Returning Home To Minnesota

STORY AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY DEAN KOTULA

The Minneapolis Sculpture Garden at the Walker Art Center might have foretold the coming invasion of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents wreaking havoc and upending lives throughout the state. Shocked and in disbelief, there were no adequate words to express the cruelty and inhumane actions being perpetrated against U.S. citizens and those seeking a safe haven and opportunity to become legal citizens. Judith Shea’s disembodied bronze sculpture, Without Words, created in 1988, had far more significance on the day I returned to Minneapolis to witness for myself, the killings, kidnappings, and terrorizing of people, primarily due to the color of their skin. But breathless or not, the people rallied. Minnesotans are steadfast and fiercely protective of one another. They grew angry, started protesting— due to love. It’s no mistake that one of Robert Indiana’s 50 versions of his LOVE sculpture found it’s way to the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. The people earned it, with the states reputation as being Minnesota Nice.

Unlike Paul Bunyan, the legendary lumberjack who was born in Maine and moved to Minnesota, I was born and raised in Minnesota and moved to Maine. I love it here, but when I tell people what it’s like living here, I say, “It’s Minnesota with an ocean,” which reflects my true home and where my heart resides. So, listening to news reports, I was horrified—along with the rest of the world—but being it was happening on home turf, it felt personal and seared my heart like a branding.

I owned a house at 3326 Oakland Ave and lived there for a number of years— right around the corner and less than a three-minute walk— from where Renee Good was shot and killed by an ICE agent after she said, “I’m not mad at you,” and less than six blocks from where George Floyd was killed by police in 2020.

I used to eat at the Black Forest Restaurant where an old girlfriend’s brother and future wife worked; the same block, 26^th & Nicollet, where VA nurse, Alex Pretti, was wrestled to the ground by ICE agents and shot dead. I walked these streets, knew them intimately, so the incidents kept recurring in my mind like vividly detailed movie clips.

Cases of unlawful kidnapping of non-criminals were mounting. A  16 -year-old Osseo High School student, a refugee from Ecuador, was detained and flown to a detention center in Michigan. The January encounter was one of 17 cases (including a case involving a father and his two-year-old daughter being detained and flown to Texas despite court jurisdiction) where DHS (Department of Homeland Security) and ICE officials violated judicial orders involving asylum seekers, undocumented immigrants, and others with pending immigration cases. Now, at the time of this writing, it has been reported that there have been 100 violations of court orders in Minnesota alone due to warrantless break-ins and kidnappings without due process.

Needless to say, my own reactions required a return to blood pressure medication. Challenges at home kept me from being there but I was pacing back and forth and became increasingly difficult to live with. Finally, I was nearly ordered to leave. My girlfriend recognized the extent of my need to be with family, friends and fellow Minnesotans, so I booked a flight and left. I had no idea what turmoil I could expect but I was desperate to voice my objections alongside fellow Minnesotans.

Next I went to 38^th & Chicago where George Floyd was killed by police in 2020. His memorial site has remained a permanent fixture and the intersection has been dubbed George Floyd Square. A few people there were, understandably, a bit wary regarding my presence but I was able to put them at ease in an instant once I stated my purpose in being there. We ended our exchange with handshakes and hugs before parting. Others embraced me wholeheartedly without reservation. Angela Harrelson, George Floyd’s aunt, was at his memorial site that day and we sat down and talked over coffee. What a beautiful person she is! Of course, she’s a nurse, so that stands to reason. How fortunate I was to have met her and how dedicated she is to sustaining his memory and working toward racial equality and the prevention of other senseless killings. She introduced me to King Demetrius Pendleton, an independent photojournalist who covered many of the events surrounding the killing of George Floyd and is covering the current turmoil in Minneapolis. It was truly an honor to meet this warm, courageous and talented man. He has a cast around one ankle due to ICE agents throwing an exploding cannister at him.

