LEFT FOOT, RIGHT FOOT, WE KEEP ON...

I went to a candlelight vigil two nights ago to honor and remember the murder, by federal ICE and Border Patrol agents, of two different people on the streets of Minneapolis who were acting in the role of observers of ICE and CBP activity in their neighborhoods.   

For historical reference in case my grandkids ever read my blog books:  ICE is Immigration and Customs Enforcement; CBP is Customs and Border Patrol. The current presidential administration has sent hundreds and thousands of ICE and border patrol agents into liberal-leaning American cities in liberal-leaning states to "round up" the "worst of the worst" undocumented immigrants who have committed violent crimes.  Los Angeles, Chicago, Portland Oregon,  now Minneapolis, and now heading to Maine and beyond.  They are rounding up not only criminals, but anyone they feel like, anyone who has brown skin and a bounty on their heads, since they get a bonus for meeting arrest quotas.  

It turns out 73% of those being detained and/or deported without due process have NO criminal record, are here legally or may even be U.S. citizens.  

The agents are recruited without care to qualifications or training, and given weapons and explicit permission to "clean up" areas deemed to be "dangerous", like quiet neighborhoods.  They are dressed in military camo war-like uniforms,  do not wear name tags and always cover their faces with bandana type masks.  They menace and abuse and beat up people, throwing them into vans and whisking them to private, for profit immigration detention centers where detainees are locked up in overcrowded, dirty, dangerous cellblocks away from their families (unless their kids got scooped up too, which is common) awaiting indefinitely a possible deportation.  No due process.  NO due process.

So people not targeted by ICE or CBP have decided to come to the aid of their communities by standing in witness to these abhorrent activities. They pass out little red cards to people who may be targeted, with information about their rights as a targeted person.  They have whistles around their necks to call out an alert to ICE presence and arrests.  They have cell phones in their hands to record ICE abuses during a sweep of an area.  Whistles, cards, and cell phones are the weapons of peaceful witness going up against armed men unwilling to show their faces, unwilling to show their names, with permission from our Homeland Security Department, with the blessing of the President, to act with impunity and without constraint.

On January 7th,  a 37 year old mother, Renee Good, had just dropped her 6 year old son at school when she became aware of ICE activity. Being a trained observer, she and her wife went to the area with their whistles.  Her car was at an angle on a portion of the street, but cars were able to get around her; she was not impeding movement.  ICE agents descended upon her car, reached in through her open window.  She turned her wheels away from the agents attempting to drive away, her last words, with a smile being, "That's fine, dude.  I'm not mad at you."  An officer shot her three times through her open window, killing her instantly while calling her a "fucking bitch".  It was all recorded by bystanders.  

On January 24th, VA Hospital I.C.U. nurse Alex Pretti, also 37 years old, arrived at a scene of CBP agents knocking people to the ground in their activities and tried to help a woman who had been toppled.  Seven agents wrestled him to the ground, pistol-whipped him, beat him.  In the melee they discovered he had a concealed firearm (legal and with a permit to carry it) and disarmed him.  One officer held Pretti's gun at his side while two others shot the disarmed Pretti 10 times, killing him on the street.  His last words were to the woman he had tried to help, "Are you OK?"

Both of these people were white, committed to peacefully witnessing and documenting the abuses toward people of color by the federal agents in their neighborhoods.  In both cases Homeland Security and the President called them "domestic terrorists" and denigrated their reputations with vile lies.  They told us, the public, that what we saw with out own eyes on multiple videos taken by bystanders did not happen.  They said the agents shot in self-defense out of fear for their lives.  They declared there will be no investigation by Minnesota law enforcement, that Homeland Security and the US Justice Department will investigate. It would be laughable if not for being so tragic.  Fascism is here.

So, many of us are reeling.  There is numb shock.  There is outrage.  There is a sense of overwhelm.  There is confusion and disorientation.  There is exhaustion.  There is the realization that countless black and brown people are being brutalized and killed out of sight of cameras.  And the reminder that this attack on certain people is how it has been, over and over, in our history.  And those who have stood against this cruelty have been brutalized and killed too.  In my lifetime, the Civil Rights Movement and the Viet Nam War protests saw similar cruelty towards a target group, along with those who tried to stand witness and protest.  

I have read, watched, talked, thought, been immersed in the cultural rage of this past month.  (Well, at least rage by those of us who don't think any of this is normal or desirable or in alignment with American ideals.)  I needed to go to that vigil, to gather with my community in solidarity, to light a candle, to perhaps hear soft music, or encouraging words, or acknowledgment of our collective grief, to be mostly silent and breathe together, making eye contact or having a quiet conversation of support.  That's what I thought a vigil was.  I was not entirely correct.

We arrived a bit late, to find about 150 people gathered, with a local Christian pastor speaking at a microphone.  I sort of tuned her out.  I did not come for a Christian church service, but understood her words might be meaningful to some attending. So I found a place on the fringes to stand and wait until she was finished.  Then the organizers spoke about ongoing efforts to peacefully protest and resist.  It was starting to feel like a rally and another call to action.  I understand.  Doing something is important and empowering.  

Then the mic was opened to any who felt moved to speak.  Uh-oh.  In my experience this is a risky invitation.  And sure enough, the first speaker was a young man full of righteous rage.  While I agreed with his point of view, the F-word laden rant shouted to the crowd felt like a verbal assault that I could not tolerate and incongruent with the candle-in-the-darkness vibe.  I left.  I heard his voice echoing off the downtown buildings almost all the way back to my car.  I don't know what happened after that, but I knew that the vigil was not the balm I'd hoped for and needed.  

It is important for everyone to deeply feel and express whatever is "up" for them.  I know that.  But witnessing more rage did not serve my process of integration.  I needed quiet; I needed a feeling of calm; I needed the connection of community in sadness and grief and smiles of encouragement and understanding.  I went home and got quiet.  Hub made us a lovely dinner.  I emailed and texted with friends who had been there too, who it turned out felt similarly to me.  We held each other in the love and care we needed.

I spent much of last week "doing democracy".  With the League of Women Voters I pre-registered new voters at the local high school and did a tour of our county elections office, observing their process for testing on site voting machines and ensuring ballot accuracy.  I attended an Indivisible sign wave on the streets after Pretti's killing.  I've called all of my state and federal representatives and senators.   This week I've Zoomed into the LWV Lobby Week issue updates and have taken action on a variety of bills before the State Legislature. I voted for the school district bond and levy and wrote a letter to the editor urging others to do that too.  Then I went to the vigil.  And yesterday I realized I had to stop.  Just for a little while.  I often get to the point of feeling like none of my efforts matter, and that simultaneously I'm not doing enough.  The calls for action are endless.

Yesterday I woke up in tears again, brain in sort of a fog.  I decided I needed to go somewhere.  So Hub and decided to visit the community we hope to move into in a couple of years.  We saw friends there, met some lovely people, had a great yummy "I don't care how many calories this is" lunch and popped in to talk to our marketing gal about options for upgrading the interior of our apartment if we want different flooring or cabinets or tile.  Just life stuff.

I could beat myself up about being inappropriate and "selfish" and future-oriented, fiddling away as America burns.  But the other disorienting thing is that life really does continue to happen.  The good with the awful, the mundane with the unthinkable, the joyful with the sorrow.

Left foot, right foot, we keep on.  We live our values.  We take care of each other.  We take care of ourselves.  We take a break.  We do not quit.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit:  Everett Daily Herald