Queering Melt the ICE: LGBTQ+ Reflections on Minnesota’s Week of Action

At the end of February, Minnesota-based collectives and organizers put together a massive, concerted week of action to protest continued ICE presence and violence across our state and country. As a participant in the week’s events, I want to reflect on what they felt like and reconnect us to the broader political moment/movement. 

This is a long post, but it’s worth the extra reading time. (I’m also going to talk about video games, changemaking classes, and hope, so it isn’t just 2,000 words of heavy shit.) It has been a difficult topic to talk about, which is why these reflections are coming so late. I hope you enjoy it and can take away something valuable to add to your own work.

What was Melt the ICE? 

Bring the Heat: Melt the ICE consisted of two main components, organized by many, many people working together, with the Red Pine Revolutionary Collective helping lead the way. From February 25th-March 1st, political education sessions, welcome centers, meals, protests, patrols, block parties, and more were held throughout the Twin Cities. On Saturday, February 28th, groups across the country staged a national day of action against detention centers. 

These events shared the same goals: Abolish ICE, DHS, and prisons; drop charges against protestors; and release our kidnapped neighbors, friends, and family members. 

I attended multiple political education sessions, as well as the March 1st march on the Whipple Federal Building that resulted in the arrests of roughly 40 people, myself included. 

While the “end” of Operation Metro Surge was announced in February, the situation on the ground is still dire. The federal government may have pulled some agents out of Minnesota, but their operations continue. Check out this community-run reporting map for examples; you can filter by location and time range. Since March 1st, there have been 90 reports made in Minneapolis alone. 

Even if the abductions and arrests were far rarer, this fight would not be over. We are demanding a complete and total stop to government-backed violence, kidnapping, murder, and fearmongering. We know better than to trust this administration when they say they’re doing/not doing something—after all, it is the same conflict-hungry government that hasn’t officially declared war since 1942. 

Queer alliance with antifascist work 

For many LGBTQ+ individuals, joining the fight against ICE hasn’t even been a question. In Minnesota, where queer support networks and activist groups have been expanding for decades, we are primed for this fight and recognize its importance. 

As oppressed people, we understand the pain, fear, and danger that comes with being targeted by the state. While many of us may have grown up in a slightly more accepting political climate, we’ve still faced hatred and violence, and we know our history. No oppression happens in isolation, and because of our own exposure to this violence, we’re more likely to speak out against it. 

I speak of the community more broadly, as of course, individuals have had unique experiences of this moment. Some people are more involved than others, and not all LGBTQ+ folks have joined us in this fight. But I think it’s important to understand why so many of us are out there doing this work. 

Minnesota’s queer-owned businesses have been leading efforts for mutual aid, supplying protestors, and modifying their business to better meet the needs of the community right now. Because that’s another key fact: the people targeted by ICE are our community. Whether they’re our LGBTQ+ siblings or our cishet neighbors, they are a valuable part of our lives. Immigrants can be queer or trans—and have their own complex relationships to those identities—and we should be fighting for every member of our community, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation. 

Our history of fighting for our own rights, the right to be alive, to be married, to have healthcare, and more, also gives us tools and care networks that are well-suited to this fight. From organizing Halloween marches to helping a family avoid eviction, we have skills we can bring to this work. Skills that are needed and that we can share with others to strengthen all of our movements. 

As terrible as this year has been, the silver lining for me has been seeing how many different people are showing up in their own ways. To see groups with different goals, people of disparate backgrounds, comrades from all across the country coming together in pursuit of one goal. We know that liberation for some is not true liberation, and that by working together, we can better leverage our strengths and avoid putting all the burden on just a few groups of people. 

Finding your role in this fight 

Last year, Rachel and I wrote about changemaking character classes as a way to envision the different ways people can contribute to change. In many of my conversations with other anti-ICE activists and organizers, finding your role was a central element. I view these topics as connected, but I think one’s role may not entirely be the same as their class, so I want to explore it more here. 

First, why your role is important. Obviously knowing what strengths you can bring to this work will make you a better advocate, activist, and ally. Additionally, so many of us are stuck in spirals of helplessness and fear and feelings that we aren’t doing enough. In some cases, that’s because we haven’t found our role yet, so we don’t feel good about how we’re using our energies. From my observations, it seems that once you’ve found your role, it’s easier to let go of some of that stress and focus your energy in more beneficial ways. 

To me, an activist’s character class may not change significantly throughout their life, or at least changes rarely. It’s a way to understand what types of changemaking you naturally gravitate toward, and functions as a large category of work you might be best at. Your role, though, is specific to each fight, may change frequently, and can depend on many factors. 

In considering my role, these are the things I’ve thought about: 

• My changemaking class 
• My capacity in this moment. This includes multiple types of capacity: physical, emotional, mental, organizational, etc. 
• What resources I already have available or know how to access 
• How prepared I am for certain actions or outcomes 
• The care networks I am a part of, and their strengths and gaps 
• How risky certain actions may be for me and for those I care about 
• What risk level I’m willing to accept for myself 

Clearly, my thinking around character classes helped me with these considerations, but on its own, it wasn’t enough to inform what direct actions I was taking. I’ve also found that my role can include a lot of flexibility, being able to jump in on odd tasks here and there when I have the capacity to do so. 

