Then I see Piolín

I move clandestine with my camera through the vast crowd, click, click, click. I get on the media risers — click. I make my way down and look for interesting angles and people… click. Drums, chanting, praying, the anthem Sí se puede, and a tint of humidity in the air, I’m sweating now. The images are colorful and alive. I’m on my knees, up high, down low and all over — yup, this is another shooting assignment, but with my emotions attached to every click.
This is personal. I’m a immigrant covering immigration. I somehow manage to keep it together— until I see Piolín.
For those who don’t know who he is, he is a syndicated radio host. At the rally, he was the last speaker...

…But back home Piolín is also the one my father and I would listen to every morning.

When he came down from the stage, I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was a fan I turned off my camera. “Piolín, can you send a shout-out to my father? He listens to you every morning from Phoenix.” He did.
I ran home, called my dad and played the greeting to him. I could tell from his voice he was exited.
On my day at the rally, I can still be a fan

Link to pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2475028&id=3436036&l=c3f225fd70