[Note: The following article contains racially-charged language]
The… Murder… and Resurrection of Ruben Salazar by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department… Savage Polarization & the Making of a Martyr… Bad News for the Mexican-American… Worse News for the Pig… And Now the New Chicano… Riding a Grim New Wave… The Rise of the Batos Locos… Brown Power and a Fistful of Reds… Rude Politics in the Barrio… Which Side Are You On… Brother?… There Is No More Middleground… No Place to Hide on Whittier Boulevard… No Refuge from the Helicopters… No Hope in the Courts… No Peace with the Man… No Leverage Anywhere… and No Light at the End of This Tunnel… Nada…
Morning comes hard to the Hotel Ashmun; this is not a place where the guests spring eagerly out of bed to greet the fresh new day. But on this particular morning everybody in the place is awake at the crack of dawn: There is a terrible pounding and shrieking in the hallway, near room No. 267. Some junkie has ripped the doorknob off the communal bathroom, and now the others can’t get in — so they are trying to kick the door down. The voice of the manager wavers hysterically above the din: “Come on now, fellas — do I have to call the sheriff?” The reply comes hard and fast: “You filthy gabacho pig! You call the fuckin sheriff and I’ll cut your fuckin throat.” And now the sound of wood cracking, more screaming, the sound of running feet outside my door, No. 267. The door is locked, thank Christ — but how can you say for sure in a place like the Hotel Ashmun?