I was nine years old. I wore the new dress my grandma had gotten me for the holidays, and my mom even let me dab on her raspberry lipstick. We headed to the Intercontinental Hotel in downtown Saint Paul to join the rest of the Democratic–Farmer–Labor Party activities. Hours of waiting passed, and soon it was 12 a.m. with no word. Before I went to sleep that night, I made my mom promise me that she would wake me if Hillary Clinton won. She never came in. The next morning, all she said was, “It is going to be a very sad day.”
In grade school, Trump’s presidency affected me in a few ways I can remember. I knew my parents did not like him, and I thought his orange complexion was peculiar. That was the extent of his impact on my life.
It changed in middle school. I was in seventh grade in the thick of the COVID pandemic when George Floyd was murdered 15 minutes from my home. Within hours, protesters took to the streets. One man set the Minneapolis police precinct on fire, and others ransacked small businesses and government buildings as well. My family and I drove by the destruction the following morning, and ashes billowed above the post office. I thought of all the people who would never receive their letters. The school required us to have “courageous conversations” in class about how we felt, over Zoom. I did not know how to contribute; was I sad, mad, hurt, scared? It seemed easier to simply point fingers.
This past summer, I was an intern on my local congresswoman Betty McCollum’s reelection campaign. I spent the mornings knocking on the doors of retirees, asking them about their political beliefs. Some got mad, some were overjoyed. Around 6 p.m. dinner time, I phoned young adults just returning home from work. Most did not pick up, a few did but didn’t want to talk, some cussed and hung up and some thanked me.
In July, I woke up to my mom on the phone with a close family friend and politician. “Something terrible has happened,” my mom said. An hour later, the newspaper reported that State Representative Melissa Hortman and her husband were murdered at their home. Two nights later, we walked down to the vigil at the capital and lit a candle. No one spoke. We listened to a violinist play on the steps. My mom noticed the capitol’s central chandelier, which was usually turned off, was switched on, illuminating the whole floor.
When I returned home for winter break this year, everything was normal: quiet, pleasant and easy. The white cheery holiday lights were strung on trees and the coffee shop was filled with my usuals.
Then, in the last week of the year, Operation Metro Surge began. ICE agents showed up by the thousands, flooding the streets in big black SUVs. They wore masks that covered their foreheads and mouths and reflective sunglasses guarded their eyes. They slung machine guns across their chests.
At first, they did not interact with Minnesotans. They simply held presence outside of immigrant-owned restaurants and markets and quietly followed people to their houses. Neighbors began videotaping, following ICE vehicles and getting closer. Then, ICE agents murdered Renée Good — again, 15 minutes from my home.
Latino, Somali and other immigrant communities stayed home from work, boarded up their shops and restaurants, kept their kids from going to school and missed appointments.
Protesters flooded the streets again, gathering in the hotel lobbies where ICE agents were staying. High school students across the Twin Cities walked out of school. The small businesses that remained open gave a portion of their proceeds for food and resources to those in need. The police force worked overtime. Helicopters whirled over the homes. Most people were, and remain, stretched thin.
I wake up scared to open my phone — messages flood in my family group chats and breaking news alerts pile high. When I call my parents and friends at home, there is nothing to say. When I go to sleep, I feel guilty for not being there and even more so for being here.
On Jan. 24, another protester was shot and killed. On my way to brunch, I could not smile when I looked at the snow on Pikes Peak. I bit my nails down to the skin and my muscles could not relax in my chair. I told my friends what was happening to my home, to my neighbors, my friends and my family. When we got up from the table, the six of us stood together and they embraced me in a hug. It was a gift.
Now I am 19. I tried so hard to write an opinion piece about the violence unfolding from ICE in the Twin Cities. I wanted to offer a concrete solution about how protest can bring about change. But while I do have ideas, I am not sure that’s what is needed right now.
Some are able to drop their school books, close their desktops, follow cars, supply food or protest. Some need to simply read the news and think. We are all different. We must give grace to one another. We must ask about one another. We must support one another.