Michael Fanone is like me in many ways, I'm pretty quiet most of the time, just doing my job routinely... until, like with Fanone, he not only experiences trauma; but sees what it has done to those who are willing to lie--thus, in essence, calling "him" a liar...
He was especially shocked when he discovered that the FOP, the police union, was apparently so involved with the MAGA life, that they did not even attempt to act on his behalf, at any point of during the January 6th insurrection, nor afterward. He was a 20-year member by that time--but that didn't matter because the group as a whole had been radicalized...
Of course, for me, my trauma was of a different nature--it wasn't dramatic with an explosive event. Rather it was an insidious level of "indifference" (a word that Fanone used related to not only the police union, but also the congressional and other government staff who at first had been affected by the insurrection, but then calmly and routinely began to lie, and use disinformation to attempt to change history of one of the most insidious events in America! Guess What?! It "ain't" working! We ALL saw and know what happened. Whether you choose to deny it, tells the rest of America, just who and what you are... and some are domestic terrorists...
I'll be writing a parallel article on my move from an active member of the university community into an isolation that set me apart. The key thing for me, was that I had sufficient years in and was able to just retire...watch for it, if interested...especially if you are a woman...
I hope you all will read this book. Of all the books I've read related to the chaos happening, even now, I consider this my only recommendation as a must-read... As mentioned yesterday, Michael is one of us, the have-nots, who routinely have worked their whole lives to do the best they can with what they have been able to use. Thus, when a brother or sister citizen hurts, we feel it much more than even those who have first, chosen, Trump and then learned of his deception. I might have known what kind of man he was due to the books I've shared...but my response was never life-threatening. Another Michael, who was Trump's lawyer, comes closest to being significantly affected affected through his association with the past president than most.
So, in case, you can't afford to get this book, I wanted to at least share his words about that day...
A bearded man with a skull on his shirt took a swing at my head. The pole of a Blue Lives Matter flag crashed into my shoulder. It hurt like a motherfucker. A guy in a gray DON’T TREAD ON ME sweatshirt lunged at me, wild-eyed, arms flailing. My first fear was that I’d be trampled to death. I took more punches from every angle to my head and biceps. My forearms pinned, I was pulled and shoved and kicked. My next thought was that I would be torn limb from limb. A scene from Black Hawk Down flashed through my mind: the downed U.S. helicopter pilot in Mogadishu, getting dragged, dead and half-naked, through a mob of celebrating Somalis. I felt hands grabbing at my gear. Rioters ripped off my badge and took my radio. They tugged at my spare ammunition clip. I caught a glimpse of a hand on the butt of my gun and pushed it away. I tried to fling my elbows to create some space, but there were too many hands holding me back. A man with a head wound came at me, teeth bared, blood streaming down his face. I recognized that lethal look in his eyes; he was jacked up, probably on testosterone, steroids, or some other ball-shrinking drug.
I managed to right myself, and realized I was now about fifty feet from the tunnel entrance. Fuck, I was being pushed in the wrong direction. My path was blocked by a very large dude, maybe six foot five. He wore dark sunglasses, a black helmet, and an olive military vest with a patch for the Three Percenters, an anti-government militia whose philosophy includes the belief that a small armed force can overthrow a tyrannical government. On his left upper arm, he had a QAnon patch. I tried to push past a gray-bearded man in a TEAM TRUMP cowboy hat, but someone held me back. A white-bearded man grabbed my right hand with both of his hands and tried to yank my fingers apart. It was then that I felt an insane fucking jolt of pain on my neck, near the base of my skull. My limbs shuddered and I howled in agony. Someone had a fucking taser. They were electrocuting me. I felt another hot poke on my neck and another debilitating surge through my body. My legs buckled, but I didn’t fall. I shrieked like a wounded animal. I whirled and came face-to-face with a disheveled maniac with long, red stringy hair and an overgrown goatee.
Someone bellowed, “Kill him with his own gun!” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Getting shot with your own weapon is every cop’s nightmare. Decades of training, street experience, and undercover improvisation kicked in. Amid the chaos, it’s amazing how time slowed even further. I forced myself not to panic. I began thinking slowly, deliberately: I’ve been threatened enough to use deadly force. I have a gun—a Glock 19 with fifteen shots. But can I even get the gun out of my holster? And if I pull my weapon, what will happen next? These people are all already fucking outraged. No doubt, more than a few of them are armed. Why pull my gun and give them a reason to kill me?
