Burrowing in Deep, the Chill of ICE
Hiding. I know this is a poor response to threat
Minneapolis was my home for twenty-five years. I’ve been… fill in the ellipses with many adjectives since the news of the ICE shooting there on January 7. A young woman who described herself as a poet, mother, wife is dead.
I know that snowy street. I’ve been down Portland Ave., a major residential thoroughfare, many times. That area is not far from Highway 35W. The Google Map is lined with red right now on 35W, showing that traffic isn’t moving. Traffic isn’t moving in the immediate neighborhood where the shooting took place. Protests are taking place. Traffic is blocked.
I use walking sticks to hobble along. I do not go to protests. I cannot run. I cannot walk as far as I would need to.
When I visited Minneapolis a few years ago, after the George Floyd riots, my friend drove me past boarded-up storefronts I had frequented, little restaurants that were closed. Minneapolis was changed; many parts of the city were changed. A formerly upscale neighborhood had many empty shops.
Portland’s downtown was impacted, too, as were many cities, which sustained the double hits of a pandemic and riots.
We had almost recovered.
Get Sharon Johnson’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I meant to use this writing prompt, burrowing in, to talk about January, but I am talking about the January of our experience, the nadir of credit overdrawn, snow drifting, ICE hanging from the roof tops to pierce first, ask no questions, make up answers.
Agency. I have lost agency. I used to make change in my neighborhood, influence the influencers. We believed we could make a change in the world by touching those around us, those who came after. We did, for a while.
Maybe we still can. Maybe not.
My time has been spent. I listen to many people who are howling with the pain of loss, ideals, actions, and consequences.
The organizations I managed helped people in those neighborhoods who relied on federal child care funds. People we helped relied on affordable health care options. I relied on the basics of affordable child care and health care, now suspended, as if floating in the ether will make no difference for those who have bosses filling shifts or fevers racking a child’s body.
I burrow deep, deep, in the earth where the dirt will hold me, below where the roots snake. I do not dress or bathe. I envy the little frogs, who freeze in suspended animation until they awake and are peepers in a chorus with running water.
I envy those who hibernate, who gorge themselves in the fall and awake in the spring, those dumb animals.
The international balancing act has to readjust. Invasions and power lust continue.
The sleeping beast will wake. How long must we wait?