The following day, I went to the site where Alex Pretti was killed on 26^th & Nicollet. This is a popular area with a lot of restaurants and storefronts so it wasn’t surprising that there were numerous people at the cordoned off memorial site. However, area businesses had been severely  disrupted and some were forced to close given their employees lived in fear of being detained by ICE and were unwilling to leave their homes. I parked nearby in a restaurant parking lot, leaving and returning several times without incident, finally realizing they were closed at all hours.

Just outside the memorial, an imposing, red-headed man in tartan beret was seated in front of a barrel fire he had provided so visitors to the site could warm themselves in the frigid temperatures. Other chairs and stacks of chopped wood laid in wait. A large savvy, satirical sign declared this area to be the, “ICE MELTING STATION.”

When approaching the Pretti memorial site from the south, one is first presented with a painted portrait of Alex that someone thoughtfully created and left among the drawings, photographs, poems, stuffed toys, signs, flowers, candles, and other honoring mementos that make up the homage to Pretti. I poured over the many details accounting for the countless lives affected by the tragedy. Each offering and every object both magnified and softened the agony over what had happened. My emotions rode the wave, the peaks and troughs of the love and hate represented there. Sorrow was everywhere: in gestures, in silence, in voices and tears.

I spoke to two men standing next to me. I told them that I was born and raised in Minnesota but was now living in Maine. I went on to say,

“I was so distraught hearing the news about what was occurring throughout the state. I felt desperate to get home to my roots as both a show of support and an act of defiance.“

Tears started down the face of one of the men and he thanked me for coming home then reached out for a hug. All three of  us shared a warm embrace— then when I turned to receive the first notes that sounded with the arrival of the Brass Solidarity band, prolonged, dammed up tears of tormenting grief welled up and poured out of me—only to make way for the exhilarating feelings of love and joy and the profound connectedness that permeated the eager crowd. Mourners who were standing still with heads bent, were now animated bodies, weaving and bobbing with flailing limbs, as they danced to Civil rights-era songs—A Change Is Gonna Come, This Little Light of Mine—and Motown favorites. We were proffering safety, our empathy and demonstrating a show of love, to counter the evil done to Alex Pretti at the site and the very ground we stood on. I was proud to be part of that gathering, along with my sister Sharon who came to join me just before the band started up. We felt as though we were witnessing the best of humanity. 

We went and joined a few dozen protesters carrying signs and berating DHS and ICE agents with megaphones as they drove in and out of the detention center. Among the crowd there was a popular, local podcaster and two Australian journalists. One of the more active participants and regular attendee was a flamboyant, brazen, megaphone wielding man who hurled streams of syncopated insults at full volume with every passing car. His antics were so outrageous, I couldn’t help but laugh, blush, and be inspired by them! It was a good opportunity to vent and shed the stored up anger ICE was responsible for. I went back to the parking lot, grabbed a microphone, and spewed a few solid insults of my own (albeit somewhat sheepishly). Unfortunately, there was no chance of witnessing anything within the detention center itself—even politicians and attorneys with scheduled appointments were often refused access. We left to try to find the Alex Pretti memorial site at the Veterans Hospital where he worked before nightfall. This was the same veterans hospital my late, eldest sister, Marcy, an army veteran, went to for her medical care.

Four full days was really all I had. I would have stayed for a Saturday protest had I known this is when a sizeable presence makes itself known. But, no regrets. I accomplished what I needed to in this short span of time—in fact, more than I could have dreamed of. I felt fully embraced as a fellow Minnesotan and left with the assurance that they will take care of one another regardless of circumstances or level of sacrifice. I also had two short visits with my 95-year-old mother while I was there. Those few hours were gratifying and sufficient. No complaints —she knew full well why I had to hit the streets—she and my father travelled the globe and fought for racial justice their entire lives. My sister Sharon’s accompaniment during many of these engagements was not only a reflection of our familial bond, but made perfect sense. Like me—she had to—in the face of injustice, she’s a doer. And Minnesotan through and through.