On January 31, 2026, I attended the Labor Against I.C.E. Rally and March in Portland, Oregon; camera in hand, trying my best to stay out of the way of people with signs and zines and union banners. I am not currently a member of a union, though I am currently and always an advocate for unionizing. My partner is an R.N., and in addition to my support of the Oregon Nurses Association, in the wake of Alex Pretti’s murder this particular showing of community support felt especially poignant.

Ultimately, why I or anyone else chose to attend does not actually matter as it pertains to what would eventually happen, but when people are posting Craigslist ads offering to pay for someone to sit through Melania, I guess that’s something I need to specify.

Walking through the crowd gathered on the soggy slippery grassy lawn, the atmosphere was familiar and the weather was downright pleasant. The amplified words of chapter presidents and event organizers floated through the air as attendees eagerly returned their sentiments when given the chance. Gatherer’s joined in a very well-intentioned version of “Bella Ciao.”

The rally concluded with brief instructions for starting the march, and unsurprisingly the different groups and scatterings of people present were quickly organized and started down the road. The rally took place at Elizabeth Caruthers Park, and from there moved south down Moody Ave, turned east on Bancroft past I.C.E., and immediately turned north taking Bond Ave back the park. The whole route is less than half of a mile and covers a distance of maybe three blocks between the park and passing where I.C.E. is located.

After the march left the park, I walked the counter-route and found a spot where I could both be unobtrusive and unobstructed. Up to this point, everything had been completely peaceful, positive, and passive. My plan was to continue taking pictures as the march wrapped up, after which I would make my way down the road to observe and document anything happening that evening. The flow of people made their way down the road and I stood taking pictures as they passed.

I may be getting sentimental in my old age, but I find it incredibly moving to witness communities coming together in that way and in those numbers. The first banner approached and the people holding it were smiling and basking in a moment of communal solidarity. Shoulder to shoulder with each other, determined to do what they could to try and move the needle a little further from fascism. They smiled and chanted and sang and walked at a leisurely pace. Calling each other brother and sister, holding their signs and heads high and unwavering.

Coughing is what I noticed first.

Pulling away from the my camera’s viewfinder, I looked for the source of this scattered cacophony as other voices called out offering water. More coughing. Faster walking. No smiling.

“They fucking gassed us.”

The stream of people overflowed up to sidewalks as they tried to escape the cloud growing behind them. I got out of their way and cut down a road between buildings and ducked into a doorway where I was hopeful I would be safe from the approaching chemical deployment.

This isn’t the first rally or march that I’ve attended, especially recently, and I arrived with gear, aware there was a possibility I might need to use it. I put on my respirator and goggles, tested their seals, and stepped out into the street.

I ducked down behind a parked car to get an idea of which direction the gas was coming from, trying to chart a path of least resistance as people continued to run around the corner gasping for air, desperately pouring water on their faces in an effort to restore sight to their panicked eyes. Behind them, a conjured colossal phantom drifted down the road, unfurling its billowed hand. It moves deceptively fast, its dynamic size and shifting shapes hiding its gait.

I passed groups of people huddled together trying to clear the painful particles from their skin and airways. Across the street, someone in a wheelchair was desperately leaning to avoid further irritation from the run-off of water clearing their vision, and seemingly out of nowhere a medic in riot gear was suddenly there to assist and talk them through it.

Tear gas moves silently so the street is really only filled with two sounds, heavy coughs and people offering help in an almost call-and-response back-and-forth. The feelings that come with a surge of adrenaline began to dissipate and the feelings of community and camaraderie I felt earlier increased at an exponential rate as I watched strangers jumping to help strangers without hesitation. Someone staggered into a clearing of smoke, braced themselves against the wall and doused their face with water between shallow gasps. With their eyes still closed tight, they asked anyone who passed if they needed water and offered their own to those that did. This was not a unique occurrence, and it seemed to me that every person who could still speak was trying to find and help those who could not. If it hadn’t literally happened that way I wouldn’t include it, because I don’t think it gets more on the nose than that.

Despite your best efforts, if you’re exposed to a chemical agent that has been deemed illegal to use in international warfare for long enough, it is eventually going to permeate your protective barriers and make its presence known.

