An Open Letter from Eddie

dispatches
#minnesota

A challenging moment for Minnesota brings out the best in Minnesota...and America.

Aerial photograph of Saint Paul, Minnesota skyline on a clear autumn day. The Cathedral of Saint Paul dominates the foreground with its large copper dome topped by a cross and ornate Beaux-Arts architecture in white granite. Behind the cathedral, the downtown skyline stretches into the distance with various office towers and buildings. The Xcel Energy Center arena is visible to the right. Trees throughout the scene display yellow and orange autumn foliage. Blue sky with wispy clouds overhead.

This is not my usual lane. I write about technology, nonprofit leadership, and the intersection between the two. Sometimes, there’s an occasional essay about Saint Paul. I do not typically write about politics, and I have been deliberate about that. My blog is about some things, and politics is not one of them.

But I live in Saint Paul. Right now, something is happening here that I cannot stay silent about.

You have seen the images from Minneapolis and Minnesota. Federal agents. Protests. Two people killed in 17 days—Renée Good on January 7, and Alex Pretti over the weekend. The phrase “Operation Metro Surge” is everywhere. Images of a state under siege.

I want to tell you what it actually looks like from here.

The intense activity is concentrated. Most of it is centered in the neighborhoods in south Minneapolis where I-35W crosses Lake Street, a vibrant corridor of immigrant-owned businesses, taco shops, Somali restaurants, Ecuadorean groceries. There have been well-publicized incidents elsewhere, including in Saint Paul and throughout the state, but the operation has a geography. It is not everywhere, all of the time. This is not minimization; this is context.

And yet.

People are afraid to travel. Colleagues, friends, and neighbors—people who have every legal right to be here—are making calculations about whether to go to work, whether to shop for essentials, whether to worship, whether to be visible. Schools have shifted to remote learning. Businesses have closed. The fabric of daily life has torn in ways that are hard to convey to those who are not living it.

Two people are dead. Both were American citizens. Both were 37 years old. Renée Good was a mother of three. Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse at the VA hospital.

This is heavy.

And yet.

Last Friday, Minnesotans called for “A Day of Truth and Freedom.” No work, no school, no shopping. Hundreds of businesses in Minneapolis and throughout Minnesota closed their doors, not despite the economic cost, but because they recognized this as a moment that demanded response.

The images are indelible: Tens of thousands of Minnesotans marched through downtown Minneapolis in dangerously cold temperatures: subzero temperatures with wind chills approaching -30º F (-35º C). The kind of cold where exposed skin gets frostbite in minutes. People marched anyway.

This is not performance. This is commitment measured in physical cost.

I am not personally targeted by these operations. I am a White man with no accent. I can move through this city without fear in ways my neighbors cannot. I am aware of that every day right now. What I can do is witness. What I can do is tell you what I am seeing.

What I am seeing is not just the marches, the protests, the whistles. It is the quieter work that does not make headlines.

Workplaces have shifted to remote operations. Those who don’t have to think twice about being seen are taking on the errands and tasks at work so that colleagues who face greater risk do not have to. Volunteers are delivering food and essentials. Churches and community centers have become distribution hubs for these activities. Restaurants and stores near areas of protest have stayed open so those peacefully protesting can stay warm.

None of this is remarkable. None of this seeks recognition. None of this is for an award or a press release. It just is. People showing up for each other because this is what you do. Let us not grow weary in doing what is right.

There is a line that has been on my mind a lot lately. It is from Bill Clinton’s first inaugural address in 1993:

There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America.

What is happening here is wrong. The fear, the deaths, the militarized presence in our neighborhoods, the separation of families—it is wrong. I do not need to hedge that.

But what is also happening here is neighbors showing up for neighbors. Ordinary people choosing solidarity over safety, choosing courage over comfort, choosing to be present even when presence costs something.

That is also America. That is the America I am witnessing right now.

In the worst of it, the best of it.

That is what I wanted you to know.