Once again, the Eagle descends from it's flagpole.
Red blood, white cars, blue uniforms
Talons upon talons, guns loaded, masks on, no rules
It searches every residence, every business, every school
It hunts, it hunts
It smells blood
Somali, Muslim, Latino
Young, old, poor, sick
Whoever it decides todays prey is.
It kills and kills.
It destroys homes, instills despair
It ruins lives, it pollutes the air
It could be anywhere.
I felt lost in the alleyways, until I caught the signal
A broadcast, naked to the eye, moving quietly in the night
A network, a collective, ready to fight
We congregated in conspicuous places
We were hidden in plain sight
Eyes everywhere, visuals on every stoplight
Ready to watch the Eagle, dawn or twilight
We could be anywhere.
Through the harsh winter, the Eagles trail of blood continued
A nurse taken from us too young, the cold froze our tears
We blocked roads, lit fires to stay warm, and shouted for the Eagle to hear
We swore that from now on, the Eagle would fear
And it did. Still, we watched
Despite their new rentals, new masks, new tactics, we watched
The Eagle will never feel safe, anywhere it dares to tread
We will watch.
Months later, the Eagle still lingers overhead
But the sun rises, and we still see it
The snow melts, and new greenery blooms
The pathetic Eagle searches, but we make sure it doesn't find.
It moves, but it doesn't escape our eyes
We will keep watch until the Eagle dies.
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AUTHORS NOTE: I am a relatively new resident of Minneapolis, Minnesota; I only moved here back in September of 2025. While I've always done my best to put my own beliefs into practice, it always felt like I was so far from anywhere that I could make a real, tangible difference. This, alongside still being on social media until around October, led to this lingering despair regarding the world around me. After spending so long in a place like Houston, I got used to feeling like any action I could take would be punished swiftly and decisively. Every single day, I'd go on the bus to get stared at by people who act as if they've never seen a transgender person before. I'd go online to be told to kill myself right wing losers who spend more time commenting under trans womens' posts than they do outside. I'd hear from friends about whatever new bill some shithead with a seat in office was trying to propose to illegalize my very own existence. While living as a trans woman can desensitize you to such injustices and to some extent it feels as if my identity and community is tied to this struggle that we don't deserve, sometimes it would just. Hit all at once. It can feel overwhelming. Crushing. Hopeless. Moving to Minneapolis, I wasn't naive enough to believe I'd escape such things; while I do feel safer here, I am well aware that the same fascist machine that turned me into such a target back then is omnipresent, alive, and running without any resistance from any federal organization.
Around the time I moved here, ICE activity in Minnesota began increasing drastically. Being from so far down south, I'm certainly no stranger to living somewhere where it felt like my neighbors could be taken away without any intervention. A coworker and acquaintance of mine had been forcibly removed from the country just last year. So when I heard it was happening here too in such large numbers, it felt like I finally had a chance to do right by the community here that welcomed me with such open arms from a state that has shown me nothing but vitriol. My biggest regret coming from Houston was that I didn't really understand what being part of a community meant. I'd show up in what little ways I could, especially living somewhere where having no car means you have no life, but I didn't really know how to make connections. I didn't understand how to get further entrenched in active community defense efforts. Here in Minneapolis, they've been through this before; the same communal methods of keeping tabs on police activity in the early 2020s was a perfect fit for keeping watch on ICE. I learned so much from those around me. I met so many amazing people, all of whom I highly respect. And I don't mean DSA speakers, PSL organizers, or anyone like that. I mean the people who took to the streets of my neighborhood, putting their lives on the line to protect our neighbors who were the current targets of the seemingly unstoppable killing machine. The people who offered their selves and their vehicles and such to make sure our neighbors who were at higher risk of being detained or worse could continue receiving groceries and getting their kids to school. The people who were willing to openly share whatever they could, whether it be food, money, clothes, gas masks, whistles, etc. Those who used their art and cooking to keep morale up, even as the United States government sent faceless thugs with loaded weapons and permission to kill at will into our peaceful, beautiful little city.
This poem is intended to be partially a love letter to my community and to those who have been murdered and brutalized by the state sponsored violence, partially my first foray into poetry (a former passion of mine) in years, and partially a way to process all of the feelings I'm still kinda coming to terms with. It's really hard to neatly describe what it's like to live so close to stuff that will be in history books someday, to take part in doing something that has been proven to be sometimes met with lethal consequences no matter how peaceful you are about it. While I never want to fall into the trap of acting as if Alex Pretti was the only important victim of ICE's murder spree, it's hard not to be deeply affected when your own neighbor is killed in cold blood trying to help another victim of the feds. I've never seen the video; back then, I knew there was no way I could handle it. I remember being there when we set up the memorial for him, I pass by the same memorial almost everyday. It's hard to think of specific days that changed my life, since it feels like most life-changing things are gradual. But after what I've seen, I know I will never be the same. It feels wrong to say I was inspired by him; I've seen his face, he lived in my neighborhood, but I didn't know him personally. He never asked to be a martyr, but his bravery inspired me to get involved with my community more than I ever thought I could. I was getting there before, but after he was murdered I realized that I need to get to a point where I can confidently say I would've done the same. It wouldn't mean much to say that I am now, but I'd really like to hope that I would.
As of writing this, ICE's occupation has eased a little, but make no mistake: this is still an ongoing situation, and it's bigger than Minneapolis. It's bigger than ICE, or the current president of the United States. Our elected officials will not save us, they are not beholden to work for us. Right now, ICE and other federal agencies are still raiding daycares in south Minneapolis. If you want to make a change, talk to the people in your community. Get involved with or form systems to defend your community and neighbors in times of need, and get to know and love them in times of peace. The ONLY way to make change is to organize. While I lean pretty far left, I am just one person and I don't have all the answers for what perfect resistance looks like. You have to get to know people, and you have to discuss these big ideas and figure out what you can do for your community in the moment. THAT is where sustainable resistance begins.