Neighbors

By Jim Bates

It was the first week of February. There was a fresh two inches of overnight snowfall, and I was outside shoveling the sidewalk of my South Minneapolis home. The sun was just up over the trees. Two houses down, my neighbor, Miguel, was shoveling, too.

I waved to him. “How’s it going?” It was cold enough to see my breath.

He grinned. “Not bad.” He threw a shovelful of the heavy white stuff to the side. “Looking forward to spring.”

“Me, too!” I said.

Just a little neighborly chit-chat. Nothing special.

Except it was. Since the ICE surge in early December and the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, we were all watching each other's backs. Especially here in South Minneapolis. For some reason, the federal thugs felt it was their duty to roam our streets both on foot and in vehicles looking for people of color, brown or black, it didn’t matter. Both Miguel, who was of third-generation Mexican descent, and me, an old bearded white guy, were feeling the tension.

You never knew…

And then, like a bad dream, what I hoped never would happen did.

From around the corner came one, two, three black SUVs. My friend Jack and I had been to protests, marches, and vigils. We had become mobilized over the last few months to do what we could to stand tall and not let the federal thugs intimidate us. We’d been tear-gassed at a rally for Alex Pretti and pushed around at a vigil for Alex and Renee. In a way, (unfortunately), I was ready for them.

This was one of those times.

The SUVs slammed to a stop in front of Miguel’s home, and agents poured out. My heart began racing. I didn’t hesitate. I threw down my shovel, reached into my pocket for my whistle, and started blowing it as I ran down the sidewalk toward my neighbor.

Miguel was a slightly built man in his fifties, but he stood his ground as the agents surrounded him. There was shouting. I took out my phone and started filming the confrontation.

One of the agents saw what I was doing and started toward me.

I have to tell you. When you see a masked man with a gun strapped to his chest coming at you, it’s a terrifying sight. I’m 77 years old. I’m a retired mailman. My wife and I have lived in our home on this street for over fifty years. We’ve raised our kids here. We have friends in this neighborhood, like Miguel and his wife, Tina. This was my home. This was Miguel’s home.

I sucked up my fear and kept filming.

The ICE agent didn’t like that.

“Get out of here,” he yelled as he approached.

“No!” I kept filming, this time focusing on him.

He got in my face.

“I said, GET OUT OF HERE!”

I stood my ground, but I was so frightened I could barely breathe. Behind the thug in front of me, I saw five or six agents tackle Miguel to the ground. I shifted the camera to record what was happening to my friend.

The ICE agent didn’t like that.

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

He slammed his fist against my hand and knocked my phone into the snow.

It was at that moment that my mind blew up. I saw red. I was stepping toward him to do I had no idea what, when I felt a hand on my shoulder holding me back. I turned. It was my wife, Char. She’d heard my whistle and had run out to help.

She said. “Another day, Andy. Another day.”

She was right. Me going up against a bunch of armed federal militia was not a good idea. Yeah, another day. I dug my phone out of the snow.

By now, at least a dozen neighbors had rushed outside and begun confronting the agents. They were blowing whistles and filming Miguel being hassled.

In the background, I heard sirens. One of my neighbors had called the Minneapolis Police. They were on the way.

As the sirens became louder, something incredible happened. The agents hurriedly huddled. They talked animatedly. Then they left.

They left without Miguel. It was the first time that had ever happened. At least for any of us.

Miguel was shaken up, but otherwise unhurt. By the time the cops arrived, the ICE agents had fled the scene. We talked to the police, told them what happened, and they said,

“It was good you stayed cool.”

The point was well taken. By now, early February, everyone, us citizens and even the police knew ICE was out of control. Staying cool was the way to go.

So was peaceful protesting. None of us had any plans to stop.

We had Miguel and Tina and some of our neighbors over for coffee. We were all pretty wound up, so it was good to be together.

Later that morning, after everyone had gone home, I called my friend and fellow protester, Jack, and told me what had happened.

“You should have called, Andy,” he said. “I should have been there.”

I grinned. I knew he’d say that. “Thanks, buddy,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

But I knew what he was saying. It was good to be in the streets to let ICE know they weren’t going to intimidate us and get away with pulling the kind of crap they tried to pull with Miguel.

I had an idea. “You know, there’s the vigil at the Whipple Building,” I said. “At the detention center. You want to go?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I do.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

Jack lived nearby. “I’ll pick you up in ten.”

“Great. See you then.”

I told Char where we were going. She and her friends were going to the local church to fill food boxes.

She hugged me. “Take care.”

I hugged her back. “I will. You, too.”

Outside, a horn beeped. It was Jack.

Off I went.

Image credit: Chad Davis CC BY-SA 4.0 (Image cropped, filter applied)