George Floyd Stories

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I've been through a riot before. Kansas City, 1968, I was thirteen. KC was overdue for a riot; we were always about six months behind the other big cities. Martin Luther King's assassination was the trigger. One month before, my family moved to a 'nicer' neighborhood. We were the fifth black family on the block. I remember getting the garden hose ready in case our house caught on fire. I remember seeing 'Soul Brother' signs in my school mates' yards. I remember seeing black-owned businesses near my junior high school go up in flames and wondering why we would do that. I've been through a riot before.

I don't like this, but I understand it. It's rage. When rage builds up, hurt happens. Like banging your hand on the desk when your computer doesn't act right. You don't intend to hurt anything, but you do. I don't like this, but I understand it.

We're all we've got. We're learning to watch out for each other, take care of each other, check in on each other, and stay in touch with each other (technology is handy). We're learning to honor what is truly important. We humans need each other. We're all we've got.
Derek / Minneapolis

• • •

I left my heart in Minneapolis when I moved to San Francisco. A heart that broke along with 1,000's of others after witnessing the deliberate murder of George Floyd, by the Minneapolis police.

Red hot anger and destruction followed for nights on end, as my beloved hometown came under siege. I was across the country. Helpless.

My girls shouting updates into the phone, over the roar of helicopters, sirens, fireworks, protests. One slept with a machete under her bed, as rabid infiltrators hell-bent on destroying our community took over the streets.

A Minnesota we don't recognize.

Then, daylight.

Neighbors helping board up vulnerable businesses, and spending money they didn't have on groceries for families they'd never meet.

A Minnesota we recognize.

The world watching.
The world joining.
The world changing.
Bonnie / San Francisco

• • •

In the early evening of May 28, a car was burning in the Target store parking lot off East Lake Street. I shot crude video of the scene in which you can see people, white and black, coming and going from the heavily vandalized Target, and a nearby Cub Foods grocery.

Professional news video of similar scenes across the US showed, so I thought, mostly black people doing the looting. Was this by happenstance or design? I can't say. I can only say I saw something different in Minneapolis. This moment reminds me of an old song that I love, and that perfectly captures my feelings at this moment:
big as life
Peter / Minneapolis

• • •

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contributor's first name and city

I'm not a native Minnesotan. I'm a southerner. Brought up in Virginia, which you northerners think is the East Coast, but let me assure you, it is the south.

When I moved here years ago and professed my genteel southern heritage to various colleagues and new friends, I was asked, in jest but more than once, if I was a member of the KKK. Very funny. I'd feel defensive and ticked, frankly. Yes, the south is famous for its history of slavery and its continued color-coded classism. But I have seen over the years that racism is AS alive here in the north as in any backwoods, gun-toting, Deliverance-invoking county in the south.

I have heard the N-word more here. I have sneered at more racist jokes. And, unlike in my youth, I have made no black friends. People seem to self-segregate here. Most folks don't consider themselves racist because, on a day-to-day basis, they don't consider race. They never encounter other races… or if they do, it's only in passing. We all quietly go about our business in our creamy white world under the cloak of "Minnesota Nice." A cloak that burned up like kindling recently.

Ya see, one more black man was murdered. One more in a long history of murder of people of color. Here, in Minneapolis.

George Floyd. This time it was George Floyd. This time, IT WAS TIME — for the GOOD people of this world to take the fucking monster down.

It got wack. Day after day and night after night of fire, bedlam, crime, rage and numbness. It got lit up here in Minneapolis and skipped across the country, lighting up American city after city, and showing every last one of us what is wrong. And then it crossed the ocean.

That fire is still burning weeks later in people protesting the basic inhumanity of our systemic racism and the hateful, evil acts it inspires.

I came to Minneapolis 25 years ago and froze to the ground. This city is filled with anger and discomfort, as is right for the epicenter of a long-awaited movement. In case you're wondering, I am proud to call this place my home now.
Karen / St. Louis Park

• • •

In late 2018 and early 2019, I visited the Minneapolis Police 5th precinct more times than I can remember. I was in the midst of a ghastly divorce and the cops from the 5th helped me deal with an abusive ex partner. Three cops from the 5th, in particular, treated me with compassion and earned my respect. Now, I feel for those cops because the actions of murderers in their ranks have put targets on the backs of police everywhere.

There was no getting near the 5th on May 30, 2020. Concrete medians, topped with chain-link fence, encircled the station. Later, a row of concertina wire was laid on the outside of the medians. Fortified positions, almost comically cobbled together, were on the roof, and thousands of people packed Nicollet Ave and 31st Street to the north and west of the station.

Two nights before, police withdrew from the 3rd precinct and rioters torched the place. I wondered if my friendly cops were huddled inside the 5th, fearing they'd be next.
Peter / Minneapolis