Molly Mogren Katt is a writer and mother of two. This story originally ran on her post Hey Eleanor! on Substack. She lives in the Wedge.
It is wondering if it is safe to walk your kids to school. What might we witness? What if the busy intersection we cross gets blasted with tear gas.
It is answering your first and third graders’ questions about where their friends have been for the last month.
It is trying to be normal with groceries, swimming lessons and haircuts when nothing feels normal.
It is questioning who is sitting in the idling pickup truck in the parking lot of your favorite neighborhood restaurant. Who is driving the SUV parked in front of your house.
It is coordinating with parents to make sure kids get to school safely.
It is knowing someone might disappear at school pick-up for the crime of parenting while Black or brown.
It is hugging already overwhelmed teachers and school staff, grateful their students can safely learn from home, while knowing being in school is best for learning and for getting fed.
It is so many tears.
“It is wondering if people across the country think you are overreacting when you are really not.”
It is moms and school staff stepping up to handle things yet again.
It is delivering 200 bags of groceries, iPads and hot spots to families, wondering if walking from your car to an apartment building will put people in more danger.
It is an ICE agent on the ground floor marching past you because you are a “nice white lady.” It is using your privilege for good.
It is a hug of gratitude from a terrified mother who has not left her apartment in six weeks.
“In our own generation’s version of 1930s Germany or 1960s America, we know which side we are on. We are the helpers.”
It is wondering how many more weeks or months this will continue. It is wondering how to keep helping without burning out.
It is feeling unbelievably exhausted.
It is ICE agents patrolling hospital hallways, listening for Spanish speakers. It is pregnant women too scared to show up for their OB visits.
It is U.S. citizens traveling with papers or passports or whatever they think will prove their legal status.
It is knowing it may not matter.
It is a video of a Texas man with a neo-Nazi neck tattoo outside your corner bar.
It is being scared to walk your dog and doing it anyway.
It is looking at every SUV and truck on the road, wondering who is inside and praying you do not panic or make one wrong move. It is knowing they could kill you without consequence.
It is canceled gymnastics practices because a mother was shot in the face six blocks away.
It is constant helicopters overhead.
It is a tired police department outnumbered five to one.
It is bracing for the next terrible thing.
It is wondering if people across the country think you are overreacting when you are really not.
It is cross-country skiing on the lake near your house, grateful for a moment of normalcy.
It is feeling like a chump because your family can move around freely.
It is your gym collecting food and hygiene products. It is the pizzeria raising $83,000 in donations over the weekend. It is the local adult toy shop being targeted by ICE for stocking up on diapers and formula.
It is feeling like every resident of your blue city and state is the enemy of the federal government because you have the audacity to live here.
It is knowing you are part of a community filled with good people.
It is loving Minneapolis. It is being a proud Minnesotan.
It is wondering who you would have been in 1930s Germany or 1960s America or 1860s America and knowing that in your own generation’s version, you are on the side of human decency. You are one of the helpers.
And you do not have to look far to see who is not.
