I AM SO PROUD OF YOU. And I am absolutely floored by your incredible display of strength. But I am not one bit surprised. You know the first thing I thought after it became blatantly obvious the regime was targeting you because you represent everything they don’t? (i.e. quiet intelligence, deep compassion, cultural integrity, invisible strength, a collective soul, creative wit, earned wisdom, and whole lotta grace.)

I thought, really? Minnesota? The one state with a moral compass that should actually be guiding the country? Minneapolis, the most strangely connected city, where like, Johnny Appleseed and Prince live next door to Hermoine Granger in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood? Hm. Interesting choice.

Fifteen+ years ago, my older sister Tonya (a Minnesotan for almost 30 years now) was throwing shade at Wisconsin, and like the know-it-all little sister I used to be, I was like, puh-leeease Minnesota and Wisconsin are exactly the same. She side-eyed me like I had just tried to convince her ICE is making her communities safer. Like girrrrl, you know nothing.

Mm…No. No, they aren’t.

She had been fully immersed in both states, me, just the one, yet I thought my assessment of Minnesotans based on almost nothing was more accurate. It was not. Ego is hard to swallow sometimes. Decades later I consider Wisconsin the trashy cousin* with a touch of class and you’re like, the badass witty matriarch figure. You know the one. Wait. Are you Garfield’s Grandma? Holy shit. Oooooo boy, the US government just picked a fight with Grandma Arbuckle.

If you haven’t seen a Garfield holiday special, let me tell you about Grandma Arbuckle. First of all, she’s a hoot. She dresses hip, rides a motorcycle, a quick smack of a wooden spoon if you overstep in her kitchen. Whip-smart, doesn’t peacock, doesn’t need to. Sharp as a tack, tough as nails, she’s stoic in her emotions, but feels deeply. I still tear up when she’s rocking in her chair, eyes glistening holding Grandpa’s love letters, looking out the snowy window with Garfield on her lap. Grandma Arbuckle is the only character Garfield actually respects and loves with this earned adoration. Because she makes him feel seen.

That is Minnesota.

Two sisters and too many of my friends live in the Twin Cities area. I’ve been exploring your neighborhoods for decades, I consider you my second home, and boy do I have some fine homes to choose from, everybody’s door always open. But I usually just prefer to sleep in my rooftop tent, which I often pop on the street parked in front of my friend’s house in St. Louis Park, just minutes from Minneapolis. The neighbors know my car. They know me. I feel safe in my little outdoor cocoon in the city.

Well, I used to. Ya’ll got E V I L slithering through the hood now, trying to poison the well. Backyards, garden plots, school bus stops heavy with lingering chemical agents, streets full of flash bangs, abandoned cars of people detained, disappeared. A city under siege. And for what? To Make America…Great? But the regime misjudged how much Minnesotans care about protecting their waters.

The Midwest is filled with hardy Scandinavian people accustomed to what some people call harsh conditions, and we just call February. But ya’ll, Minnesotans are built different. You consider your “neighbors” everyone within like, an hour’s drive. Feels like every city kid has a rural connection or rural roots, giving Minnesotans a firm foot in both worlds, a peek under the hood of reality.

My born and raised small town Minnesotan brother-in-law is a tax attorney, his mom is a retired OBGYN night nurse, his dad is farmer and his entire family grew up carney kids helping run their Granny’s Apple stand at county fairs all over Minnesota, celebrating the close of the season with long hours at the Minnesota State Fair. His is the first family who instead of telling me, showed me with their actions that to be Catholic wasn’t bad, there were just a lot of bad Catholics out there, claiming to be good people under the guise of hypocritical Bible quotes. While my own family has literally kicked me out of their homes twice on Thanksgiving (once by my dad, once by my brother), I am forever and always invited to every single one of their family gatherings. So don’t worry fam, I’m not a real orphan.

Speaking of, you all spend way more time with your extended families than I’m comfortable with. And you seem to actually like each other, despite any differences you may have. My friends Lindsey + Michael live like a mile from her mom and a block from his parents and a few blocks from his sister and a few more blocks from her brother, squeeze in the grandparents somewhere and then sprinkle all their friends in between. Like Pleasantville without the creepy vibe.

You embrace difference, culture and expression, like a racially diverse Norman Rockwell painting. Whenever I feel lonely in Wisconsin, need a high-dose of genuine connection, I’d get in my truck destined for a Minnesota couch. One Sunday, after a particularly my-cup-overflow-eth weekend, I dreaded leaving the warm hug of your community.

Lindsey had invited me to a fundraiser to give beds to kids transitioning to permanent housing, a cause I found at the time to be strangely specific, but now I realize you’re just capable of seeing the bigger picture of the injustices of the world, like if each Minnesotan chips in just a bit to help them all, you’ll move the needle. Your grassroots efforts to win tiny battles at the community level are unparalleled. Each of you gives what you can give, however you can give it. One Trampled by Turtle even joined my friend’s band for an afternoon of bluegrass and community building at the Ukrainian American Community Center, because that’s how you do it. You find a way to help your neighbors, with art and creative kindness and generosity so ingrained in your up-bringing, it feels hard to believe this place is real.

Recapping the weekend filled with music + friends + strangers + my sisters + good food + just causes on Sunday morning, I asked Lindsey: Is it always like this?

I have this friend. During one of the hundreds of hours we must have spent working side-by-side fine-tuning software, he once confided the reason he speaks slowly is because he thinks carefully about how to say each word, in order to erase all hints of his Nigerian accent. At the time this confused me. I couldn’t understand why someone would choose to switch to the most bland sound in the world. Mission accomplished though, I just assumed he’d lived here all his life.

But I get it now. I mean, the administration just restricted adoption from several countries, including Nigeria. I guess babies from certain (Black) countries are just born criminals now. As dark as this world is, I wanted to send him a message of hope, so I shared a little something about who I know you to be:

My neighbors took down the small Cuban flag that’s been proudly displayed on their front door since I moved in almost fifteen years ago. I had to warn my dental hygienist while we selected the best shade for my new tooth. She said she had her green card. I looked her in the eyes. I don’t think that matters anymore, they’re just taking people who look…I saw the recognition in her eyes, fear as she put her hand to her chest. People like me? I put my hand on her shoulder. How do you comfort a stranger while saying, Yes. You be would be a target.

I had to be the one to tell my dental hygienist she was no longer safe in America. But I also told her of my hope, that Minnesota was fighting for her, that you were tough, and that I would fight for her here, that she was my neighbor. But inside I wondered just how strong my community will be, when the time comes. They’re already here.

^{Everyone’s afraid of the big bad wolf.
But Minnesotans keep showing up anyway.
THAT IS MINNESOTA.}

You are fighting the entire country’s war, Minnesota, even if some people refuse to acknowledge it.

YOU GOT THIS. And it has to be you. You represent what the United States of America can be, should be, will be again. Because in a battle between Garfield the Cat’s Grandma and the United States Government, I’ll put my money on Grandma Arbuckle. Every. Single. Time.

Our brothers and sisters have been carrying this fear for too long. It’s time to cash in our white privilege in exchange for a better world. We know who the bad guys are and they come in all sorts of shapes and colors: The one’s at the top, looking down, trying to crush everything you stand for:

Quiet intelligence, deep compassion, cultural integrity, invisible strength, a collective soul, creative wit, earned wisdom, and whole lotta grace.

That is Minnesota

_{*Don’t get your panties in a bundle Wisconsin, I still love you, and being the trashy cousin is fun. Besides you KNOW it’s true.}