“We’re not scary,” Elizabeth told me over coffee in downtown Minneapolis on Saturday morning. “We’re not a bunch of extremists.”
We’d both just heard the news that a federal agent or agents had fatally shot someone — Alex Pretti, an intensive-care nurse — on Nicollet Avenue, in the Whittier neighborhood. (CNN agreed not to identify Elizabeth and some of the other people we talked to by their actual names.)
Elizabeth had already been nervous about going out, given the seeming randomness of the surge of federal forces. Watching a livestream of agents spraying tear gas and arresting protesters, she realized the killing had occurred one block over from her local climbing gym, where she goes almost every week.
On her way over, she told me, she’d spotted military-like vehicles driving by — likely the state National Guard, which Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz had just activated.
Elizabeth teaches first grade at a majority Hispanic school in a suburb of Minneapolis. Her students, barely 7 years old, feel the weight of the moment. Children as young as 2 have been detained, and there have been rumors that ICE agents have appeared at bus stops.
Her students bring up ICE unprompted every day, she said: asking about who the officers are, telling teachers they’re scared for their parents or announcing “I’m sad.” They act differently, too. One child, talkative and outgoing, had her personality flip, becoming quiet and reserved, after a family member was taken in the fall, Elizabeth said.
Even their hugs are different, more frequent and more intense. Elizabeth can feel the tension releasing from their little bodies, like they simply need to be held.
“They don’t have the privilege of ignorance,” Elizabeth said. “They could go home and their parents are gone.”
The children have emergency plans: who to call if no one comes home, or where to go if they don’t recognize the people outside their houses.
Schools have hosted “Know Your Rights” trainings for parents, and helped them apply for Delegation of Parental Authority, so their kids don’t end up in foster care if they’re suddenly detained. In the last few weeks, though, such gatherings — like many other community events — have been canceled, so families don’t have to risk leaving their homes.
In the midst of the ICE surge, the definition of teachers’ duties has stretched. Before, any family troubles were usually handled by a social worker for the sake of privacy, circumventing teachers and other staff. Today, those delineations are erased. The school’s basement is filled with food donations, Elizabeth said, and most of the teachers deliver food to families at least one day a week. With community volunteers, they walk kids to and from school so parents don’t have to leave their homes. They post pictures of the children in class to a secure platform, so their parents can see their kids are safe.
“Every lunch I have with other teachers, or every staff meeting, somebody is in tears,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just so much, all the time.”
Elizabeth’s phone buzzed constantly on the table between us. She used to keep her phone on silent, she said, but now she’s wary of missing a family reaching out or a friend asking for help.
The way you look, the way you sound, is understood to be enough to get you detained. ICE and DHS state that their mobilization under the Trump administration is meant “to target the worst of the worst criminal illegal aliens.” Twin Cities residents say they have seen enough to not believe them.
HmongTown, a usually bustling farmers market in St. Paul with dozens of Hmong-owned stalls, was nearly empty when I visited on Sunday. Two ICE agents showed up outside earlier in the week, a stall worker told me.
Minnesota has the largest Hmong population per capita in the country. Most of them came here as refugees, but their legal status doesn’t ease their fear. With such a drop in foot traffic, the stall employees worry about how they’ll make rent.
“They don’t really speak English, so they don’t want an encounter,” the worker said. “Even the restaurants, they don’t make as much food anymore.”
On Minneapolis’ East Lake Street, an area known for its cultural diversity, the usually packed Midtown Global Market was empty save for a handful of shoppers and restaurant-goers. Inside an East African clothing store, the middle-aged Somali owner told me she went to a vigil for Pretti the night before, but could only stand the cold for five minutes. “Minnesotans are so strong,” she said.
If she closed early, though, she said, she was going to head back to the scene where Pretti was killed. She planned on making tea, passing it out to anyone there. The low would be minus-9 degrees.
The scariest moments of the day, Danez Smith said, were driving their husband to work.
