Minnesota. What Hope Even Means Now.

Saturday morning was a lot for the world, and my experience of it was in some ways very particular. I hope you will find something useful as I try to make sense of it here.

Before

Before ICE and Border Patrol murdered Alex Pretti, I had breakfast with an old friend whom I will very intentionally not name. Suffice it to say this person plays a disproportionately large role in every story you’ve read in the news since Trump I. Where the rest of us are fumbling for words, this friend puts their words into lawsuits that have helped keep the fragments of democracy and accountability alive. It’s someone I have had the serendipity of loving for over 40 years now.

We were talking over breakfast (friend: very healthy; me: all the sugar) about Minnesota. Their work has focused on Minnesota of late, and Minnesota is personal to me, and our conversation was on all the levels. What gave me not just comfort, but renewed energy and determination, was how my friend talked about the impact of what ordinary Minnesotans are doing. They said it is not going to stop things now–the darkness of the moment is beyond quick fixes or cavalry-saving interventions.

But the actions of people who show up with their bodies at protests, who bring meals to their homebound neighbors in heavily ICE-patrolled neighborhoods, who line the streets to schools so children can feel slightly less afraid going to school, who offer what gifts they have–these are the actions that the keep the space for change alive. These are the loud statement that what is happening is not ok. When we stop seeing and hearing people voice that simple truth–this is not ok–that’s when we are beyond hope.

My Minnesota friends, your actions fill my friend with the strength to do their exahausting work. Like you’re injecting love and determination right into their veins. Maybe some of us wish we could operate at the high levels my friend does (I know I sometimes do), but what you are doing keeps my friend going, and that is worth everything right now.

We also talked about the different flavors of responses we’ve seen from L.A., Portland, and the Twin Cities. L.A. built on the strength of decades-long organizing work. Organizing is slow, often frustrating. It can also be fun and loud, but it happens through one conversation after another, building trust and understanding over time. L.A. organizers had been doing this for so long that when ICE came, the network was ready. Organize. Don’t go building new things or, god forbid, new nonprofits to compete with the ones already doing the work. But get to know those folks. Go to a meeting. Be willing to be humble as you do. This is not about being anyone’s savior. This is about being part of a strong fabric of community that is smart and strategic.

Portland? We agreed that leaning into “Portlandia weird” was a power move. It is hard to demonize people wearing frog costumes. Not a big shouter or public speaker? Borrow a frog costume. Or your own vision of weird.

The Twin Cities (and St. Paul, I see you, and I know people use Minneapolis for short-hand, but I know ICE/CBP are terrorizing St. Paul, too) offer us the power of neighborhoods, of knowing our neighbors. The response there has been so locally-driven, with neighbors looking out for neighbors. That requires knowing our neighbors. That might seem beside the point. “I want to do big things NOW,” I hear you saying. But the small thing you can do now where you are may help you all be big enough to meet the moment later. Know and love your neighbors.

During

Then the murder happened. My friend knew before most of us, and was busily dealing with that while I drove them to see my parents–the whole reason they were in town. (Reason 87,126 to love my friend is that in the midst of all this, they wanted to see a man with severe dementia before he might forget who my friend was. Dear Reader: my dad knew exactly who my friend was, and the way his face lit up was a small miracle of the day.)

My first reaction was dread, because my husband is in Minneapolis and is the kind of person who could get himself killed since he [checks notes] cares about people, would help people off the ground, and stands fearless in the face of thugs. I’m biased, but I don’t know anyone who’d disagree with that assessment.

It wasn’t him. It was a beautiful human being caring about people, helping a woman up off the ground, standing fearless in the face of thugs. We know so much about Alex Pretti now that we all grieve him. (Special love to my nurse and VA friends who feel this in an acute way.)

But as the protestors began to gather to say no, this is not right, my husband was among them and got some first-hand experience with tear-gas simply for being there to say no. He is physically fine, but the wound to a patriotic guy–who for f***’s sake worked for DHS for years–is going to take longer to heal.

When he finally called, he was on speakerphone with me and my friend, and I saw how his decision to show up did that alchemy they had been talking about at breakfast, the strength they got from seeing a White man put his body at risk to say no. He’s no hero, as he’d be the first to say, but he and the hundreds and then thousands of others who stood on the freezing streets to say “no, this is not right” kept the space for hope alive.

After

I dropped my friend at the train station, started playing Ragtime’s “Make Them Hear You” on repeat, and wept. And wept and wept and wept. The only times that day I didn’t weep were when I banged out angry songs on the piano. And I looked at the crocus I have tattoo-ed on my wrist, and remembered that beauty can spring from the frozen ground.

Now

We have it in us to keep hope alive. And we must. Hope is not that any protest will fix all that is wrong. Hope is not that there will be no more suffering. Hope is that we can always say this is not right, and by saying it, we keep space alive for change.

To paraphrase bell hooks, hope is a verb. Sure, it’s a noun, too, but it’s a verb. So…

Hope by speaking out.

Hope by learning about community organizing.

Hope by appreciating that your role, though small, may be the thing that makes the difference.

Hope by contributing what you can, where you can.

Hope by insisting every day that this is not right.

And in honor of Alex Pretti, I offer the lyrics to the song I can’t stop listening to:

Go out and tell our story
Let it echo far and wide
Make them hear you
Make them hear you

How justice was our battle
And how justice was denied
Make them hear you
Make them hear you

And say to those who blame us
For the way we chose to fight
That sometimes there are battles
Which are more than black or white
And I could not put down my sword
When justice was my right
Make them hear you
Make them hear you

Go out and tell our story to your daughters and your sons
Make them hear you
Make them hear you

And tell them, in our struggle
We were not the only ones
Make them hear you
Make them hear you

Your song can be a sermon or the power of the pen

Teach every child to raise his voice
And then my brothers, then

Will justice be demanded by ten million righteous men!
Make them hear you
When they hear you, I’ll be near you
Again

Make them hear you.