It's Not the Cold that Bites

Yesterday, a man was killed. I know death happens all the time, but not recorded on phone screens and at the hands of so-called federal “law enforcement.” But it did yesterday. It happened on a street I’ve been down dozens of times, where I used to go to pick up coffee in the morning. It happened to a nurse who was trying to help another bystander. He wasn’t just killed, he was murdered, executed like he was a rabid dog. Shot in the back multiple times.

My new home city is not okay.

I moved here, to the Twin Cities, to leave behind the vileness of the local and state government of Texas. And it was vile there. Not toward me, specifically, but toward anyone who wasn’t a straight, cis, white “Christian.” Hospitality there, and in much of the South, is conditiona,l you see. If you’re different from the WASP ideal, you’re “other” and not worthy of the mythic Southern Hospitality. Since I pass as "one of them," I rarely bore the brunt of that otherness, but I saw many people dear to me have to face it on a daily basis.

Up here, though, it’s not like that. People are kind. People get to know their neighbors and legitimately want to help you even when you're brand new to their city. Here, people don’t keep their heads down if bad shit isn’t affecting them personally. Here, they are outraged at the unjust treatment of others and aren't afraid to loudly say so. Even with all of the things going on, with the Cities being occupied by federal forces, I don’t regret for a moment moving up here. Even with the weather, with the cold that bites and the wind that stings, I love it here. There’s something special about this place and its people. It’s a better way of life, not perfect of course, but we’re trying. People here want to do better and show it in their actions, not just their words.

I journal regularly, but not always about things like this. Usually it’s about my own life or troubles rather than the world around me. It’s internal. But I know I have a talent that I’ve spent years honing, one that lets me put words on paper and set them on fire. Why should I hide that and only keep it for myself? What am I afraid of?

I refuse to be afraid.

I live in the Twin Cities now. I work in a field that is directly affected by what is going on in our state. I’m not staying silent when I have a front row seat to the shit that is going down here. I don’t know if anyone will want to read this or bother to do so. I don’t know whether or not this will be lost to the void. Or maybe, one day it’ll be another account of the days leading up to change, to a better world. Regardless, I’m going to do what I can. I’m going to write. I'm going to use my voice.

If you want to help, you can find gobs of ways to do so here. If you do happen to read this, please consider giving to any of these organizations or funds if you are able. And if you can't do that, please consider sharing the information with others who might be able to do so. We are not okay here, but we will persist.