Minneapolis Part 1

This is a two-parter because this one needs to be a post all on its own.

I was excited to get to the city for a number of reasons. I was going to stay with my former pastor and his wife. We’d grown so close during their time in Montana. I’m not even a very religious person, but they made it easy to be part of the church.

When I met Arne, Tom* and I were looking for a pastor to marry us. We had been informed by his conservative father that if we didn’t have an ordained minister marry us, Tom’s parents wouldn’t give us any money for the wedding, attend to it at all, or recognize our marriage. We were pretty upset at first, but we figured it was a small sacrifice to make in the grand scheme of things. Originally we had asked a friend to marry us. She was religious and her husband had gone to seminary school. We valued them and their faith and wanted someone meaningful to us to do the ceremony. It didn’t go over well with his parents. I think it was because she was a woman, but his dad said it was because she wasn’t ordained. Either way, I knew I wanted to find someone who aligned with my values and wasn’t going to shove God down our throats, make us convert, or turn our wedding into a religious event.

Arne was the definition of attraction rather than promotion. We met him by chance. I had originally tried to have the other pastor of the church, a woman, marry us. I was going to show his dad he couldn’t control everything. She wasn’t available so we met with Arne. I was prepared to ask him hard questions so I could see if it was the right fit. We weren’t members of the church and hadn’t been to a service, but he was a Lutheran pastor and Tom had grown up in the Lutheran church, so it seemed like our best option. When we sat down in his office, I grilled him on gay marriage, abortion, and everything in between, I wanted to make sure the man who was going to marry us was not an evangelist.

Arne was anything but that. It was relieving and so refreshing to have a thoughtful conversation about faith and issues that were important to me. We talked about his kids and our values and bonded over our love of film. It was remarkable. I had gone in there bound and determined to prove Tom’s father wrong. This was our last hope for a minister. We had met a few others and no one was available. I was relieved and surprisingly excited about him.

I think our meeting was divinely inspired. We instantly bonded and have been close ever since. Arne and I had an especially close relationship. I knew he was special and he thought I was too. I also loved his wife Susan. Just as much in fact. She was hilarious. Arne towered over me at well over 6 feet and Susan couldn’t have been taller than 5 feet. They were an odd-looking couple, but when you saw them together, you could see why they fell in love. They embodied what partnership looked like. They had raised two beautiful and dynamic girls and were so proud of them, as they should be.

One of my favorite memories in Helena with Susan and Arne was going to their house to learn how to make communion bread. Since he was marrying us, Tom and I decided to get a bit more involved with the church. Arne’s congregation embodied so much of the love that he did. Everyone, even though they were all at least twice our age, welcomed us with open arms. I had trouble keeping track of them all, but they always remembered our names. I ended up singing in the church choir for a bit, and Tom dusted off his trumpet and played in the church band. It was dorky as fuck, but the memories of that time are really special.

Susan taught me the good communion bread recipe, not the one that the other church ladies made. She said the other one was too dry, and I agreed. I had decided to get even more involved, and with Susan’s nudge, decided to make communion bread one Sunday a month. I only did it because it was really simple to make, an easy commitment, and it ended up being a treat because the bread was delicious. Susan showed me the tricks and we made a big batch. She sent me home with a bunch of round disks of buttery goodness. I ended up loving the recipe so much that I would double the batch when I made it for church so I could keep some for myself. I would eat it hot out of the oven or save it for later because it was that good. My mom loved it too so I always brought some over to her house when I made it. I even brought it once to this annual outdoor summer symphony as my contribution to the picnic. After my friends got done making fun of me, they ate their words and the bread because it was so delicious.

Susan and Arne were much more than good friends, they were family. When I had my two miscarriages, they were so supportive. They were there for both of us during those devastating days. One day Susan brought me a giant bag of Hot Tamales. She knew how much I loved them so she brought me the Costco-sized bag. It was comforting knowing we had them during a time of such despair for both of us.

