The Los Angeles Times had a gritty story this weekend about a Minuteman who’s camped out near Campo, but whose faith in the mission is beginning to wane.
“I own the night, brother,” says Max Kennedy, a lanky, sunburned man with a scraggly goatee and a voice like a fistful of desert gravel. In his 53 years, he says, he has driven a cab in Miami and ferried fur coats in New York, peddled marijuana and jewelry, played bass in a punk bank and marched with 1960s radicals. He has been a Gingrich Republican and a pagan, a seeker of meaning in the Kaballah and the sayings of Chairman Mao.
In his latest incarnation, he’s a Minuteman staking out a small stretch of the U.S.-Mexico border in the beautiful, inhospitable mountains of southeast San Diego County. Untethered to job or family, he’s one of three or four hard-core members who camp out here full time, trying to catch illegal immigrants as they cross.
The story is worth checking out just for the photographs from Don Bartletti.