of the skeletons tells me, her brown hand pointing me in the right direction. Thanking her, I move briskly towards Ferry Park.

ICE, formally known as the INS, is the government titan responsible for the devastation of brown families, arrest of immigrant mothers and fathers, and unspeakable brutality against impoverished labor under the guise of "gang control." Approaching Ferry Park, a shifting black mass overtakes the green. An army of black bodied skeletons, an ocean of black, brown, and white, slapping palms and patting backs, hums in rhythmic solidarity.

We form a circle on the green, a symbol of unity and wholeness. The emcee takes the mic, inviting stragglers to join the ranks of the resistance.

I hear a girl on the phone near me, "Yo, where my Frisco peeps at? They’re stuck on BART, they won’t let them through!"

Though outraged at the impediment of their youth allies, those present hardly seem surprised. Time freezes for a moment, faces searching other faces for a solution to this obstacle. The girl moves away from the circle, phone still perched on her ear.

The circle focuses.

"We didn’t cross the borders. The borders crossed us!"

"Abajo con ICE!"

"Que queremos? JUSTICIA! Cuando? AHORA!"

Five young men take center circle, carrying a large drum with them. A hundred fists thrust upward. The steady drumbeat lifts their voices into the autumn air. Listening, my mind drifts back, remembering the story of my father.

My father, a Political Science and Law professor in the Philippines, was stripped of his education upon arrival to the United States. Years of education and experience meant nothing in comparison to his brown skin, landing him a low-paying job as a paint carrier at a local mechanic shop. Recounting his experiences, he recalls not only his inadequate wages but also being the subject of psychological abuse.

"He pointed a loaded gun at you?!" I exclaimed.

The wealthy owner of the mechanic shop apparently felt the need to prove his manhood from time to time and, threatened by my father’s 6’1 presence, his dad became the target.

"My father’s brown skin proved a barrier throughout his search for employment, denying him access to the teaching jobs he loved; my dad was forced to adjust his resume, essentially dumbing himself down in order to obtain employment. He was always either overqualified or underqualified. His educational attainment and experience could not outweigh his immigrant status and brownness."

A cheer goes up from the crowd, bringing me out of my reverie.

"Who’s got the power? The youth have the power!"

"Who’s got the power? WE got the power!"

The youth have arrived, despite the efforts of law enforcement to detain them on BART. A new wave of energy washes over the resistance. The small park is overflowing now, generations strong against the injustices of ICE. The circle expands, welcoming the new additions to the movement. The mic travels from youth to youth, a common thread of justified anger and passionate dissent linking the beautiful words the youth offer their ancestors, mothers, and fathers. The mic listens intently, amplifying these sentiments for the rest of us to hear.

These words of power send us on our way, the march is beginning.

Faces press against the glass eyes of the concrete and steel giants looming over us on either side. Office workers point and whisper to each other as we wind down the streets of downtown San Francisco, a river of bodies rushing towards our final destination: the ICE building. This river teems with life, signs reading "MELT THE ICE!" held high, bobbing to the beat of the liberation.

"Ain’t no power like the power of the people ‘cause the power of the people don’t stop!"