Smith, a poet and longtime Minneapolis resident, spoke on the phone from Maine, where they have spent part of the year doing a teaching fellowship. For the past few weeks, until Saturday, they were back home as ICE tactics intensified. Their husband is a Venezuelan immigrant, in the US under asylum. He has a green card, but that doesn’t seem to matter — ICE agents have seized and detained immigrants with and without legal status alike, and have dragged citizens from their cars seemingly indiscriminately.
“There is nothing legal that can protect you from white supremacy and the racism that seems to be the compass for this operation,” Smith said.
So Smith has been dropping him off at work and picking him up, with a coworker always ready to escort him to and from the building. In the car, Smith could feel him tense in the passenger seat and could see fear in his eyes.
The drive only takes five minutes. But suddenly it was loaded with panic. Any moment their husband steps outside could be the last time he is free.
Saturday morning, due back in Maine, Smith double checked their suitcase, showered, and savored those last few moments with their husband. Around 9:30 a.m., an hour before they would head to the airport, they heard about the shooting that killed Alex Pretti.
Immediately, the texture of the morning shifted. Should they cancel the fellowship? Should they stay home? Should their husband go stay with some family in town? Eventually, they calmed down, but it was a bittersweet goodbye.
Remembering it, Smith started sobbing. Their husband is still at home, now carpooling with coworkers or working remotely.
“The opportunities I have, it’s great and I love teaching, and it’s money that’s going to help us live our dreams,” Smith said. “And then all I can think about is, what if something happens to him while I’m gone?”
Minneapolis is not a large city. Its grid system makes every corner feel accessible; its neighborhoods are bustling communities; it takes less than an hour to get from one end to the other. St. Paul is even smaller. One of Smith’s friends knew Renee Good.
“I don’t think people realize how much fear and loneliness has been struck into the hearts and homes of people in Minneapolis,” Smith said. “I do not wish this anxiety on anyone, to lose your freedom of movement, to lose your freedom of hope.”
Alex Kormann woke up on Saturday planning to have a chill morning to himself before clocking in for work as a photojournalist at the Minnesota Star Tribune later that afternoon.
At 9:13 a.m., a coworker texted him: Another shooting. A possible death.
In moments, he’d thrown on his layers — long underwear, fleece pants, snow pants, a T-shirt, a quarter-zip, a bulletproof vest, a puffer jacket and wool socks. He packed his laptop, cameras, extra batteries and his passport, which, because he’s a person of color, he now always brings with him. By 9:30, he was at the scene.
Two days later, at a coffee shop less than a mile from the shooting, I asked him to recall the afternoon. He offered a grim laugh. “It was horrible.”
He had a half gas mask on, covering his nose and mouth but leaving his eyes exposed. He lost track of the amount of times he was tear gassed. Was it eight? Ten? He doesn’t know. It smelled like burning, like pepper balls.
Kormann has a beard, which means his mask doesn’t always create a seal against his face. He’d been rushing, and the mask wasn’t tight enough. On the first hit with gas, he got “a pretty good whiff of it.” He was choking, feeling like he was going to vomit.
“It burns like crazy,” he said. “It’s like hot sauce poured into your eyes, basically.”
He showed me a video from his phone of a line of agents in all black, walking forward while firing crowd-control ammunition. There was smoke everywhere, and the sound of shots popping. People were screaming; they couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. At several points, he had to take cover behind buildings or parked cars.
“It literally felt like a war zone,” he said. “I felt like I was in some sort of weird dream.”
The best way he can describe it to people who aren’t there, Kormann said, is to have them picture a familiar restaurant or strip mall. Now, imagine it overrun with agents, smoke and tear gas, while people scream and get arrested in every direction — a place you love turning into a scene from “Call of Duty.”
The ICE presence is everywhere. Their vehicles run through red lights and speed through side streets, Kormann said, with no regard for traffic laws. During detainments, if people can’t provide documentation immediately, they are arrested, Kormann said; the entire interaction can happen in a single minute.