When I decided to leave Tom, I called Arne first. We had a long conversation and I told him how I felt. He was of course devastated but supported me in any decision I would make. He said he’d pray for me and asked only that I pray about it too. I did. I prayed long and hard. I wrote about it and I talked to my therapist and my sponsor. This was not a decision I made lightly. I loved Tom. I think I always will. But as husband and wife, we just don’t work. As friends, yes. Best friends even. In a perfect world, we could be close and still be able to talk about football and baseball and the boys. We still do in small doses, and I’m grateful our friendship has outlasted the pain of the divorce. I know the dynamic will fade though as we both move on.

I was so sad when Arne and Susan told me they were moving back to Minneapolis. It's the area they are both from and where they raised their kids. Both of their girls still live there so I was happy for them, despite me selfishly wanting to keep them forever.

When I realized I would be making my way towards them I knew I needed to reach out. They were overjoyed to host me and the boys. Arne had lots of plans for us and I was excited to see them, meet their kids finally, and experience the city again.

The last time I was in Minneapolis was the previous May for a Justin Bieber concert. I went with a girlfriend and two other girls for her 40th birthday. It was magical. We splurged for great seats but snuck up to be even closer. We were so close I could have touched him if I had stepped forward just five feet or so. Everywhere we went, over the long weekend, the room would light up and everyone wanted to be our friends.

It was also the trip where I realized I didn’t want to be married to Tom anymore. I had been unhappy for several years but the thought of leaving had never crossed my mind. It wasn’t until being in the city and meeting new people and finally feeling seen, like really seen, as my big beautiful self, that I realized I needed to set myself free. I had lost so much of that living in Helena and being in my marriage. It was a light I carried back to Helena and what ultimately led me to leave Tom a few months later.

I say Justin Bieber gave me a spiritual experience, but it really was the city. It was surreal to be back in the place where it all started. This time I was on a trip I only dreamed of making a reality back then.

When I arrived at Arne and Susan's house they welcomed me with the longest warm embrace. It had been far too long since we’d seen each other in person. The boys were so happy too. Arne and Susan greeted them with open arms and the boys knew this place would be a joyful stop. Their house was beautiful. Compared to the one in Helena, this place was a dream. It was nestled in a historic neighborhood where most of the houses were roughly a hundred years old. Susan gave me a tour. Every room we went in was even better than the next. The house had been clearly well-loved and most of the original details remained. Every door had stunning vintage crystal doorknobs and the wood floors were original. There was a little nook by the bathroom that was previously used for a phone. Susan showed me my room and it caught me by surprise. I thought we’d be staying in our camper, but they wouldn’t stand for that. Of course they wanted us to have a cozy room for the next couple of days. The room was inviting and air-conditioned, a welcome reprieve from the unbearable heat. My favorite part of the house was the bathroom. The original floor and wall tiles were still intact and the color pallet looked like something out of Mad Men. The floor was a checkered pattern of small pale pink and green tiles. The walls, including the shower, were the same pale pink but with jet-black lines as accents. This would be my home for the next few days. I was almost as excited for the accommodations as I was for the company.

After we settled, Arne told us he had a bunch of ideas for the night. We had arrived in the afternoon so we had plenty of time to do it all. He also made sure everything was dog-friendly so the boys could tag along.

Our first stop was the George Floyd memorial. On my previous trip to the city, I couldn’t help but notice the presence of frustration and anger the people of color felt living in the city. There were murals around every corner of the downtown area where we stayed. One building had a number of black people painted on the entire side, including a realistic image of George Floyd himself.

