The text messages, emails and tweets came almost immediately.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh my gawd."

"I don't know what side of this he is on, but it doesn't matter. He should not be bleeding."

There's a rule in journalism: You don't let yourself become a part of the story if you can help it. But on Aug. 4, a photograph taken by a fellow reporter in the midst of a police crackdown on dueling rallies in downtown Portland thrust me into the spotlight.

You probably saw the photo, blood streaming down my nose and on my arm as I clutched a handkerchief to my noggin. It certainly looks bad. But you know what?

It could have been worse.

Since November 2016, I've been dispatched time and again to cover protests for The Oregonian/OregonLive. Against Donald Trump. In support of Donald Trump.

Against police brutality. In support of "free speech."

I've picked up a few tricks.

I stay on the perimeter of the action. I keep in sight of a clear exit from the crowd. And I follow police orders to the best of my ability, a cautionary reminder editors impart when we meet to prepare for an event like this.

I did all of those things on Saturday.

Was just standing next to @Oregonian reporter @edercampuzano, he got hit with something and is bleeding. Medics helping him. Things are getting extremely intense, even for those of us standing back from the center of these groups pic.twitter.com/F4ID7Dj2Zp — Tyler Dumont (@TylerDumontNews) August 4, 2018

I repeated them to myself during my retreat from the fracas at Southwest First Avenue and Columbia Street as police fired flash bangs and smoke bombs at protesters and bottles and other projectiles were tossed at riot cops in return.

Moments after I began live-streaming the police response to yet another face-off between right-wing and anti-fascist demonstrators, blood was dripping from my head onto one of my favorite shirts and I was being escorted to The Oregonian newsroom.

WARNING: GRAPHIC LANGUAGE

Portland police clear out counter demonstrators as Patriot Prayer rallies on the waterfront. Posted by The Oregonian on Saturday, August 4, 2018

I didn't catch the name of the man who offered a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. Nor did I ask the self-proclaimed medic who replaced it with a gauze pad.

They asked me, though. I told them I'm Eder Campuzano. That I work for The Oregonian. That Donald Trump is the current president of the United States.

In return, I inquired why they were asking me such stupid questions.

"I'm just trying to make sure you don't have a concussion, man," one of them said.

I should have thanked them instead of cursing the fact that my 91-week streak of covering protests without getting hurt was kaput. I'm not the first reporter to sustain an injury in the field covering these things.

But I wasn't attacked, at least as far as I could tell.

I was narrating my broadcast when the object hit me. Cops in riot gear began firing flash bangs and other crowd dispersal munitions moments earlier.

As I reminded viewers why I was there, I glanced above my phone to see what looked like a half-empty plastic water bottle spinning my way. I figured it would sail above my head.

Instead, I felt a sharp pain above my right brow. I jostled the phone and tried to keep narrating. But another reporter, Tyler Dumont of KPTV, was tapping my shoulder.

"You're bleeding," he said.

I stopped the broadcast, but never felt I was in further danger. After nearly two years doing this, I like to think I have a sort of Spider-Sense for it.

I've overheard demonstrators talk about breaking my equipment and had others bark at me during interviews at previous protests. I've also faced agitated police officers in riot gear as I tried to get photos and video.

But on Saturday there were no cries of "fake news," no threats lobbed at me, nothing to indicate I should fear for my safety.

My head just happened to be the landing spot for a wayward projectile meant for someone -- or something -- else when I was standing on a barkdust-laden platform.

Even after a small group of reporters, protesters and onlookers descended on me to make sure I was all right, my focus was on making sure I was still fit for duty.

I reassured them that I was fine. Even later, when nurses asked me to rate the pain at its worst, on a scale of 1 to 10, I said it was a 6. Maybe. Closer to 5, actually.

The pain subsided an hour after I arrived home. I just hoped that photo of my bloodied face wouldn't make it far.

I hoped a tweet reassuring my safety would quell musings that the incident was anything more than a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The internet had other ideas.

I was heralded in some circles as a casualty of an increasingly hostile environment toward the press. (No, although that's a valid concern.)

I was accused of faking an injury to rile up anti-liberal and anti-conservative groups alike. (Nay.)

Most important, I was flooded with concerned tweets, texts and emails from all over the country hoping I was okay. (I was and still am!)

That's what I emphasize when I tell this story.

People care about my safety. They support a free and independent press. They're concerned for journalists in what is certainly a trying time for the profession.

Thankfully, experience taught me I should stay on the perimeter of the action that afternoon. It also ensured I had a clear way out when things got hairy. Mentors have long instructed me to follow police orders when it all goes to hell.

Without all of that, yeah. It could have been worse. Thank goodness it wasn't.

--Eder Campuzano | 503.221.4344

ecampuzano@oregonian.com