On the International Day of the Worker (May Day) I joined more than 12,000 people to march in San Jose to commemorate resistance against racist immigration reform. It seemed that people did not just come out to march as workers -- they came out as families, immigrants, youths, students and as people who just believe in San Jo.

I did my usual pre-march routine to get ready for the big event. Between texting my friends for a meet up spot and finding a ride to the march I realized that this was the first march that I had attended this year. This was a stark difference to the height of the anti-war movement when marches were part of my weekly routine. I laced up my kicks and threw on my white shirt not knowing what to expect since the march was officially announced only two weeks ago.

I piled with a bunch of friends into a Toyota – tall people in the front seats, little in the back and short people laying across. Two blocks from King and Story road, lines of high school and middle school students and families pushing baby carts filled the sidewalks. Marchers wore white t's (shirts) as a sign of solidarity and collective power, perhaps even humility. Some youngsters stuck to their street code and sported Raiders and Niners' jerseys with some hints of what is left of the hyphy movement. There was no main group to march with; instead there were pockets of friends. The march started at King and Story with a humble swell of marchers.

The threat of a cowardly ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) raid didn't stop people from being vocal. To me, people were more vocal than ever -- not in the way of shouts at a protest, but more in the way of work place conversations when the boss isn't around. "This is my kid, it's her first time to something like this," a woman told me. Her little daughter was oblivious to my presence. The young girl was holding her fist in the air and making sure that her little lungs kept her "SI SE PUEDE!" from drowning in the crowd.

We crossed the 680 underpass when someone turned to the left and said, "look over there." We were marching past the back end of a preschool where the little ones where pressing against a wired fence and waving. They were yelling in hopes of catching the rhythms of the marchers' chants. In and out their voices would fade. Each time they harmonized with the crowd, excitement would overcome them and their chanting would bloom into a flurry of yells and cheers. I snapped a few pictures, waved and moved with the crowd.

I weaved back and forth across the crowd passing familiar faces along the way. The corner of King and Alum Rock Ave marked the transition where East Side blends slowly into downtown. Then the peaks of San Jose's dwarfed high rises poked through the crest of the 101 over pass. This was the last stretch, I could see that the number of marchers had swelled at least three fold.

A few homies on the opposite side of the street walked parallel to the march but in their own hurried pace. A sparkle would glisten from time to time from their hands and waists as they shyly nodded in approval to the crowd.

One-person yelled "viva trabajadero!" He looked around to see workers all around him but they were all too scattered across the crowd to join in on the chant. It was obvious that this day was special to him for that reason, a sentiment that I shared with him but did not know how express. That day I reunited with an old friend, a friend that the dramas of life had separated me from. It was the day that San Jo put its' arm around me and reminded me that we had grown, and more growing was left within us.