The author delivered the following comments at “Together for Democracy” in Washington, D.C., Thursday, Jan. 29.
Susan Hayward
Today is day 59 of the federal occupation of my hometown of Minneapolis. I’ve experienced 58 of those days. And let me tell you what I’ve seen and experienced in those 58 days:
- I’ve been teargassed or pepper-sprayed three times, two of those times while wearing my clergy collar.
- I’ve been shoved, insulted and sneered at by ICE agents, including on Christmas Eve.
- I prayed over Renee Good’s car, the passenger bag still inflated and marked by her death.
- I ran three blocks from my home to the place where Alex Pretti was shot as soon as I received the news, to be met with masked men armed for combat. They pushed me away from the scene and a little bit later, they came at us with tear gas and stun grenades.
- I offered pastoral care to two friends who’d witnessed the murder. One couldn’t stop shaking nor string together a coherent sentence.
- I’ve had multiple neighbors snatched from their families and disappeared; others haven’t left their home in weeks. I’ve tended to young people in their twenties who were assaulted by ICE and counseled clergy colleagues who keep having congregants picked off by ICE.
- And just a couple days ago, I was doxed by right-wing agitators who infiltrated a nightly healing space I organized for our frontline community caretakers.
I am one person in Minneapolis, a white clergywoman. These are some of my experiences. There are many people who have experienced far worse.
The family and friends of Renee Good and Alex Pretti and Victor Manuel Diaz, a Minneapolitan who died in ICE custody in Texas. My immigrant neighbors, my Black and brown neighbors, including those who are Native American — they are of course no stranger to this kind of state violence (we white folks are getting a taste of what so many have lived with their entire lives: the awareness that the federal government and its security are a lethal threat that terrorize). And still … this is an acute level that feels extraordinary to us all. So many of us are experiencing the symptoms of trauma: nervous system dysregulation, sleeplessness, fast talking, forgetfulness.
“So many of us are experiencing the symptoms of trauma: nervous system dysregulation, sleeplessness, fast talking, forgetfulness.”
For those of you who have not experienced prolonged state terrorism, it’s a little like the feeling of acute grief.
So this is the context, a snapshot.
But I want to get to the courage part. And I’m not going to talk about my own courage. I want to offer an ode to my neighbors’ courage. I wish you could see it yourselves, up close. Because, y’all, it is a beautiful thing.
It looks like this: A 50-year-old white suburban-residing Lutheran hockey mom driving with a 25-year-old self-described mixed-race radical socialist queer vegan in the passenger seat following ICE in her Subaru, reporting in a thick Minnesotan accent to the dispatcher their moves — in a voice that often remains calm and steady even when the ICE vehicle is boxing them in or driving erratically or leading them to their own homes and then getting out and taking photos of them to try to intimidate them. And then the next day, being out there all over again.
It’s Minnesotans rushing out of their homes at the first sound of a whistle, armed with nothing other than their own whistles to confront heavily armed, masked thugs who are untrained and themselves dysregulated. Minnesotans knowing full well that these agents are capable of assaulting and even killing us. Knowing some of these agents see us as less than human and believe they will be protected from any consequences for their abuses and violations of law, because so far they have been.
It’s little Latine kids waving from their attic windows where they have been hiding to all of us marching on the streets below, some even coming out onto the balcony with signs they wrote that say “ICE OUT” in crayon. We blow kisses to each other and sing to them.
It’s average Minnesotans in five layers including one bright yellow safety vest posted up at the street corner at the end of my block, or outside mosques during Friday prayers, or day cares and schools, for hours in -25 windchill weather watching for ICE agents seeking to do harm to their neighbors, ready to call in for backup and pull out their phones and start recording if necessary. Or the others who drive vulnerable neighbors to the early shift at 4 a.m. or deliver groceries for four hours straight to homes across the Metro area.
I could go on forever, y’all. There are so many examples I could share of the moral courage of my beloved, fierce, diverse, Minnesotan neighbors — folks who are nothing special, just some humble salt of the earth Midwesterners, but are more fearless than anyone I’ve ever met before.
Why? How did they get this way?
“How did they get this way? Love. That’s it. Nothing more or less than that.”
Love. That’s it. Nothing more or less than that. We are so in love with each other and our diverse gorgeous community right now in Minneapolis — in all our multi-religious, multi-racial gorgeousness. This home to refugees and immigrants and Indigenous people.
Sure, the training sessions some 30,000 of us attended so we know our legal rights to document ICE agents’ actions helps. And yes, knowing we have access to lawyers and medics ready to help also strengthens our spine. We know if we get detained the community will quickly mobilize to get us out. That helps.
But really, those aren’t what in the end are our true source of courage. Because even those things aren’t guarantees right now. Rule of law is elusive. ICE is blocking medics from getting to those they’ve harmed at the scene. Knowing our rights doesn’t mean they’ll be respected. Our rights are violated hourly.
In the end, the source of our bravery is just Love. We love each other. Like, we literally go around telling each other we love each other, that we keep us safe, and that we will defend each other – everyone, whatever their race or religion or citizenship status, no matter how much the government throws at us, knowing they may kill more of us. Because we love our neighbors.
And seeing the power of that love — manifested in how fiercely we care for each other — seeing how much stronger it’s making us individually and collectively, stronger even than the forces of hate and violence unleashed on us: I don’t believe that love is almighty because the Scriptures testify to it. I believe it because I see it every day in my neighborhood. And that truth manifested is what makes us brave. That kind of love is unbreakable and defiant.
We will prevail.
Susie Hayward serves as minister of justice and formation at Creekside UCC in South Minneapolis and is a leader within MARCH (Multifaith, Anti-Racism, Change and Healing)