I moved to Plan B, psychology. I thought, What’s the best way to de-escalate the situation? I appealed to the crowd’s humanity. “I’ve got kids!” I screamed. “I’ve got kids!” I said this consciously and deliberately. I would have said it even if I didn’t have kids. In truth, I wasn’t thinking about my daughters. At that moment, I was only thinking about survival. It worked.
I have no memory of what followed, but various videos, including my body-worn camera, recorded the next few minutes: A small group of rioters pushed their way toward me, and someone shouted, “Don’t hurt him!” Another screamed, “We’re better than this!”
The mob started shoving me back toward the tunnel. Disoriented and in shock, I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. I slipped and someone gripped me under the arms. “Hold on,” the guy said. “I got you!” He was met with anger. “What the fuck are you doing?” “You can’t let him through!” Saner voices prevailed. “Let him through! Let him through!” “Make way! Make way!” They pushed my limp body up the stairs. “Bring him up!” “I got ya.” “Don’t hurt him.” A voice said, “You’re safe,” and asked me which way I wanted to go. “Back inside,” I said. Thankfully, the rioters did not take my body-worn camera, and it continued to record.
At the tunnel entrance, I collapsed and lost consciousness. “Officer down!”
I lay sprawled among debris from the riot, the rocks, poles, and police shields. One cop grabbed my feet and another lifted me under the arms. They carried me back through the tunnel, through the phalanx of officers guarding the Capitol. “Make way!” They laid me flat on my back. “We need a medic! We need EMT now!” “Take his helmet off.” “Need a medic!”
Someone put in a radio call for help. “Need an ambulance, code blue.” A cop leaned over me, presumably to begin CPR, but Jimmy appeared and pushed him away. “I got it,” Jimmy said. “It’s my partner.” Four guys lifted me up by my limbs and carried me deeper inside the Capitol. “Mike, stay in there, buddy,” my partner said. “Mike, it’s Jimmy, I’m here.” After a few steps, Jimmy said, “Hey, take his fucking vest off. He’s having trouble breathing. Hold on.” They laid me on a carpeted floor. “Mike?” Jimmy said. “Mike, I’m here for you, buddy. C’mon dude.” Other officers joined in, trying to bring me back to consciousness. “Fanone? Fanone?” “Fanone, what’s up, brother?”
I stirred. I was on my back, looking straight into a harsh ceiling light in one of the Capitol’s labyrinth passageways. Officers in helmets and gas masks hovered, studying my face. They looked like aliens in some kind of sci-fi movie. Hazy smoke lingered. My eyes stung. Jimmy returned into view, maskless. “C’mon, Mike. C’mon, buddy. We’re going duck hunting soon.”
I snapped back to full consciousness. “Did we take that door back?” “Yes, we did,” Jimmy said. “We took that fucking door back and they’re all outside. I’ve got your gun, buddy.” I rolled onto my left side and let out a roar.
“My Neck Hurts So Bad” In the makeshift triage area about fifty feet inside the tunnel, Jimmy pulled me up to a sitting position. “Alright, Mike,” Jimmy said. “We’re about to go for a ride. C’mon, man.” On the body-cam footage, you can hear me huffing and puffing, breathing like Darth Vader. Someone rolled up a cart, a metal dolly for moving heavy shit. Fuck no, I thought. “I’ll walk,” I said, foolishly. “Help me up.”
Officers helped me stand and I immediately realized I was in bad shape. I didn’t feel physical pain, as the adrenaline was still flooding through my body. But when I tried to walk, my equilibrium felt off, and once more I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Jimmy and another guy helped me shuffle forward as we followed a Capitol officer who led us...
No matter how many times I read this part, I develop tears in my eyes... Thankfully, some of those outside were not out to kill, and when Mike screamed out that he had kids, some part of those few got some of their senses back and worked to move Mike out of any further danger.
But, like me, he needed to know WHY... And he knew that it was just beginning for him, and others...
Watch for Part III
God Bless
Gabbie
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