I Hotel

In front of the door, front door of the International Hotel is being

squeezed between officers.

My back was to the door.

2000 plus people crunched in ahead of me.

I remember that elated feeling of battle,

the sense of commitment, commitment to face what was coming.

A dozen police on horseback, another 150 in riot gear, another 100 behind them, waiting to process arrests.

1am in the morning

on Kearney Street in San Francisco, and we were holding out against the onslaught. Everyone was locked arms,

row after row, grabbing the shirt of the person ahead of them,

wave after wave of assault. Tried to push and peel our ranks away, but they were failing, despite their raising their night sticks again and again and again,

we stood our ranks.

It was only when they brought the hook and ladder truck up in front of our lines and the police began to mount the roof going over our heads, did we sense there would be no victory,

just a valiant stand.

After a few minutes, I could hear the shouting within the building. Doors being shattered by sledgehammers, screams of the elderly tenants, screams and shouting of our comrades and fist fights inside the building.

I was concerned that a fire AX might come busting through the door. Just behind my ear,

our left leg broke,

and suddenly they had an angle to sweep us out.

My group was the last to be pushed away from the entrance. The riot cops, by now, infuriated, all look ready to take us down.

The night wore on.

We had someone hidden in the building, speaking our resistance through speakers on the street,

even as we were moved to the side, we continued our chants, our songs,

our shouts, into the night air.

Eventually, a cop climbed the light pole, cut the wires,

the voice extolling us was silenced.

We had lost the nine year battle for the eye hotel,

but we surely had gone down fighting you.