Oregon — Last night, unbeknownst to me, one of the two opening acts for the headliner I’d bought tickets to see in Eugene, Oregon, was Los Mal Hablados — a ska band led by Eric Molina.
They hit the stage with horns blazing, and by the end of the first song, Molina proudly proclaimed, “We are a Latin Anti-Fascist Ska Band!”
What followed was less a musical set and more a political rally with a backbeat. He told stories about being harassed by law enforcement, bragged about winning a lawsuit that funded their album, and half-joked that if ICE tried to deport him, he’d sue them again — “and buy a new tour bus.” Then came the inevitable punchline: he called Trump a “Cheeto” and told the crowd that if any conservatives were present, they should “look around and think twice about disagreeing.”
Cue the roar of approval.
The Moment I Realized I Was the Minority
I’ve been to more live shows than I can count — from garage gigs to stadium tours — and I’ve never once felt unsafe because of my politics. But for the first time, in that dark, shoulder-to-shoulder sea of cheering fans, I felt it: the uneasy awareness that my viewpoint wasn’t just unwelcome — it might actually be dangerous.
I didn’t clap. I didn’t boo. I didn’t roll my eyes or make a scene.
I just stood there — hands in my pockets — and let the music fill the air while the rhetoric filled the room.
I wasn’t about to ruin my night or risk turning it into a spectacle. The friends I was with don’t share my views, and it wasn’t the time to exercise my First Amendment right just to prove I could. My silent protest was enough. For a few uncomfortable seconds, I was a ghost in the machine — the lone conservative in a mob that fancied itself “tolerant.”
The Irony of Inclusion
Here’s the irony that struck me: I was standing in a crowd that proudly waved the banner of anti-fascism — a movement supposedly built on inclusivity and resistance to oppression — yet I knew, without a shred of doubt, that if I’d voiced my perspective, I’d have been shouted down, maybe even physically threatened.
The so-called “anti-fascists” have become the very thing they claim to despise.
Their inclusivity ends where disagreement begins.
They preach equality but practice exclusion.
They chant for freedom but demand conformity.
And while I stood there, quietly processing the absurdity of it all, my friends and colleagues — the same people fighting for reason and accountability — were up in Portland, live-streaming outside the ICE building as Antifa rioters clashed with police.
I was in the heart of the performance; they were on the front lines of the chaos.
Freedom and Its Fragile Edges
When the headliner finally came on, the energy shifted. The hostility gave way to the joy I came for — the music, the rhythm, the familiar pulse of community. It was, without question, one of the best live shows I’ve attended.
But it left me thinking: this is the America we’re living in.
An America where you can stand next to someone who preaches “unity” and know that your silence is the only thing keeping that peace.
An America where your First Amendment rights come with fine print — “so long as you agree.”
And yet, even in that irony, there’s something worth holding onto.
The fact that I could stand there, that I could disagree silently, that I could leave that show with my beliefs intact — that’s still freedom. Fragile, maybe. Imperfect, definitely. But real.
The Lesson in the Noise
In the end, the band I came to see blew the roof off the place, and the night turned into one I’ll never forget. I learned something valuable in that crowd — not just about others, but about myself.
Freedom of speech isn’t just about the right to shout. Sometimes, it’s about the courage to stay silent when the mob demands your submission.
I’ll keep showing up.
I’ll keep listening — even when I’m surrounded by those who’d rather silence me.
Because that’s what real diversity looks like.
And that’s the America worth defending.
Author’s Note: The names, quotes, and accounts are as witnessed firsthand at a live performance in Eugene, Oregon. The reflections are my own, drawn from one night’s strange intersection of music, politics, and freedom. I typically use links, and references, but naming the band, was as much promotion that I care to offer, and while I don’t agree with majority the views of Eric Molina but I do agree with something he posted, and I will defend even Anfifa’s 1st amendment rights.
“Racism is not a political standpoint. It is not an opinion. Anybody who believes certain humans are lesser because of skin pigment does not belong in our society. Speak out against it and do not allow it.” @ericmolinasax
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