This won’t remain as is; this will puff up
By Varela
According to the TV and some Miami media, I was duking it out with a mini-Muhammad Ali in the middle of the street when a policeman arrived (but didn’t see the boxer, just me, alone, doing some sparring).
The policeman invited me to be arrested (for shadow-boxing on the street, which is the same as jogging), which I – a very rebellious man – refused to do. Just the same, the officer clapped the handcuffs on me after sweating a little.
But (get this), because I shouted “I’m not going to the ground; I’m not going to the fucking ground!”, the authorities called it (after much debate among the policemen in the Redlands area of Miami) Resisting Arrest without Violence.
And they called my roll on the pavement, which resulted in a bruised face (my fault, of course), Resisting Arrest with Violence.
On top of that, the way I confronted the pugilist was described as Battery (mine, upon the pugilist.)
The judge had to laugh when reading the charges. He then threw out two of them and lowered the bond from $7,500 to $5,000. Resisting without Violence and Battery were dropped.
Here’s the version I swore to this morning (October 22) in jail, before the public defenders, paid by the State of Florida, who went there to visit me in my cell, especially because they didn’t swallow the official version and took pictures of my face and body, including my two bleeding knees.
So, this won’t stay as is.
This will puff up.
Maybe it will never end, because it’s called Police Brutality and Distortion of Reality…
…even though the pettifoggers at Cuba Repression ID are building another case about my violence and paranoia where they now include the kidnapping of children (and don’t force me to tell the whole truth. The whole truth would destroy and disappoint all of them but it hurts part of my family, so I must keep silent.)
First, a brief personal explanation: How to watch and care for my minor children while their mother is away is a topic that should strictly be discussed by us, the parents. No strangers should be involved. That, I cannot tolerate.
Second, on the subject of sports: If a fighter wants to take credit for a fight, he should stay in it to the end. Not run away.
And because I chased him for two blocks in a southerly direction and because the marathoner-boxer never stopped, I decided to return to the parking lot and confront his automobile, an impressive Audi a lot more static than him because it was parked.
I proceeded to pummel it on all sides, to see if its owner returned to defend its body paint.
Then came the police patrol car, which someone had called when the fracas began. The police officer – taller and heavier than me – shouted at me to drop to the ground.
The thing is, for me to drop to the ground, someone has to drop me, not order me to do it. All the more so considering the reputation of the local police.
I told him that. I told him I wasn’t dropping to the ground and stretched out my arms so he could handcuff me, but while I was standing (if he wanted to overwhelm me, he’d have to bring the rest of the department, clerks included. )
He almost did.
When the Miami mastodon tried to push me to the ground and I immediately refused, he grabbed the radio and called: “I need backup! I need backup!”
Because I was outside my children’s home and in a nice neighborhood, I decided to kneel on the ground and allow the policeman to handcuff me – but he came to push me again, in an abusive manner.
So I grabbed his legs and he lost his balance. But instead of falling on the street, he fell over me. And at that moment the reinforcements he requested arrived.
Right away, they slammed my face against the ground. They dropped their combined 700 pounds atop me and damaged my forehead and the side of my face. In the profile mugshot you can see the impression of the gravel. They also hit me on the ribs and the back.
I started to bleed profusely from the nose (fountain-like) and when they saw one policeman’s shirt covered in blood, they became alarmed and stood me up.
They sat me in a patrol car and – by order of a sergeant who arrived later – they put a bandage on my nose. The sergeant got scared and called for an ambulance to take me to a hospital.
Only after I was subdued by the police and tied to a stretcher in the ambulance I saw my “victim of battery” return to the scene. He’s a fight trainer (a modality of sports that’s very chic in Miami nowadays) and he told police that I had pounced on him and struck him in the jaw, splitting his lip.
But even the sergeant (who almost became my friend) laughed at that, whispering to me that such an admission does not speak highly of a steroid-inflated guy half my age.
However, when that same sergeant asked me who and how many had beaten me up that way, I told him I had fallen on the street.
Those are two very different philosophies of life.
But there is another, more sinister philosophy: the one held by the phonies and crooks who hide behind every legal technicality to appear legal and just, yet they’re not. The ones who twist and misreport everything. Even the way they refer to five of my brothers who are imprisoned here, separately, in holes, in a hostile environment, unjustly accused.
I’m not talking about myself or about the occasional boxer who comes and goes, or about the three cowboy cops who jumped me, but about the shysters who, justifying themselves as anti-Castro activists, live in the most sinful moral dishonesty, using everything at their disposal to combat an idea that confronts them on the Internet.
Unfortunately, they are the ones who are using and controlling part of my family, not protecting it.
In any case, we are all victims of this community, where, in addition to the opportunistic politics that debase us, we prostitute ourselves to greed and to the fear of losing a way of life that undermines the purest bases of humanity.
In the words of Hemingway, someone they neither understand nor assimilate, “A man can be destroyed, but not defeated.”