A nerdy aside: understanding classes and roles through the lense of Dragon Age: Origins

When you first begin Bioware’s 2009 masterpiece Dragon Age: Origins, you must choose your class. You can choose from the archetypal Warrior, Rogue, and Mage. These classes affect the basic ways you will engage with the world of Thedas: only rogues can pick locks, only mages can use most magic, and only warriors can kick a Hurlock’s teeth in without flinching. 

Your class will also affect dialogue choices, plot elements, what stats you value, and weapon choice. In other words, a class is the basic background you bring to this world, informing everything you do and are capable of doing, much like Rachel and I’s changemaking classes describe a basic set of skills and preferences that affect how we approach all of our work.

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Three classes seems so limiting, though, no? That’s where specializations come in. 

Each class can access up to four specializations, and can choose two throughout the course of the game. This allows you to further specialize your character in response to gameplay and plot events. 

My most recent character was a trans mage. Throughout her fight against the Fifth Blight, she specialized first into a Spirit Healer (increasing her capacity to heal and bolster her companions) and then an arcane warrior (giving her enhanced combat capabilities). As a very conservative mage, she hated blood mages, and wasn’t ok with the idea of shapeshifting (the other two specialization options). 

The key element of specialization in DAO, and what makes the metaphor work for me, is that you do not automatically have access to specializations. You must unlock them; sometimes through plot choices, sometimes through books, and sometimes from a specific character. 

Thus, in DAO, specializations are a direct response to a character’s own history and choices. Their class determines the base way they engage with the world, but their personal journey during their adventure is what determines the specific skills they bring to the final fight. 

See where I’m going? While my Educator, Artist, and Witch backgrounds ground me, my experiences and, importantly, my relationships over the past few years have informed the roles (specializations) I’ve taken in this fight. 

Ok, Dragon Age fan time over. Back to LGBTQ+ resistance. 

LGBTQ+ roles in movement building 

An unfortunate reality of our world is that the loudest and/or most transgressive revolutionaries tend to get the most attention. This can be helpful in some situations, but it also masks the many roles queer and trans people take in fights. 

For example, when thinking of the Stonewall Riots, most people are familiar with the fantastic women who fought the police on that day. The ensuing protests and uprising also drew national attention. Those people had found their role, and it put them directly at risk of harm for the benefit of something much larger than them. What about the other roles involved in that historic moment? What about the:

• Employees of the Stonewall Inn who made that space possible? 
• Photographers who memorialized the revolution? 
• Patrons who refused to give up their IDs and cooperate with police? 
• Witnesses who didn’t feel safe getting involved but offered support after? 
• Lawyers and volunteers who provided legal support to protestors? 

Historically, LGBTQ+ individuals have held a wide variety of roles in the building of movements, and this moment is no different. Queer elders, communal storytellers, faith leaders, protestors, resource-movers, space-holders, and others have made these movements possible. 

Each of these roles provide something vital to the movement they’re supporting. We need the people drawing public attention and putting their bodyminds between the state and its victims, just as much as we need the people quietly making shit happen behind the scenes. 

The final point I’d like to make here is to address that feeling of hopelessness once again: there is so much happening that you can’t see. No matter how involved you are, there will be things you don’t know about. By necessity, our movements are often heavily decentralized and organized under the radar. Connecting to current resistance efforts helps you see the things you’re not aware of, but remember that you can’t know it all. 

That doesn’t mean we don’t need more people—we really, really do. But it does mean that we’re stronger than most of us think we are. 

Wrapping up: a shift on dish duty 

During one of the Week of Action’s days of political education sessions, I found myself volunteering for dish duty. The kitchen (which provided us food for free!) needed more folks, and I had the time and the energy to do it. It gave me another glimpse of the often-unseen roles that make these movements happen. 

For most of the time, it was me and two other comrades frantically working through 50+ people’s worth of dishes, plus the dishes used to cook the food, while another team started to prep dinner. We quickly took up our own stations (even more roles here), settling into a rhythm that actually moved quite smoothly. When one of us got tired, we swapped with someone else for a slightly easier task. 

While working, we took to chatting, learning more about where everyone was from, what they’d been up to, and their interests. It was a mixture of getting to know each other as people and learning more about resistance networks in various places. We talked about favorite horror novels and foods as readily as we talked about plans for the rest of the week. 

And it all felt so… domestic. So normal. Here, in the midst of a fascist invasion and an incredibly chaotic situation, were a few people speedily washing dishes and chatting. That work was still supporting a fight we all believed in. 

After about two hours, I had to leave to get to a different activist commitment. The dishes weren’t done, but I was able to pass my role off to a new comrade. I stepped down, and someone else stepped up. We both knew the limits and possibilities of our roles. 

I got to my next meeting a bit early, covered in dirty dish water and sweat. But I felt amazing. And still, looking back, I’m proud of what we did that week. We disrupted ICE’s normal operations, helping provide a modicum of safety to our neighbors. We took a stand for what we believed in. And we made it painfully clear that we will not stand down in the face of terror and violence. 

It’s June, y’all, so be gay and do crimes.* 

*For legal reasons, this is a jest, and I am not encouraging you to knowingly engage in criminal activity.

Do you have other thoughts on cross-movement solidarity and LGBTQ+ resistance? I’d love to hear from you! Let me know in the comments on this post if you’re so inclined.

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