By Erin C. M. Anderson
Less than two weeks ago, 2,000 federal agents were deployed to my city. Only a week has passed, as of this writing, since a woman was killed by an ICE agent shortly after dropping her child off at school — and only a handful of days more since the federal government announced an additional 1,000 agents would be deployed here.
Mainstream media is covering our story, mostly in broad strokes. They have other stories they need to tell.
But our story — the story of Minneapolis, St. Paul, the metro area — is the only one I hear. It surrounds me. It surrounds my neighbors. It surrounds us.
It is grief. It is anger. It is disbelief. And in some cases, ambivalence. Since this is a city, enclaves will remain insulated to some degree — but less so with each new day.
Three days ago, I watched a group of four ICE vehicles swarm a car driven by a very young man.
He was in a middle-class residential neighborhood. He didn't try to run, and ICE didn’t chase him down — ICE just suddenly swarmed him at an intersection, forcing his car to slant awkwardly across the intersection as he tried to pull to the side. I watched masked agents pull him from his car; they displayed no warrant and asked no questions.
His skin was brown, and he was so very young, surrounded by armed men who dragged him from his vehicle without a chance to respond.
Neighbors came out of their homes. Passersby stopped. People bore witness. People called out, asking his name and whom to notify.
I never learned his name. I may never know it. If I were to see him again, I don’t know that I would recognize him. Because all I can recall clearly a few days later is strobing lights, weapons, and uncertainty.
