Where Love Still Lives, Even in 2026

Photo taken in the streets of St. Paul, June 2026

As I pack up our home—patching nail holes, touching up trim, sorting decades of life into boxes—I keep losing my place. Not just in the work, but in myself. This house has held us for more than twenty years, perched on the border of North Dakota and Minnesota along the Red River of the North. And while the rooms slowly empty, my thoughts refuse to stay here.

They keep returning to Minneapolis.
To St. Paul.
To Minnesota.

I am trying to find the right words to explain my love, my compassion, and my grief—but the truth is, I can’t focus for long. I feel frozen. Angry. Horrified. I am living out of suitcases again, stretched between places and responsibilities, wanting desperately to be physically present with those I love in the Twin Cities, while also needing to remain here for my family. So, I do what I can from a distance. I pray. I stay informed. I donate. I listen. I can’t believe this is only three and a half weeks into 2026.

It has been several days now—days marked by horror. Murders. Children abducted. Families torn apart. People afraid to leave their homes. People harmed simply for showing up to work. Beneath the shock and the headlines, I find myself grappling with something deeper: how to speak to the public, how to plead for this to stop, how to name the invasion of ICE without losing my humanity in the process.

I don’t know if this awareness comes from being Indigenous.

From growing up in a border community.

From having family divided by an invisible line drawn by human hands—a border that once meant nothing to us, until it meant everything.

We used to move freely.

Over time, that freedom narrowed. Tightened. Disappeared.

Or maybe it comes from being a descendant of Indigenous ancestors who lived in Mni Sota, in the village of Kaposia—what many now call St. Paul. Or maybe it comes from memory. From lived experience.

I remember sitting next to my cousin in the backseat of my grandfather’s car at a red light in the heart of Minneapolis. He leaned out the window, tickled the feet of someone riding in the car next to us, then sped off laughing—ears wiggling, joy unbothered, fearless. In another memory, I remember our large family packed into a van long before GPS existed, circling block after block to find the right street for a barbecue with relatives in the suburbs. Later, piling into Valleyfair with even more family. So many of my childhood memories live here. This place was home long before I had language for belonging.

There was also a moment—one I return to often—when I stood in the streets of Minneapolis near First Avenue, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, mourning and celebrating the loss of our dear Prince. We didn’t know one another, yet we hugged as if we did. We cried openly. We sang together in the literal Purple Rain, our voices uneven but united, grief and gratitude braided into something sacred. For days, the city felt held—by music, by memory, by love. No one asked who you voted for. No one asked where you came from. We simply showed up for one another, honoring a life that had given us so much beauty.

That moment mattered. It still does. Because it reminds me that this city knows how to grieve with dignity, how to celebrate with tenderness, how to hold one another without fear. Minneapolis has done this before—stood together in the streets not in rage, but in love. And when I look at what is happening now, I find myself asking quietly: how did we forget ourselves so quickly?

Minneapolis is where I watched my children grow—through parks and school shopping trips, educational events, dance competitions. As a young teen, I ran those streets safely and happily. During my college years, it became my escape. It’s where I ended up at a Paisley Park after-party I never planned on attending. It’s where my child now plans to attend college. It’s where I watched one of my most beloved humans fall in love—and celebrate that love in the streets, and at the top of a building that touches the sky.

I have worked in the Twin Cities since the very beginning of my arts career. That feels inevitable now, considering my teachers once brought me there to learn how to see art at a very young age. Over time, my work turned toward advocacy. I marched. I stood at rallies. I walked alongside Minnesotans. I was given space to speak—and I worked just as hard to make space for others. It is also where my spouse and I go to find our joy in one another, dancing, laughing, remembering how freedom once felt in our bodies.

So, while my zip code may not read “Minneapolis,”
my heart does.
My spirit does.
My formative and core memories live there.

That is why it hurts so deeply to see Minneapolis painted as a war zone. Yes, it carries history—painful history. From the Dakota War of 1862 to Philando Castile, to George Floyd, now to the loss of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. What we are witnessing now—children abducted, families terrorized—is not Minnesotan. This is not community. This is not safety. This is not what being American should be. We need to change.

What we are seeing is power dressed up as protection. Cruelty masquerading as order. Adults playing cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians—reenacting myths instead of interrogating them—while real families pay the price. This is propaganda doing exactly what it was designed to do: exhaust us, divide us, and convince us that harm is inevitable.

And if I’m honest--
I long for my grandparents right now.

I long for their hugs, the kind that slowed your breath and reminded you that you were not alone. I long for the way we could sit around that kitchen table—no phones, no headlines—just voices, feelings, and time, maybe with a bowl of soup between us. We would talk things through. We would ask questions. We would disagree with care. We would ask what to do, how to help, who needs us. I want to be held in that quiet certainty that comes from being surrounded by love that asks nothing in return.
That kitchen table taught me what community looks like before I had words for it.

Listening.
Care.
Accountability.
Love.
Being nourished.

I wish—deeply—that people would get over their pride. Their ego. Their need to control others in such cruel and gruesome ways. It is okay to throw those red caps away. It is okay to admit that maybe you didn’t realize how far this would go, that you didn’t imagine so much hatred could live within a federal administration. This is not about political parties. This is about humanity.

The hunger for power at any cost is absurd—and it is coming with a cost. Not just financial, but moral. It is eroding our collective compass. We cannot show up to church on Sundays and then walk back out into the world harming others. That contradiction matters. And if you are attending a service where violence, dehumanization, or cruelty is promoted or excused, my friends, please seek another church. Faith should never be weaponized. It should never require the suffering of others to feel righteous.
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As Anishinaabe people, I am incredibly thankful that we are taught to live in love—for people, for land, for water, for air. I am thankful those teachings called me back when the noise grew too loud, when the world felt unrecognizable. I am thankful for the Creator, who humbles me daily and reminds me that what may seem small to others is still a gift. Breath is a gift. Care is a gift. Choosing not to harm is a gift.

And so I return—again—to that night near First Avenue. To strangers holding one another in the rain. To voices raised together in grief and love. That wasn’t weakness. That was strength. That was a city remembering who it was.

That memory has not disappeared. There are attempts to bury this love and light beneath fear and noise and propaganda meant to make us forget our capacity for care. But love is stubborn. Memory is stubborn. Light is stubborn.

Maybe the work now is not to invent something new—but to remember ourselves back into being. To love as we once did in the streets, in the rain, without conditions. To learn to love ourselves and one another enough that we are not fooled by cruelty masquerading as righteousness. To choose light. To protect light. To be light.

Because Minneapolis is not disposable.
Its people are not expendable.
And our humanity—once remembered—can still guide us home.

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