A Bradenton transplant in Minneapolis

Less than two years ago, I was back home in Bradenton, trudging my way through Zillow as I dipped a toe in the choppy waters of home-buying. My two closest friends were getting ready to move across the country to join me, and we loved daydreaming about the kind of life we might build together in our hypothetical house—we especially loved talking about the pool we would have, if we were lucky. I was also deep in research mode and taking a business start-up class with Realize Bradenton, working toward my dream of opening an independent bookstore in the city where I was raised.

Then came Helene, Debby, Milton, and their friends. As I watched loved ones lose their homes, witnessed the effects of our dwindling wetlands, and learned more about the racket that is home insurance in Florida, it was all too much to stomach. It’s tricky enough being a gay Floridian on a good day. The thought of starting a family there, with leaders who treat the environment as their personal ATM and believe a family like mine shouldn’t exist, began to feel less and less like a wise option.

That’s how we ended up in the great neighborly state of Minnesota—specifically in Minneapolis, where “friendly city” is so much more than a slogan.

In recent weeks, as our adopted hometown has become the focus of global attention, friends and family from around the country have been checking in to make sure we are safe. Most of them express outrage and heartbreak about the cruelty and violence perpetrated by the untrained, unaccountable paramilitary forces occupying our city. But beneath some of the check-ins is a different tone, marked by concern not for the brutish effects of ICE and their pals, but for the perceived antagonization of leftists.

In the places where they choose to get their news, I’m sure these people I love hear certain loaded buzzwords repeated quite often: words like vigilante mobs, paid protestors, violent anarchists. They probably like to imagine that Alex, the nurse who was murdered last weekend, or Renee, the mom who was murdered before that (and who, like me, was a writer who came to Minneapolis in search of a more welcoming community for her queer family), would still be alive today if only they had stayed out of the way.

But staying out of the way when people around you are being hunted, terrorized, and abducted is not very neighborly. So, in between work and chores and all the normal daily tasks of life, Minnesotans have been bundling up, grabbing our whistles, and heading outside. We take a slow walk around the neighborhood, checking the plates on tinted SUVs we don’t recognize. We pick up groceries for those too terrified to leave their house. We stand guard at vulnerable businesses to make sure workers get home safely. And when we hear honking and whistling, or when another part of the city sends out a call for witnesses, we converge as quickly as we can, and we march in unison, even though on some level we know the next itchy trigger finger could be pointed at us.

The vast majority of us aren’t paid organizers. There are some anarchists, sure (and if that word scares you, I’d encourage you to do some reading—it’s more expansive than you might think), and there are moderates, and regular old Democrats, and grandmas in #RESIST sweatshirts, and people who normally don’t pay all that much attention, and even a few shame-faced conservatives. I’m sure plenty of us were arguing with each other during the last round of local elections, but we’re ready to lock arms together now. Like when Manatee County residents across the political spectrum worked together to oust KVO and his commissioner cronies: There might be a hell of a lot we disagree on, but something powerful happens when we rally around what we share.

The final thing I want to tell you about—the reason I started writing this in the first place—is the singing. The day after Alex Pretti was murdered, on the coldest weekend of the year, I gathered with well over a thousand people in one of the gorgeous old churches downtown for a singing protest. The songs were simple and repetitive, ideal for quick learning—one that I’ve been humming to myself ever since goes like this: “Every one, oh every one, oh every one of these people are ours, just like we are theirs. We belong to them, they belong to us.” The first round of each song was a little tentative as we all tried to catch the melody, but in no time the voices grew strong and bold, rising from every pew, every balcony, and every doorway where the standing-room crowd pressed inside.

Later that night, hyper-local singing vigils rose up throughout Minnesota. Our household printed out songsheets and walked half a block to stand in an intersection with several dozen neighbors, holding candles and singing old folk protest songs. The kids from across the alley who like to use our basketball hoop even brought a tray of cupcakes. The temperature was in double-digit negatives, but the warmth was palpable.

To be clear, historically, I am someone who only sings when I am sure nobody else can hear the notes I miss. But lately I’ve been finding my voice, and the sheer number of other voices raised around me gives me the courage to use it. I highly recommend it. If you’re reading this and want to help but don’t know what to do, first consider breaking out your wallet. (Here’s a great resource: https://linktr.ee/MutualAidMN50501.) Then grab some signs, candles, or both, and find some friends to sing with. New songs or old, slow dirges or bouncy toe-tappers, whatever moves you.

I don’t mean to imply that everything is hunky-dory here and we’re all in kumbaya singalong mode now. Everybody I know is exhausted and anxious. Even those of us who are relatively safe and privileged feel the effects of living under a federal occupation. Occasionally, things quiet down enough for the adrenaline and vigilance to subside, and in those moments the weight of it all—neighbors losing their jobs because they can’t leave the house, families that have already been torn apart, the grief over those who were murdered for standing up, the fear about who might be next—is almost too much to bear.

And despite the immediacy and moment-to-moment urgency that mark these days, the systems and policies that led us here predate Donald Trump and will not simply disappear when he and his minions get bored and move on to the next target of their vendetta. There’s a long road behind us, and there are mountains ahead, and those who stand in our path are formidable. They have deep pockets and big guns, not to mention the endless data supplied by a technocratic surveillance state, and they are very fond of their power.

We are far from outnumbered, though, and communal singing helps me remember that. It’s why my tears of grief and anger sometimes yield to tears that feel almost like joy. Or at least gratitude. There is literal brain science about this. Singing together bonds us to each other and lights up neural pathways that help regulate our emotions. It builds up the inner fortitude we need to take action. There’s a lesson from history in all this, too: When one side shows up with rifles and helicopters and chemical sprays, while the other side shows up with young kids and singing grandmas and people who barely had time to grab a jacket before heeding the call, I know which side I want to be on.