The sunny California sun was beating down on my pastel Minnesota winter’s skin. As if a jolt of electric current when down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck erected, and I had the clothes on my back yanked. There was something in the air that day; the sultry scent of palm trees and the gentle chirp of seagulls were not it. The city of San Francisco was in full spirit of it’s political activism. With the running of Beijing 2008 Olympic Torch, the city manifested into the epicenter of the World. Crowds of more than ten thousand spectators and protesters had gathered at the waterfront. The Olympic essence was truly on display as advocates of numerous political society united to be seen and herd in the media spectacle that is the Olympic torch relay. Advocates of Human Rights, Darfur, Falun Gong, Tibet, Anti-China sentiments, Burma and Democratic China were determined to make much ruckus as possible. This was destined for becoming a protest of Olympic proportions. Coming for the spectacles, I hadn't planned on being one of the spectacles.
With a painted bloody wrist and a plaything handcuff that was bruising my two joints, I was symbolically dressed as a Tibetan Buddhist Monk with my last-minute improvised maroon robe. With thousands of pro-Tibet and pro-China demonstrators who had lined the expected Olympic torch relay route fueling my fire, I screamed at the top of my lungs like a revolutionist, “Free Tibet!” I was reenacting the significant moment of Tiananmen Square protests of 1989 with just some few twists here and there. I shouted out pro Tibetan propaganda soundbites that the media could grasp. All around the San Francisco waterfront I played my character as a outspoken but voiceless, and a defiant but devoted lama getting thrashed by the PLA (People’s Liberation Army) and then run over by a miniature wooden tank. Most of the acting were all spontaneous and unpleasant. With no early arrangements, the mutual connection between the mock soldiers and the pretend lamas was non-existing. As some of the violent scenes were being played out, the soldiers were compellingly hitting me and choking me with the plastic batons. Deep inside, I was anxious as if I was seconds away from being pulled over, but momentarily I realized that what I was symbolizing what was vastly more important than my eggshell self-conscious.
People of both spectrum of passion to China clashed at the waterfront; I was in the middle of it. Yelling, spitting, finger pointing, waving of Chinese and Tibetan flags, pounding of loud traditional Chinese drums, and nudists running down streets were some of the sites and sounds of that day. Emotions were blistering on each sides, and the size of the cluster seemed to be intensifying. the scenes seemed barbaric like in the middle when huge crowds from each faction rallied and argued over politics. Fortunately, nothing big went down.
Due to my dramatic and symbolic gestures, the media were all over my act. “What’s your name?” one reporter asked while on the move. “I don’t have a name. I represent the oppressed people of Tibet,” I replied. Not satisfied with my answer, “Come on, man, you know where this will be tomorrow? This is BIG!” I didn’t want to give my name because I thought that was irrelevant, and already in the The Marine Corps Delayed Entry Program (DEP), I assumed that I had lost my First Amendment Right after signing that death wish. Pictures where being taken form every corner, and I was in the midst of it. Few tears here and there, I carried on my act until the protest died out.
In the end, the olympic torch run turned into a hide-and-seek game where the torch was never seen by the spectators or protestors. Looking back, I felt content with my actions and my courage as if my testicular fortitude grew like puberty. Plus, the air-time on CNN and many other news channels, and landing a small section on the front of USA Today Newspapers doesn't hurt.
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