Arrested at an ICE protest, I beat the charges and carry on the fight

The air was thick with toxic smoke when I finally yanked the tear-gas canister free.

The fuming chemical weapon tossed by federal agents had lodged under a man’s wheelchair as he faced off with a line of armed officers. I stepped to the side and placed the noxious device away from the crowd and harm’s way. 

As I slowly backed away with my hands in the air, an officer grabbed me from behind and another tackled me to the ground. I felt as if my arm was going to break as they pinned it behind my back. 

They restrained me, put me in a car, and drove off toward the giant greenhouse operated by Glass House – which had unexpectedly become a “litmus test” for the violence that has come to define Trump’s immigration-enforcement campaign.

My side was throbbing. I was covered in cuts and bruises. My wrists and ankles were swollen. Outside Glass House, an emergency medical technician asked me if I needed to go to a hospital. I said yes, but a federal officer denied my request. 

Later that day, I was put into the back of a vehicle, and we followed a convoy of cars. Protesters began to throw rocks at the car and one shattered the passenger-side window. As I watched the cloud of dust kick up from the cars, I began to dissociate.  

It was just a normal day, until I went into ‘rapid response’

It was a sunny Thursday. I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning and dinner plans with some colleagues before my flight to Arizona the next day to visit family. 

As I walked out of the dermatologist’s office, I checked my phone to see a string of text messages notifying the community of an immigration raid at Glass House’s Camarillo growing facility, located just a few minutes away from CSU Channel Islands. 

I hopped into my gray sedan and picked up a student with whom I had worked in previous organizing efforts. We patrolled around the university for a bit before making our way toward Glass House. 

When we arrived at the 160-acre farm, only a handful of community members and protesters were assembled on the road surrounded by fields. But their numbers grew quickly, and some of the officers began deploying tear gas against the crowd.   

That was the first time I experienced tear gas. The thing I remembered most was the inability to breathe. 

I was astounded at the indiscriminate use of tear gas on community members and began to kick some canisters into the fields or throw them away from the crowd. 

I threw a can clear over a group of federal officers — as body camera footage would prove later — and an agent bodyslammed me to the ground. I backed away as three more officers launched tear gas canisters toward the crowd. Another agent pointed at me and yelled, “When that guy comes back, he’s fucked. We’re taking him.”

My ankle was injured and throbbing and the side of my body was really sore. But I remained on the scene, distributing masks and tending to injured community members. I was helping to move a truck out of the road when I saw the line of officers brandishing their wooden batons in front of a guy in a wheelchair. 

When the officers ignored my pleas for help to remove the leaking canister from under the man’s chair, I jumped out of the truck, walked over, and dislodged the can. 

They said ‘we’re taking him’ – and they did 

After I was detained, they brought me to Point Mugu, a naval base in Ventura County where I was fingerprinted, photographed, and questioned. 

Homeland Security agents told me I had been arrested, but they were unsure of the exact charges. They asked me some questions before another agent drove me to the Metropolitan Detention Center in downtown Los Angeles. 

At the detention center, officers sorted belongings into evidence bags, and I changed into a jumpsuit. 

One of the officers dug his fingers into my shoulder and asked, “You know they’re using you right? How much are you getting paid for this?” They mistakenly believe that protesters against Trump’s immigration crackdown only do what they do because they are paid. 

I was put into a cell with George Retes, the U.S. citizen and 25-year-old disabled veteran who worked at Glass House as a security guard. He was detained after ICE agents broke his car window and pepper sprayed him. His story was among those about the raid that went viral.

George’s skin was burning from the tear gas and pepper spray, so he spent the night dipping his hands into a sandwich bag full of water. 

I wrote about my experiences at the Metropolitan Detention Center in a Substack article after I was released. I described the days I spent without a phone call, access to a lawyer, or a clear understanding of my charges. I also documented the humanity of fellow inmates who gave me a change of clothes and hygiene items after guards refused to provide them. 

Four days after I was first arrested, I walked out of the detention center with an ankle monitor and a slew of travel restrictions. A cheering crowd of supporters greeted me.

I rejected their attempts to get me to plead guilty

I did not know it at the time, but my friends and family could not find me until Saturday morning because the Metropolitan Detention Center had not updated its system. They had no idea where I was.

I am active in the Ventura County Tenants Union, and they organized efforts to locate me and worked to publicize my disappearance. The union pushed state and local representatives to sign a letter demanding my release. And once they tracked me down, a crowd of friends and supporters gathered outside the detention center with signs and chants. 

The union also worked alongside my brother to find a reputable lawyer and formed a vital support group for me throughout the trial. I was also helped greatly by the California Faculty Association, which represents thousands of university employees state-wide. 

I was initially charged with misdemeanor assault of a federal officer for allegedly throwing a canister of tear gas at an officer — despite clear video evidence proving otherwise. The prosecution offered me a deal to plead guilty to the misdemeanor assault charge. They noted that if I rejected the deal, they would pursue a felony charge that could result in a 20-year sentence in prison. 

I rejected the deal. 

After being released on bond, I was smoking a cigarette in the backyard of my house when I received two text messages from acquaintances asking if I was OK. Confused, I learned I had been indicted on a charge of assault on a federal officer using a deadly or dangerous weapon, a felony.

I felt as if I were under water. I felt far away, spinning. Even though I knew felony charges were a possibility, finding myself in the worst-case scenario felt like the end of the world. 

I continued to teach full-time – my classes and students were a welcome escape as I awaited trial, which was scheduled for April 2026. 

In the meantime, I made sure my ankle monitor was visible when I walked into classrooms and around campus. I wanted people to see the ugliness. 

It didn’t take long for the jury to see the truth

The trial itself only lasted three days: one for jury selection and two days of statements, evidence, and witnesses and jury deliberations. 

I was shocked at how poorly put together the prosecutors’ arguments were. I had written my dissertation on argumentation, and it was clear that their arguments were flawed and unconvincing. They could not even identify a victim, instead referring to nameless “federal officers.”

The jury returned with a not-guilty verdict after less than two hours of deliberation. 

I felt a waterfall of emotions alongside a sense of righteous indignation as the judge confirmed the jurors’ decisions one by one, with each echoing the not-guilty verdict.

I felt a wave of relief, but the trauma remains

When I was first acquitted, I felt triumphant and a sweeping wave of relief. 

But I don’t have that sense of relief anymore. I don’t feel free. The trauma of the lengthy and emotionally and psychologically taxing experience has stayed with me.

Throughout the case, people told me to keep my head down. My lawyer made it clear that anything I said or did before trial could hurt me. So I stopped patrolling, refrained from interviews or public speaking events, and self-censored elements of my experience in my Substack article. 

However, my supporters recognized my passion for advocacy and helped me plan interviews, speeches, and rallies leading up to the trial. They helped me express my beliefs while mitigating the legal risks. 

My experiences have strengthened my resolve and highlighted the ability to create power while staying safe from legal prosecution. But it would be a lie to say what I’ve been through doesn’t affect me today. I have not participated in rapid-response work since my arrest. 

Still, I continue to go to protests. I recently sat in on volunteer training with 805Undocufund, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting immigrant communities. I remain active in the tenants union and the faculty association. 

There is so much more to do and I have no plans of stopping.

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