No more lies! No More Lies! NO MORE LIES!
They come down Fourth Avenue, voices rising in your ears; five hundred Chicano Federation delegates and friends come marching to the free speech site: zone: lot: camp: cage.
You go out to greet them, kicking yourself in the head that you have no camera today. So engrave the vision of their arrival on your memory, record the sound of the chanting and clapping in your mind... but nonetheless boot-to-your-brow envision again and again how wonderful it might be to present a film and sound of this magic, this crowd, this march, this entrance of strident liberty as she flows through the gates of Free Speech Concentration Camp. Spricht Macht Frei.
But the Republikans are not listening. So there are no films, no recordings. Only the metaphor of absence, hovering over this silent text.
But....
But that does not stop the rally. The ignorance of elephants across the railroad tracks does not stop, cannot stop the wild beauty of this marching beast, approaching down the middle of the street between shepherding motorcycle cops.
Yes, you go out from your tent to greet them, anonymous host. No sign hangs around your neck to identify you. No arrows point to you in the crowd. Medical techs on the right of you, cops on the left of you, you stand, clutching the sign-in book, scribbling impressions of the chanting crowd; and no one sees who you are.
It might even be you, not me, who is there. The anonymous host, seeking your most perfect parasite.
Then, as you stand beside the entrance gate, next to the flowing river of women and men, you begin to applaud. And someone sees you.
Diego, a friend from ten years at City Hall - tu companero del palacio municipal. He smiles and shouts out your name, Orale Daniel! And you answer back, Que paso Diego!
There, in the crowd, you see someone else you know - a woman politely smiling and gently waving - whom you know and respect from several years of acquaintance - a professor of literature, marching and clapping with her husband the documentary producer.
Don Diego sees you and you are no longer anonymous. Dona Profesora Marta sees you and you are no longer anonymous. But they do not know why you are here. That you are volunteer host seeking a parasite on your mission to write this journal. That with this indulgence -
Then you see him.
The shadowy, frowning, mumbler from the Department of Justice. The mediator who has walked with the crowd. And you wonder - is this your parasite of the moment? No, not him, no parasite he. But you, yes, in one respect....
Today you will melt his just ice.
Gripping this steno book in your hand, you turn to the officer beside you.
"Well, gotta sign this group in. Here goes Danial into the lions' den.""Book'em, Dan-O," he laughs.
Follow the crowd to the stage, swirl with their turning banners and signs, pass through laughing voices and chanting slogans. Breathe the heady air of excitement. In another moment the light will turn green. This is why you are here. This is the moment when the indulgent parasite gives birth to your own being and you become your own host.
Is that what I am? Your parasite?
No, no, the italic voice is nothing but another trick of writing. A figment of thought. Pay no attention to that little man behind the curtain, she's only a reflection of your own self-indulgence.
More like self-redundance.
Just do your job. Ask at the stage gate, receive the signature of the Chicano Federation representative. Smile. You like to den with lions.
Go out into the crowd. Shake Profesora Marta's hand. Her husband Paul.
"Excuse me," a woman near them asks you, "aren't you Danial, Ivi's friend from the bus? I'm Brenda, I work with her, remember?"
Ah yes, small world, little host. Stand exchanging a few words. Ask her to give your regards to Ivi. Grow silent as the speeches continue.
THEY ARE AFRAID THAT OUR CHILDREN WILL MARRY THEIR CHILDREN.
Smile within, sweet parasite/host. Remember what President George Bush said about grandchildren from his Mexican American daughter-in-law... "I love my little brown ones."
Me encanta Mexico.
No I dose - No, no, no... don't say it like that - tu debes que decir como asi - No Hay Dos.
You struggle through the singing of De Colores. Then stumble back toward your tent, stopping every three feet to scribble... when, quite suddenly, while the drum pointed, and evening breeze grasped at the fluttering steno pad pages... quite suddenly the top blew off... and there, looking up, in front of you, not nothing at all, but....
The shadowy, frowning figure of just ice.
You had forgotten he was here. Even though you saw him march in with the crowd, and knew this would be the day you must apply warmth to the ice, still, you had forgotten. In the excitement of the lions' den, you had forgotten your quest. And now, your pen hand frozen in time on this breezy page, here he is. His feet sore, his body tired from walking in march after march, here he is.
No time to plan. No time to scheme. All you can do is be human.
"Hello."Nod. Silent frown glancing across the crowd.
WE WILL NOT STAND BY AND LET THEIR HATRED MASQUERADE AS A LIE OF INCLUSION....
The slightest trace of a grin struggles to break the corner of his mouth. You see something then you had not seen before. His last name, printed on his Justice I.D. tag, and the faint olive shade of his skin. He is... Latino. But then, in that instant, he frowns again. This is it. Now or never. Speak, Danial, or forever hold your peace.
"Hey... you should smile!""Why?"
"Because it will make you feel better."
"Oh, Lord," he sighs, but there - a smile is rising in his face, "you sound just like my wife."
Which makes you laugh. The ice has melted. The mumbler has spoken to you. He looks away at the crowd. You stumble back to the tent and struggle to write down these words.
Or, if thou prefieres, the "Table" of Contents remains spread for thy further dining pleasure.