The Police Were Gonna…
Davin Carlo Cárdenas

I passed thru as they were setting up the checkpoint, the police were gonna do some fucking tonight. At 7 p.m. the police ain't looking for drunks, they know exactly what they came for, and in this community, that means immigrants without licenses. I picked up the pan at the Guadalupana and real quick engaged in a community dialogue with anyone within hearing distance of the check stand, as we all watched the pigs outside the window. It collectively fell on everybody that tonight we were the fucked. The homey with a baby in one arm and groceries in the other asked the best way to drive home. I leave, telling the people "suerte", and thinking about how bad I gotta pee, the steak I got defrosting on the counter, the baby he's got in his arms, and how bad we all need freedom.

With my stomach hella empty I start driving home and pass the police who's already getting their fuck on, tow trucks going nuts with working peoples cars, sober people's cars. I start convincing myself of all the reasons that I shouldn't stop and try and do something about this- urine, hunger, fatigue, that girl that's supposed to call, nervous, etc.. Suddenly I pull over, park, contemplate some stupid shit like "what would Che do?", and the next thing I knows I'm on a corner up the block from the police checkpoint with a warning sign for the pueblo that says "HAY RETEN MAS ADELANTE", and quickly passing cars are doing U-turns like they were going outta style, escaping police grasp, police wrath.

Soon Chente shows up with 5 Virgen candles and more warning posters, Juan shows up, Theresa shows up, and now 4 Chicano/as are on the corner holding what looks like a revolutionary prayer vigil in front of the laundromat. But what we really doing is some mutual aid shit, some solidarity shit, what we hope any group would do for their own. The atole we drinking ain't helping my bladder but I forget about it as gente pass, honking, waving, giving thanks. Shit, people gotta get to work the next day, kids need to get to school, abuelitos need to get to misa, and the chota need to get the fuck up off the block and start policing corporate offices. That's where we stand, what our "education" has brought us- a healthy middle-finger and the balls to put ideas into action.

Three hours later our group has grown to 7-8 folks with signs, candles, a guitar, and left over pizza. The police finally catch on and gang up. Our crews almost on our way out anyways, and we know we have all the right in the world, but still find it amusing to hear the weak ass demands of the placa. I get diplomatic while Chente points out the contradictions in their argument (we actually "good cop, bad copped" the cops!). I almost feel sorry for the stupid white man with a badge as he stumbles over his words. Either way, we decide to stay outta jail for the weekend (that girl finally called me), we pick up our shit, and tell the police we'll see them next time. Finally, a day that began at 6 a.m., ends at 11 p.m., and given the circumstances, we wouldn't have it any other way.

Davin Cárdenas won an Honorable Mention
in the Burning Bush Poetry Prize for 2007
for "The Police Were Gonna . . . "

Davin Cardenas is a day labor organizer in Sonoma County and is also currently involved in trying to establish a popular information/cultural center in Santa Rosa called C.A.S.A Calpulli. He favors the people over the politicians and likes books.

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