Today, we protested again. I want to share a scene from that experience because it moved me, and I hope it will move you, too. Perhaps you will join us at a protest or other event soon.
First, here is some context: following the killing of US citizen Renee Good days earlier, protests against ICE broke out around the country. Horrified by the video, I searched for protests near me and found that there would be one on the 9th, 10th, and 11th in Indianapolis. I decided to invite some friends and attend the one on the 10th. When we arrived, we parked and lined 86th Street, which runs through a shopping district in one of Indianapolis’ more diverse neighborhoods. It was quite cold, but people were undeterred. It was a busy road with lots of traffic and people, mostly women, and mostly white, standing on either side holding signs, chanting “No justice, no peace,” “this is what democracy looks like,” and “no kings!” Some played drums or blew whistles. Occasionally, the call and response would bounce from one side of the street to the other.
I stood near a crosswalk with friends and strangers. We were at the intersection of a major rails-to-trails green space. Runners and bicyclists came through our crowd on their way to the southern part of the trail, some shouting support to our cause and becoming temporary protesters themselves. As we settled into our places, I noticed that the traffic moving through the five lanes in front of us often honked their horns. At first, I wasn’t sure if they did so in support or aggravation for us. It turned out that about 95% of them were supportive. Many waved at us, gave thumbs-up, or peace fingers. We did get the occasional middle finger, but it was rare. One man rolled down his window to tell us we were doing “Satan’s work” by suggesting that ICE should follow due process laws. He then drove away without further incident. Many of the drivers and their passengers appeared to be from immigrant families. They seemed to appreciate what we were doing.
Occasionally, a driver would get stopped by the light, particularly those hoping to turn left into the parking lot. Stopped drivers would often interact with the crowd or try their hardest to ignore us. Many filmed us, presumably for their social media. Amid all the honking, chanting, and drumming, I happened to notice the scene that left an indelible mark on me. I wasn’t the only one who saw, but most people in the crowd didn’t seem to notice.
A woman drove up, slowly, in a minivan. She stopped at the light in the left turn lane and had to wait a while for the signal to change. She took her hands off the steering wheel and put them to her face. She was nearly in tears of shock and joy. She was probably in her 30s or early 40s and of Hispanic descent. She had four children with her, between the ages of 8 and 14, I would guess. They all rolled their windows down to hear what the people were shouting. A boy in the back seat closest to my side of the road had his hands on top of the window glass, pulling himself closer to see. He was mouthing the words as he read the signs to the child in the middle seat. A smile grew on his face as he realized what his mother had already known, the reason for our protest. The light turned green, and the driver, still covering her mouth in surprise and joy, pulled away. As she did, the boy in the back grinned widely and flashed a peace sign to the crowd. By this point, many near me had noticed the minivan, and we all cheered for the boy.
Some say protests like this don’t make a difference. It hasn’t slowed the escalation of ICE in Minneapolis, indeed. But for one Hispanic family, they saw that Indianapolis has many people who do not approve of the racism, indiscriminate violence, and lack of due process that appear to govern the behavior of ICE agents. We love our neighbors and support immigrants who are a large and important part of our communities. To one family, I believe our voices made a difference, if only by providing comfort for a few moments. We did not know their immigration status or family history, nor did we need to, to decide that they deserved to be treated with respect and support.