I witnessed the lack of change and blatant racism that pulsed through the city. One late night my friends and I were walking to a pizza place just down the street from our hotel. One of my friends had had a few drinks and is quite social and exceptional at making friends while in this state. She approached two black men on the sidewalk that we were passing on our route. We saw them give her big hugs from a distance as the three of us caught up to her. I immediately connected with one of them. We sat and talked about everything under the sun. What happened next was alarming and not expected. A cop started circling the block and passed us several times while we were talking with the two men. At one point he slowed down, in the middle of the street, almost to a complete stop to stare at us, clearly looking for trouble. I looked right at the cop and I think asked him a question but I don’t remember. What I do remember was looking back at my new friend and seeing his entire body become stiff and stand perfectly still. Once I acknowledged the cop, clearly annoyed by his stopping, he moved on. We were not in distress. I think because I was white and my body language and facial expression called him out, he realized he wasn’t about to get away with profiling the situation.

I turned back to the man I was talking with and I could see the rage boiling up inside of him. He had grown up in the city and experienced the full effect of the collective anger following George Floyd’s death, roughly two years ago to the day. I looked at the man, and without even thinking, grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, looked at him intensely, and acknowledged his anger. I told him I was angry too. I told him he should be angry, that the incident that had just unfolded was bullshit and completely unfounded. I validated him, I gave him a hug, but I reminded him that his rage in that moment was not worth reacting to. I get it. I would have blown a gasket if I were in his shoes, but I maintained my grip and solid eye contact with him and told him not to let them win. I said, be angry, fight for this injustice, but don’t react right now. Not now, not like this. Maybe I was wrong for reacting like that, maybe I overstepped. I wasn't the one being targeted by the openly racist behavior, but he slowly relaxed and appeared thankful he had an ally in that moment. I felt peace knowing in that moment all he needed was to be seen and acknowledged.

Because what is total bullshit is that, just like George Floyd, these men were doing nothing wrong, had we not been there maybe the situation would have escalated, maybe not, but the tension between the police and the black community was palpable and quite disturbing. Not saying we were the saviors, but the experience demonstrated white privilege to its finest. The protests had made very little impact, and the city was still experiencing firsthand racism and police brutality with absolutely no accountability for the cops. There's still so much work to be done.

We decided to invite them to pizza. I was enjoying the company and wanted to continue this conversation with my new friend.

That’s just one instance of the magic and awakening that happened while I was in Minneapolis the year prior. That particular experience was painful, but it added to the profound impact the city and its people had on me every second of the trip. And I knew it would. The epidemic of police brutality and the national spotlight on the Black Lives Matter movement were still at the forefront of our minds because almost nothing had changed and Minneapolis was in the center of it all. Since then, the movement has gained momentum, as it should. The George Floyd memorial serves as an in-your-face reminder of the progress we've made and also the lack thereof.

When Arne drove us to the area where George Floyd was killed, we passed a monument that read, “You are now entering the free state of George Floyd.” The Pan-African Flag waved its red, black, and green stripes from the top of a metal fist held up in the air. I immediately felt a shift in energy as we drove down the street. The road was renamed George Floyd Square, and Arne informed me later that it’s technically a city law that cars are not allowed on the block. As we drove into the area, we pulled over and parked. I noticed when we got out of the car all the names of so many of the victims of police brutality painted on the street. The number of names was alarming. I knew the number was astronomical, but seeing them span most of the city block was disturbing.

A few businesses had remained open on the street, one man owned a barbeque shop and had hung a banner that read, “Black-owned business, we need your support.” The outside of the shop was painted in an array of colors and the message, “The wise build bridges, the foolish build barriers.” Across the street was an abandoned gas station, now serving as a hub for those struggling and offering resources for people in need. We spoke with a woman and Arne gave her a donation. I looked around and saw several people lingering, some of whom had made the parking lot their home. “Where there’s people there’s power,” was painted in large bold lettering on the top of what previously were the gas pumps.

