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I’ve been thinking a lot about two men with similar stories who became very different people: one of them, JD Vance, you know. Grew up in small town Ohio. Didn’t have much money or direction. Enlisted in the military. Deployed to Iraq. Came home and went back to school. Got married and had a few kids. And then he was off – wrote a book about his life that catapulted him to national fame, got a lucrative job at a venture capital firm, ran for Senate, and was ultimately chosen as Vice President, where his portfolio apparently includes owning the libs and calling me a dipshit on Twitter.
The other young man you may not know. His name is George Retes, he’s 25, and he was born and raised in Ventura, California, about an hour north of LA. Like JD, George didn’t have much money or direction. He too enlisted in the military. He was also deployed to Iraq, and when he came home, he also went back to school, got married, and had a few kids. George’s career didn’t take off quite as fast as JD’s, but he eventually found steady work at a security company.
In July, George was driving to a job in Camarillo, where his firm had been contracted to do security for a licensed cannabis farm. When he got close, he saw a bunch of federal agents blocking the road. ICE was there to raid the farm and deal with a group of protesters who showed up.
George just wanted to get to work, so he got out of his car to tell the agents who he was. They told him to get the fuck out of there – that he wouldn’t be going to work that day. So George got back in his car. Then the agents surrounded him. They started screaming at him. Banging on his car. Then they tear gassed the protesters.
George was stuck in his car. Coughing. Eyes watering. Couldn’t see. Then agents came back and started screaming at him again. Some told him to leave. Some told him to get out of the car. Then they shattered his window. Pepper sprayed him directly in the face. Dragged him out of the car. Threw him on the ground. Pinned him down - one agent with a knee on his back, one with a knee on his neck. George told them he couldn’t breathe. They didn’t care. He told them he was a citizen and that his ID was in the car. They didn’t care.
George was arrested and put in jail. He wasn’t read his rights. He wasn’t allowed to call his family. He wasn’t allowed to call a lawyer. He wasn’t allowed to shower even though he kept telling them his skin was burning from the chemicals that were sprayed in his face and all over his hands. They put him in solitary confinement. No windows. Lights on the entire time. He was there, by himself, all Thursday night. All day Friday and Friday night. All day Saturday and Saturday night. And finally, on Sunday, he was released. No charges. No explanation. No apology. George had missed his 3 year old’s birthday. His family had no idea where he was. And he spent all those hours alone in a cell not knowing if he’d ever see them again.
You might think that after this experience, George would feel nothing but rage towards his government, or even his country – the country he volunteered to serve and risk his life to defend…...

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