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I’m a Black journalist living in Minneapolis. “Retired.” That word is in quotes because a journalist never stops being a journalist. Forever curious, with an unquenchable thirst for what’s known and unknown.
You can’t be a Black journalist in America and not reflect on the road that brought us to 2026. Proximity to pain is the through-line.
I think about it in January. Renee Good was murdered on Portland Avenue, a street I drive but rarely stop on. Her death hit me with sadness and frustration. As a human I made the calculations. “Could this happen to me, my loved ones?” In seconds the answer came back … not likely. So, I went about my life worrying how we as a city would respond. Would there be violence? Would it be 2020 all over again? Would the city give the president a reason to escalate?
Then two and a half weeks later I was sitting at the Gophers basketball game with my son. I checked my phone and saw that someone else was killed. Alex Pretti.
I watched the video, as I did with Renee’s death, but this time it was different. As Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents were wrestling Alex to the ground, I noticed the design on the storefront behind them. It was familiar. “I know that place!” I said out loud. I looked at the story and saw that his murder happened on Nicollet Avenue. Instantly I was mad. White-hot rage filled me to my fingertips and pulsated in my hands through the rest of the game.
ICE agents killed Alex in my neighborhood. In front of my 88-year-old mother’s favorite restaurant. Across the street from our family’s doughnut shop. The place where my wife was thinking about going that day. It could have been her lying in the street with multiple gunshot wounds and no one allowed to help.