We walked across the street to the abandoned bus stop where the brutal murder had taken place. The entire area was adorned with flowers and memorabilia I’m assuming left by family, friends, and other grieving community members. They bordered the scene of the crime creating a barrier of protection. The tribute included items such as teddy bears and other stuffed animals, paintings, sage, palo santo, and various religious items. There were also several photos of various victims of police brutality including George Floyd. The display had weathered the seasons since his death in May of 2020. The memorial served as a time capsule from a moment of deep loss. The thing that struck me the most was the fact that everything was still intact. The respect and honor of the sacred space was truly remarkable. People had left their personal possessions that went far beyond small gravesite items. These were cherished belongings left because they were better served there rather than in homes where they would otherwise not be seen.

The second I crossed the border into the scene, I burst into tears, and I cried uncontrollably. I knew it would be emotional, but I was not prepared for the flood of emotions that consumed me. It was devastating, but also so full of love. The first thing I noticed were the wooden flower boxes, they were everywhere. Each one was brightly painted with different colors and various messages. The flowers bloomed and were clearly well cared for. Arne told me for the first year or more, on any given day, hundreds of people could be seen visiting the area. While we were there, a small crowd of black men and women, as well as a few other white folks, visited to pay their respects. It was comforting knowing the block had not been forgotten and was still honored and respected by many.

The most profound part of the space was the outline of where George Floyd’s body lay while he desperately tried to take a breath as the police officer held him down with excessive force by the neck with his knee for 9 minutes and 29 seconds while three other officers watched and did nothing. During a protest in Helena, for all the victims of police brutality, we kneeled for the same length of time. I was in so much pain because it was almost physically impossible for me to kneel that long. It started to hurt after less than two minutes which, in itself proved the malicious intent of the officer who killed him. I did my best to hold my position, but my body fought me as my knee and legs cramped and then went numb.

I was overwhelmed, I had no words. After I cried and Arne held me for a second, we weaved through the space in silence. We all had no words. What were we going to say? There’s nothing to say. This was not OK and continues to not be OK. Until real change happens we will continue to see officers kill people of color for no reason at all because they can. Luckily the officer who killed George Floyd and the other officers present were charged and convicted in the death, as they should be, but so many other officers go unpunished for doing the same thing. This is not an isolated incident, and all the names that cover the street are a painful reminder that racism is still alive and well in this country.

Arne told me his daughters had participated in the protests when Minneapolis was uproaring. He said they wrote their parents' numbers in big black Sharpie on their arms just in case something were to happen to them. The fucked up thing about the protests in Minneapolis, and across the nation, was that all the protestors were loud, yet peaceful. Yes, they were angry, but they had no intention of rioting. The police had incited violence against them, and for the most part, the protestors were left to defend themselves. Most of the fires and looting were done by white people taking advantage of the chaos, but that has been lost in the narrative of those against Black Lives Matter. Many proudly post “Back the Blue” signs in their yards and windows, even businesses do, but they are missing the point. Just like the people who say they have a black friend so they can’t be racist, those who allegedly back the blue are doing so because “not all cops are bad.” And I agree, but again, that’s not the point. The point is that in their profession there can’t be any corrupt cops. None. And the fact that so many people are set on promoting the good ones shows their lack of understanding that the good cops aren’t doing anything about the bad cops, which is a problem, and promoting their blue agenda makes them complicit too.

We can try to reform, we can pass legislation, we can protest, but until the cops start standing up for the injustice within their system, they are just as responsible as the ones who commit the crimes. You can’t be good and silent at the same time. That’s not how it works. Silence makes people complicit. And don’t come at me if you think otherwise. I don’t care who you are, all cops should be accountable and have to hold their peers to the same standard.

After we left the Free State of George Floyd, we drove down a nearby neighborhood street and saw another small crowd of people gathering. A section of land had been dedicated as a park space and housed a permanent installation of 132 graves for the victims of police brutality. Each one had the name, date, and location of their death as well as their age. I noticed a theme. So many of the victims were so young. Their lives had been wrongfully taken from them when they still had so much life to live.

I wasn’t planning on dedicating so much of this post to my visit to the George Floyd memorial, but it felt right and I felt like it needed to be said.

*I changed my ex-husband's name as a courtesy and to protect his anonymity.