A Life of Observing, or How the Goon Squad Got Me to Quit Smoking

An ACLU legal observer reflects on how years of Portland protests changed him.

Editor's Note: On March 9, a federal judge in Oregon granted an injunction that prevents federal officers from indiscriminately using tear gas and other weapons against crowds of Portland protesters, after months of demonstrations outside the city's U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement resulted in violent crackdowns. That type of violence is not new in the city, however. This week, The Western Edge is publishing the account of ACLU legal observer James Mapes, who has been on the frontlines of some of the most significant moments of protest in recent years.

The author prepares to observe a protest. (Joe Preston illustration)

I am 13. My best friend’s father, who had just attended the WTO protests in Seattle, shows us the pockmark on his chest from a rubber bullet. I can’t compute why the police would shoot him. He’s a middle-aged dad, an environmental lawyer. I assume there was some kind of mix-up.

I am 17. I volunteer to help guide a march of fellow students through downtown Portland as we protest funding cuts. I am hoping to impress one of the organizers, who is a cute girl. The power of the march as it cuts through blockaded streets is intoxicating.

I am 29. I put my 18-month-old child on my shoulders to march along with the Women’s March on Inauguration Day, 2017. The crowd fills Portland’s Waterfront Park. My heart swells at the thought that we will not stay quiet, no matter what is coming.

I am 32 years old. I attend my first Black Lives Matter protest as a volunteer with the American Civil Liberties Union of Oregon. I wear a cloth mask because no one outside of a hospital can get medical-grade ones. It is Juneteenth 2020. My supervisor gives me a thin, blue vest of plastic mesh with the words “ACLU LEGAL OBSERVER” on it. Legal observers are a neutral party, and I am tasked with taking video and notes on everything that happens. There needs to be a record that goes beyond police reports.

I am 32. The Portland Police have just been court-ordered from interfering with media and Legal Observers; tonight is the first test. When the police form a riot line and sweep toward us, it is a terrifying display of force, but we stand to one side, separated from the protesters, and let the riot line pass. It feels strange to be so isolated from the action. We follow the police several blocks toward the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. There’s a stand-off, then when the police finally leave, they plink the crowd with rubber bullets from their van as they pull away. A protester shows me the red, angry welts on their stomach. I capture their testimony on camera and archive it with the ACLU.

I am 32. I have cobbled together protective gear out of woodworking safety goggles and my uncle-in-law’s paint respirator. Trump has swollen the ranks of the Federal Protective Service, and its agents seem to have endless supplies of tear gas. The first time the gas hits me, it immediately comes in through the vents in my goggles. I stumble, crying, back out of the crowd, and rinse my eyes with water. Nearby, a protester keeps up a chant urging people to go back into the gas to show them “we aren’t scared.”

I am 32 and I’m standing in a park across from the federal courthouse, next to a tent called Riot Ribs that serves food to the protesters. Their food is heavy on the spice, which is a joke about tear gas. It’s July 24, 2020, and I am wearing a blue helmet, the color that evokes NATO peacekeepers. It has a large “ACLU OF OREGON LEGAL OBSERVER” sticker on it. I am standing far back from the crowd when I am hit on the side of the head with what feels like a hammer. In reality, a less-lethal marking round has grazed the area between my helmet and my ear. It coats the side of my head and the inside of my helmet with fluorescent pink dust. According to other Legal Observers, federal agents use these rounds to identify repeat riot offenders. I am dazed, but not concussed.

I am 32. I am writing a report about getting shot in the head. I mark up a map of the courthouse and the park, and as I do, I imagine the federal sniper who decided they could squeeze a shot off at a Legal Observer standing in the back and not suffer any consequences. It makes me furious that they are right.

I am 33. I am seeing my kid’s elementary school for the first time. It is directly next door to the U.S. Immigrations and Customs Enforcement building in the South Waterfront, a regular site for protests. At night, the school’s playground is wreathed in clouds of white smoke.

