We were revolutionaries, not terrorists
We planned it for the exact time when Reagan’s plane was
going to cross the sky, from Rio, towards Buenos Aires.
In the confrontation with the riot police the month before, they
attacked us on horses.
This time we came prepared: marbles.
We tried before, horses don’t move, they sit still, afraid of
falling because of the marbles in the ground.
The Trotskyite comrade in the makeshift podium was pregnant.
They arrive and mixed in, without horses, watching her
speech against the International Monetary Fund austerity measures for Brazil,
backed by U.S.
No way will they attack us, we were mostly kids. Too many
passers-by, and…an expecting mother!
I was wrong. Out of nowhere the batons went flying. I was
able to maneuver around them and run. Less than block away, old ladies watched
us from under a marquise in front of a department store. No way they will hit
old ladies. Wrong again. This time I got hit twice, right side above my hip and
left tight. The skin moved from red to purple quite quickly.
I started running again. Met with most of the rest at the
top of the hill. The police stopped in position just passed the marquise where I
got hit. We started in unison: “sons of bitches! Sons of bitches”.
They started marching towards us. We switched to the
national anthem, hand in heart, and they have to stop. We moved back a bit and
re-started “sons of bitches, sons of bitches”. They moved towards us, we
switched back to the national anthem “They heard it at the Ipiranga (river)
placid shores…”, they stopped again. The ballet continues till we reach the top
of the hill, where we quickly disperse.
We all ran back to the campus. It is a federal university,
so it is federal police jurisdiction. Riot police has no power in the campus.
Despite the violent outcome, we made our point. There would
be many more to come. We were protesting the American imperialism. Little we
knew the American government was nothing but the big banker’s puppets.
In those green years the enemy seemed easier to target. We confused
governments with its people and culture. But deep inside us we knew it, as we
secretively admired the American pop culture.
So much that, once we got to the dorms, to recover, we lie
down in the floor and put a Janis Joplin vinyl in:
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me, a Mercedes Benz?