“Regardless of your stance on things or how steely you can be, seeing people begging, screaming, crying, fearful for their lives,” he said, “it’s going to affect you.”
As we talked, two young women walked in, no older than 20, weighed down with three huge reusable TJ Maxx bags apiece. They set them down against a back wall, where other donations have already been stacked.
Despite the violence, nobody is deterred, Kormann said.
“We’re taking care of our own,” he said. “I don’t think that exists in a lot of places.”
The day after Alex Pretti was shot and killed, a church of mainly East African immigrants and immigrant descendants gathered in St. Paul for their regular Sunday service.
About 100 people made it out that day to the renovated historic building, filling almost every seat in the small auditorium. Toward the end of the sermon, the pastor led a prayer for immigrants, for the city, for the politicians and for “those who are in fear.” Every head was bowed.
Behind the scenes, the staff has made plans in case ICE shows up. The doors are now locked during services, while a volunteer stays in the welcome area, watching the doors to monitor who needs to come in and out. Before each service ends, other volunteers run outside and double-check the parking areas, making sure everyone can leave safely. ‘Know Your Rights’ handouts have been distributed.
For John and Jessica, a couple in the congregation, the tension in the entire city is palpable. John is an immigrant from Jamaica, though he’s lived in the Twin Cities for 10 years and has a green card. His wife, Jessica, who is half white and half Colombian, has lived here for seven. Every time they leave the house, they said, they think about ICE.
“If you look a certain way, they’re going to follow you,” John said. “If you speak a certain way, they’re going to follow you.”
“There is a common understanding, at least in my immediate friend group, that it doesn’t matter if you have papers,” Jessica said. “Because the aggressiveness and the violence happens before they even ask for papers.”
John has eliminated any unnecessary movement, and every decision is carefully assessed. Where are they going? Do they need to stop? Where will they park? Will it be secure? Will someone be able to see them leaving the car?
Immigrant-owned businesses are closed. Bright pink signs dot the road near their apartment reading, in three languages, “Our neighbor was kidnapped by ICE.” Their friends, many of whom are of Ethiopian and Caribbean descent, don’t come over anymore.
Jessica almost T-boned an ICE agent while rounding a blind corner. She slammed on her brakes, and they stared at each other for “too long” — about 45 seconds, she said. It felt longer. She felt like she was being sized up. He drove off, but Jessica couldn’t help but think: If she had darker skin, would he have responded differently?
That was nine days after Renee Good was killed. The day Pretti was shot, just one block from their apartment, they watched from their window as hundreds of people marched from Whittier Park to the site of the shooting. The entire scene felt “surreal,” Jessica said.
“Nobody is safe out here,” Jessica said. “There’s no freedom of speech. We’re treading so carefully.”
But seeing everyone’s support, they said, gives them hope.
“I feel like the whole world is on Minneapolis,” John said.
In just the span of two hours on Sunday, about 50 people had come by Juan’s store in Whittier, Minneapolis — a five-minute walk away from the previous day’s shooting — to drop off donations.
Sixteen black bins were scattered throughout the small space, filled with non-perishable items for a local neighborhood alliance, items like cereal, pasta, bottled water and toilet paper. One person came through with a whole carload, a staff member says. Even more sent text messages saying they’d drop goods off at a different time, or later in the week.
Latin pop music poured through the speakers overhead. The feeling in the air is gratitude, said Juan, a lifelong Minneapolis resident and Mexican American. They commiserate about the shooting the morning before, and there’s been a constant fear since the ICE presence began.
But there’s also the spectacle of a community adapting. When he goes to grocery stores now, Juan said, he sees lots of Somali and Latino teens in the aisles staring at their phones, as their immigrant family members stay safe at home, trying to explain to them what to buy.
The day before, the store had been caught in the chaos around the killing. As soon as he’d heard the news from his brother, Juan pulled on his long johns and thermals and headed to the shop. The entire street outside was filled with federal agents, he said. He had thought the store could just be a safe place for people protesting; he never thought the sparring would be right on their corner.