I am 33. I decide to join the other Legal Observers on their cigarette break. When I pull off my new, full-face respirator, I feel the stinging tear gas still hanging in the air. We laugh about how I mistook it for harmless smoke. I love my new respirator. It feels good to breathe. I take a drag from my cigarette.

I am 33. I am sitting outside my house. ACLU Legal Observers are at a protest across town, and I see a plane circling in the distance, over and over, and think it probably belongs to the police department. It makes me furious. I feel like I am letting everyone down when I’m not there to watch. But my child is asleep inside and I can’t go to a protest. I have a cigarette and watch the plane.

I am 33. I am home, still awake, reading that my supervisor is being arrested at a police station. In the process of arresting her, they sprain her wrist as they’re yanking her arms behind her back. They also choke-slam her partner, a law student, to the ground. After this, her partner stops going to protests. It feels like they’ve been planning this, like they’re trying to scare us, keep us from keeping watch. It works.

I am 33. I am researching body armor. My friend tells me to get a $300 vest that might stop a bullet from a handgun. I can’t afford it, so I continue to wear a padded vest made for paintballing.

I am 33. I am helping to train new Legal Observers. We have a high burn-out rate but I have stuck around long enough to have a little bit of seniority. Sometimes people ask my opinion about the program. I’m never sure how to answer, except that I know it’s important to keep watching.

Department of Homeland Security officers stand in a cloud of tear gas outside the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement building in Portland, Oregon. (Sergio Olmos photo)

I am 34. It is Feb. 19, 2022, and I’m walking along the side of Normandale Park, in Northeast Portland. I am trailing behind a protest over the 2018 shooting of Patrick Kimmons in Portland and the 2022 shooting of Amir Locke in Minneapolis. As the rally prepares to start marching toward a police precinct building, we hear pops from the west end of the park. I think they’re fireworks. They are gunshots.

I am 34. In the weeks following the Normandale Park shooting, the ACLU of Oregon tells me that they are putting the Legal Observer program on hiatus. They are worried that they cannot protect us. I am upset: If there is violence, who will be there to observe, to witness? After this, I stop attending protests as an observer. There are no more calls from the ACLU of Oregon. I put my vest and gear away in my basement.

I am 34. I am sitting outside my house. My child is asleep. I am smoking one of the last stale cigarettes in the pack I’d been taking to protests. I have always loved smoking, but this cigarette makes me feel furious, and scared, and anxious. I watch planes fly overhead. I am crying. I realize I need help.

I am 34. I am buying cigarettes. My smoking started again when I went out to protests, but I set rules for myself. I got three cigarettes per night: the first when I arrived, as an incentive for getting out of the house. The second was for surviving something intense. The third was to wind down before going home. At least twice, I was halfway through that third cigarette when another unexpected, intense thing happened, which meant I could bum a fourth cigarette to wind down again later (and so on).

Now, though, I smoke late at night at home, or outside bars, but nothing about it is enjoyable or relaxing. Smoking makes me feel like my insides are closing up. Each cigarette transports me back to the protests, like a chemically-induced flashback, watching and waiting for the worst to happen. By continuing to smoke, I’ve given trauma a cheat-code to get into my brain.

I am 35 and I create an arrangement with a friend. I will meet him at a bar to smoke and talk about what I experienced at the protests. I smoke cigarettes, he smokes cigars. I tell him what I saw, how and when I was hurt, how angry I still am. Changing how and when I have cigarettes helps. So does talking.

I am 36. My child is at school, about to finish third grade. I’m sitting at my cluttered desk in my basement, trying to write this essay about being a Legal Observer. I cannot think of a title. In the cabinet to my left is a cardboard box containing all the things I needed quick access to when I went out to protests. My blue ACLU vest is in the box, still attached to my backpack, on top of my respirator and helmet. This vest and this essay are both important to me but I am having a hard time choosing the correct words to explain why. The only things I can write are lists of events, the same way I wrote notes while I was observing. I remember the first time I saw a welt from a rubber bullet when I was 13.