It started in my throat, like the seeds of a black pepper vine had been planted at the end of my tongue, its thin tendrils starting to reach out and take hold as it crawled along my esophageal walls. The smoldering seedling began to take root as it worked its way deeper, finding plenty of room to grow while it burrowed into a bountiful bronchial garden. Its fiery flowers burst through the roof of my mouth, leaving my soft palate ablaze and coating everything with the taste of burnt plastic and smelling salts. The contents of my nose fled its withering waves with great haste, providing passage for it to flirtatiously touch my lips, but not before I learned what it might feel like to snort Ajax. As it settled into my lungs the inflammation grew with each breath, and I could feel the first few tingles of primal panic creep up the back of my neck as my brain began to register that breathing was going to be a choice pretty soon.

I kept my eyes open for as long as I could, but they became so cloudy and watering there was not much difference in my field of vision whether or not they were closed. My eyelids and the skin around my eyes felt like they had just been given a literal chemical peel and I was certain I had been exfoliated to the bone.

All things considered, I got off extremely easy. I walked away.

After finding a spot of clear air where I could perform my own ritual rinsing, I started to think through what had happened and confirmed with others nearby what I suspected to be true.

As the march passed the I.C.E. facility, without stopping or antagonizing, agents launched canisters of tear gas at those walking by, unprovoked. Children, seniors, people in wheelchairs, using canes, walkers, and other mobility devices - all subjected to chemical weapons as they tried to exercise their legal right to peacefully assemble. This was not a group there to cause trouble, hurt anyone, or even disrupt anything. They arrived prepared to act passively and that is exactly what they did. They were walking down the street in a symbolic act of solidarity and community - and they were met with chemical warfare.

I’ve seen people condemning parents for having children in attendance, which I get, honestly, I do - and to an extent I think that criticism could be a fair point worth further discussion. But just like my reasons for going, or the intentions of the rally organizers or attendees, or their wrong-or-rightful expectations - it ultimately does not matter because every single person regardless of their age or guardianship status had a right to be there. And none of those people, regardless of their age or guardianship status did anything that warranted what they received. Anyone who wants to spend time talking about why the kids were there and not that the kids got gassed should have those conversations with the people who say the same thing about Pretti or Renee Good. That rhetoric is a distraction.

Before the airborne agitation had fully dissipated people were already starting to gather outside the building. Some of them were members of the labor rally who had furiously marched back after catching their breath and regaining sight, some of them were people who had already heard about the gas attacks and rushed to the scene to offer support, and some of them were showing up because there were already a million things worth protesting and there truly aren’t many better ways to spend a Saturday evening.

The percussive sounds and sights of civil demonstration were sharply juxtaposed against the falling dusty dusk. After cleaning my face and putting my gear back on, I changed my camera lens and joined them, observing from the perimeter of the crowd. While loud and occasionally rowdy with a so-so playlist, those protesting didn’t approach or block the entryway to the facility, they didn’t physically assault anyone or even damage property. Portland Police were directing traffic around the quarter block of road the protestors were using. No physical antagonism, no impediment to performance of legal government duties, barely an inconvenience and affecting no one inside the building even a little bit.

I.C.E. officers stood on the roof, shooting into the crowd below with rubber bullets, seemingly at random.

Now, I am not someone who prescribes to traditional gender roles or ideology - however, for a group of people who are really doing their best to put up this machismo-tough guy-protector of the innocent-bravado-white knight image, I cannot think of a more pussy-ass little bitch thing to do then to stand on the roof of a building cosplaying in tactical gear and firing on peaceful human beings. I understand its all because your feelings got hurt and you’ve never been held accountable for your emotional outbursts, resulting in everyone you love either leaving or fearing you, so you took a job as a mediocre mercenary where they tell you you’re special and makes you believe dear old daddy DonDon gives anymore of a shit about you than the father whose approval you are clearly and laughably trying to replace. Grow the fuck up.

The sky grew darker, the air got colder, the rubber bullets were shot more often and yet the people persisted. I continued taking pictures, moving frequently so that my already sizable target wasn’t as easily susceptible to their pot shots and because low light really starts to limit your photography options when you’re not trying to pop a flash off in front of armed and dangerous cub scouts.

