Kent Nerburn
REPORT FROM THE FRONT -- MINNEAPOLIS, JANUARY 10
South Minneapolis is a typical working class residential area in a typical American city: block after block of single-family homes on small lots on tree-lined streets, with alleys and single car garages and trash cans out in back.
When I was a kid it was considered the boring part of town. It was where the Swedes and Norwegians had settled, and it had a clean quiet orderliness reflective of its Scandinavian character. Schools were good, lawns were mowed, there were little corner stores where the proprietors gave you credit and knew their customers by name. It was almost totally white. There was a Black area on its perimeter, but in its own way it reflected the same homes and families character of the whiter streets a few blocks over. In spite of the racism of the time, anyone who lived there would tell you that south Minneapolis was a good and safe place to grow up, and the old timers look upon it with fondness.
But south Minneapolis changed, and in a most interesting way. Its small well-maintained houses drew the attention of young people looking for their first homes, so, as the population aged and turned over, it became the go-to area for young people who did not want to become part of what they considered to be the soul-deadening experience of suburban America. Without changing its external character, south Minneapolis quietly became the stealth area of progressivism and radicalism in the city. LGBTQ, Black, vegan, urban farmers -- granola radicals of all stripes -- took ownership of the psychic reality of the area, and, since 'like' attracts 'like', this character has only grown and solidified in the last few years.
Enter George Floyd and his senseless murder outside the Cup Market in the very heart of the south Minneapolis community. Suddenly, all the latent progressivism and radicalism that had been channeled into radical neighborhood development rushed out from behind its quiet residential veneer and coalesced in outrage at this cavalier murder by an authority figure in an area that valued order but did not like authority.
In the five years since that murder, the neighborhood has quieted. But the anti-authoritarian character has not diminished. It is neither surprising nor coincidental that the murder of Renee Good by ICE agents took place just a few blocks from the site of the murder of George Floyd. This is a neighborhood that does not accept authorities graciously, no matter who they are. When ICE showed up, resistance was inevitable.
As an old 60's radical who was part of the Minneapolis 60's resistance scene, I was heartened by the protests that erupted after Renee Good's murder. I've mellowed in my old age, and I was never fully on board with either the beatification of George Floyd or the vilification of the Minneapolis police after George Floyd's murder. But I am fully behind the outrage at the Mad King and his murderous Brownshirts, and was prepared to add my body to the numbers who were gathering to make their feelings known about ICE's deadly gestapo tactics on Minneapolis' south side.
But what I was not prepared for was the organization and coordination I encountered when I arrived at the park where the rally was taking place. The crowds were massive, but orderly. People in lime green vests with walkie talkies were offering directions; folks were handing out hand warmers and bottles of water; street monitors with Ipads were communicating about areas where various demonstration activities were taking place, energy bars and empanadas were there for the taking. One house had a sign making its bathroom available to any demonstrator who had need to use one.
I expressed my amazement to my son, who lives in the neighborhood. He responded with a wry smile and a simple comment. "We learned after George Floyd that no one was going to protect us," he said. "So we had to organize ourselves." He showed me an app on his phone that had the entire neighborhood mapped out. "This alerts us to where ICE is. People log in and contribute. We have eyes everywhere."
I realized that this is how the thousands of people gathered to demonstrate were being organized. It wasn't one single protest. There were people as far as the eye could see in the park where we were standing. There were parades on adjoining streets, a vigil at the site of the shooting, speakers and bands playing at various places, flash mobs gathering and dispersing at different corners. This is why the media had crowd estimates ranging from 3000 to 40000: the crowd was amorphous, moving and changing like a cloud. This event was not being organized, it was being managed.
Blessedly, the rocks and bottle folks were nowhere to be seen. People seemed to understand that violence and destruction played right into Trump's hands. People were angry, but they had, at least for the moment, transformed their anger into confidence, and there was a quiet sense of strength and resolve in every group on every street. It was the kind of gathering that made you understand the meaning of the word "solidarity".
As we headed back to our car, I could not help but marvel at the maturity of the event. As my son said, "We've been here before". And it showed.
Somewhere, Trump was eating hamburgers and nursing his bone spurs and dreaming the fever dreams of the petty tyrant. But here in south Minneapolis people were gathering, helping each other, listening to bands and speakers and feeling the quiet confidence of like-minded folks who truly understand the meaning of strength in numbers.
Trump, in his tiny vicious rage, hoped his oafish Brownshirts would create chaos. Instead, in this corner of America, on this particular day, they were creating community.
www.kentnerburn.com