I am 36 and standing with my partner in the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art’s gallery, viewing an exhibit of artifacts, interviews and art about Portland’s 2020 BLM protests. They have digitally reconstructed the events of the Normandale Park Shooting, including footage from a volunteer’s helmet-mounted camera. There is video of Benjamin Smith, a man who lived nearby, who heard the protest and came out of his house, confronted the march volunteers and then shot several of them with a pistol. A 60-year-old volunteer who went by the name T-Rex was killed, another called Deg was paralyzed, and later died, and others were terribly hurt. I am crying. I cannot watch the footage. I excuse myself and wait for my partner outside. She hugs me for a long time.

I am 36. My helmet still has traces of pink from where the marking round snuck underneath its rim. I am putting on my full-face 3M respirator, size L, with organic vapor / particulate filters. Hair in a ponytail, mask on over the head, tighten the top straps loosely, tighten the bottom straps all the way, tighten the top straps until it pinches your skull. Cover the filter inlets with your hands and take a deep breath. You should feel the rubber seal all around the mask pulling at your face. A little stubble is helpful, but too much facial hair makes a poor fit. I go to the backyard and shake out an old rug, then return my mask to the cardboard box. I think about the banality of using a mask for simple dust protection.

I am 36. Voters oust Portland’s progressive district attorney, Mike Schmidt. They’ve elected a guy whose Facebook ads show him at the firing range. The new guy has promised to be tough on crime and clean up this city like some kind of Gotham. The 2024 presidential election is less than six months away, and it seems possible Trump could be re-elected. I am furious because it feels like the protests accomplished nothing. I do not think the ACLU of Oregon will allow any of us to put our vests on again.

I am 36. I have decided I have to quit smoking because I want to have cigarettes all the time.

I am 37. It is Election Night, 2024. The governor pre-emptively mobilizes the National Guard to prevent damage in Downtown Portland. There are only a few protests. I don’t even consider going out, vest or not. It feels like people have nothing left to say tonight.

I am 37. Protests are growing at the ICE Headquarters in Portland, which is also next door to a Tesla dealership, which is also next door to the school where my kid is now in fourth grade. I am waiting for school to let out at the end of the day and watching the activists stockpile water and make signs. When one of them comes up to talk to me, I realize that I’ve been watching too closely and probably look suspicious. I tell them I was an ACLU Legal Observer for years. I don’t think they believe me. I tuck the KNOW YOUR RIGHTS card they give me into my wallet.

I am 37. Protests at the ICE building continue to grow after Los Angeles, the deportations to El Salvador, the increased raids across the country. My child’s playground is saturated with tear gas and is no longer safe to play on. Less than a month before school starts, the teachers pack everything up and move the school to a different building, a mile away. The teachers and parents have been honest with the children, and they’ve seen the protests. They understand why they need to move.

I am 37. I attend a No More Kings rally downtown. My Legal Observer vest is still at home in its cardboard box. Before the march, some people I know ask if I have any advice about whether it’s safe to participate. I tell them to go. We show up, mill around, then march – along the river and across one of the bridges, where traffic comes to a standstill and stranded drivers emerge from their cars, raising their fists in solidarity. “It’s important to be seen,” the protestors around me say.

I am 37. I haven’t had a cigarette in over a year.

I am 37. Trump deploys the National Guard to Washington, DC. He threatens to send troops to Portland to quell a non-existent insurrection. The protests grow. From my house, I can see a plane circling above the building that used to be my child’s school.

I am 37. I am still writing this essay. My fury and despair are an open pit in my chest, an abyss that I fall into when I try to write the details of the time I spent as a Legal Observer. Tears still leak out when I ask myself why I did it, why I decided to go watch, night after night. I went because it is important to keep watching.

I turn 38. In Minneapolis, people opposed to ICE are shot and killed. In Portland, children are gassed during a daytime protest. Muscled men from an alphabet soup of federal agencies tackle anyone they think is standing too close to the ICE building. Night after night, the apartments, restaurants and businesses, and schools nearby are inundated with clouds of tear gas.

I am 38.

A friend asks if I would ever go back out as an ACLU Legal Observer, if I were asked.

Of course I say yes.