When someone standing in front of him was pepper sprayed in the face, Juan grabbed him and dragged him inside, rinsing his eyes out in the sink. More people came in as the pepper spraying continued — even kids, preteens, Juan said. Protesters kept swelling into the space as the afternoon went on, filling the store with smoke and the smell of cayenne pepper.
Juan could see the federal agents from the windows. As people came in, they brought water, milk and special wipes for the pepper spray. A staff member called and asked if she should come in to help; reluctantly, Juan accepted her aid.
“We’re not trained in this,” he said. “But we know that something has to be done.”
At one point, he saw agents tackle a man to the ground, and he ran over to help while his wife filmed on her phone. Another federal agent snatched her phone; later, a different agent gave it back, as if nothing had happened. Another moment: A man was trapped in his car as it filled with smoke; his wife screamed; someone with a gas mask ran, opened the door, and brought the man into Juan’s store, washing his face immediately.
It was chaos, Juan said. Pure chaos. The thing he keeps remembering is the screaming.
But then: community. He gestured to the people around, joking around as they organized donations. They are his family, he said, whether they work there or not. In the last 48 hours, he said, he’s learned he doesn’t have to do everything by himself.
“We’re in this together,” he said.
People have advised Leo’s parents to carry his passport or birth certificate around, his mother, Mary, said, but they haven’t started doing it yet. Leo is half Black and half white, born in Minnesota and freshly 9 years old. His parents, who adopted him, are white. With his blue-framed glasses, round cheeks and brown curly hair, he could be any number of different ethnicities, the type of ambiguity that has become dangerous.
Mary and Leo met me at a bakery in southeast Minneapolis with a sign on the door reading “Private Property,” followed by “No ICE or CBP access.” At bedtime the night before, Mary said, Leo turned to his parents and said, “Home is safe. I want to stay home.”
Mary and her husband reassured him and made the final call in the morning. He would go back to school tomorrow.
When ICE first arrived, Mary sat him down and told Leo about their presence and that people at his majority-immigrant school might be scared. After the day Renee Good was shot, when ICE agents used chemical irritants on gathered students and staff at Roosevelt High School, Minneapolis Public Schools shut down for two days. It was time for another conversation.
They started by telling him about the incident at Roosevelt. Later in the day, Mary got ready to add the news about Good.
“I have to tell you something else that’s really sad,” she began. Before she told him the news, Leo guessed.
“Did someone get shot?” he asked.
Leo was just 3 years old when George Floyd was murdered. But somehow, Mary said, that was easier to talk about. They’d already been having discussions about racism that she could build on, she said. A lot of white people don’t think that Black people’s lives are as important, she told him at the time, and that person didn’t care about George Floyd’s life.
Now, she doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s like, well, I don’t know why this man would just shoot a woman in the face,” she said. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you the reason.”
When she told him a second person had been killed, Leo didn’t have any follow up questions about Pretti. He just asked if ICE knows what they’re doing is wrong. Mary didn’t have an answer to that either.
When Mary and her husband are not busy caring for Leo, she said, the two of them are active in various Signal groups with neighbors and friends, figuring out how to distribute funds directly to people who need them.
You have to trust that people aren’t lying to you, Mary said. But rent is a pressing issue right now, as many immigrants don’t feel safe going to work.
“There’s hundreds of groups around every neighborhood, who are trying to figure it out for the people who either go to their kid’s school, or go to their church, or live in — I don’t know — the apartment building on the block,” she said. “It’s really decentralized.”
Mary has raised $5,000, and people she knows have raised at least that amount as well.
On Sunday night, before she put Leo to bed, she texted her sister about sending money for rent relief. Leo looked over her shoulder, reading the text.
“What’s rent relief?” he asked.
She told him, explaining that some people can’t work right now out of fear. He asked how much she had raised. She told him again. He ran off, then came back with his life savings: $9, a pile of crumpled bills and loose quarters, and dropped it in her hands.
Source link