I packed up my things, and started to move away from the commotion to check in with my partner and let them know I would be heading home shortly. I made it about a block away when the fading sounds of protest were split open by the crack of 6 or 7 flash bangs, rattling the ground. Looking back, I could see another cloud already overtaking several dozen people desperately fleeing its effects. Illuminated by the facilities flood lights and traffic signals on the street, the milky behemoth continued its course unobstructed and unwavering. I took a few pictures and then I took the hell off.

Here we are, several days after the fact. The mayor has made statements, articles have been written, evidence and testimony are being collected. There are a lot of reasons I attended the rally, and there are even more reasons why I felt compelled to write this and share this experience with you in some small way.

What happened to me and the rest of those in attendance on Saturday was bad. I’m not trying to dramatize or exaggerate what happened, nor am I trying to downplay any of it. It was not a good time, it should not have happened to any degree, and everyone responsible should be prosecuted.

However, it is not the worst that has happened by a long shot, it is not a new thing, and it isn’t anything different than what any non-white American can tell you they and their families are subjected to with much more frequency and intensity.

One of the first things I was taught when I entered law school was the concept of “precedence,” which generally speaking is the idea that priority is given to previous judgements and rules when contemplating similar or related later legal questions. In other words, when facing a problem, prioritize previous solutions. A lot of the time this makes sense though it is too often used to justify outdated thinking, but that is a conversation for a different day. It also becomes a way to anticipate what the arguments and strategies against your position may be. It is not a complex concept, but it is one that is just as applicable outside of legal theory as it is within it.

Anyone surprised or taken aback by any of the recent publicized incidents of state violence against protesters shouldn’t be. If you find yourself shocked or shaking your head in disbelief when you hear about the latest I.C.E. smash and grab or murder - while those feelings are understandable and reasonable and not even your fault, it is important to know that it is also a significant contributing factor to the current state of affairs.

All it takes is a brief review of our country’s recent history and the strategies of the state against peaceful-but-inconvenient protesters, and a precedence of violence quickly takes shape.

• Between 1900 and 1940, striking unions and laborers were regularly met with lethal force at the hands of the United States government. In 1932, federal troops rolled out tanks and tear gas on mistreated WWI veterans and their families protesting in Washington, D.C. In 1937 police shot into a peaceful labor march killing and wounding protesters.

• In 1963, water canons were turned on youth marching for desegregation. 1965 was the year that state troopers and law enforcement used billy clubs and tear gas on the Selma to Montgomery marchers. 1968 saw multiple incidents of violence against peaceful antiwar protesters resulting in injury and death.

• In 1969, Bobby Seale was bound and chained to his chair and gagged during his own trial after being denied representation, and Fred Hampton was drugged and murdered in his bed in a late night F.B.I. raid in front of his unborn child’s mother. They were both leaders in the Black Panther Party.

• At Kent State and Jackson State police shot and killed protesting students just 11 days apart in 1970.

• The police dropped literal bombs on MOVE, a black liberation organization, and let 61 houses burn to the ground and left six adults and five children to die as they stood and watched for 90 minutes in 1985.

It is unfortunate, but it is undeniable that everything happening now has happened before and will happen again unless we all start seeing the harmful ways in which we are treated. It is only a matter of time before you are one of those harmed. It may be indirectly, or on a smaller scale, or in a different way, but it will catch up. We cannot waste time being surprised.

I am not trying to lecture anyone or turn this into a soap box. But we need everyone to start realizing the severity and reality of what is happening to each other.

I hear all of the time that people don’t know what they can do to help, and they feel limited in their ability to influence any sort of change. If you are one of those people, or you are having similar feelings, this is exactly how you can start. Pay attention to what is happening. Do not look away. Process it. Try to understand it. Get sad and then get mad. Learn about the history of people straining to remove the boot of state oppression. Let this be the last thing that shocks you.

This is not the last protest I intend on attending or documenting. This is not the last time I will get tear gassed. This is not the last time we will have to stand up for ourselves.

See you out there.