When an intense surge in militarized ICE and CBP raids came to Minneapolis in early 2026, community members resisted in extraordinary ways to help their community, from protest to neighborhood protection to puppetry. While folks outside the city primarily saw viral images, videos, and accounts of violence, the people of the Twin Cities lived through scenes that didn’t make it into journalistic coverage. Parents helped other parents with groceries and resources, bands played on in the streets, artists painted murals, and as always people communicated and told stories to stay alive.
A number of artists and institutions in the Twin Cities’ vibrant theatre community were affected. Mark Valdez, artistic director of Mixed Blood Theatre, felt an urgent responsibility to offer his company’s platform as a way to process and document the moment. Early in the takeover, they initiated a variety of rapid response work, including an interactive role-playing program with ACLU and Immigrant Law Center of MN called “Know Your Rights, Say Them Loud” and a series of short plays for youth by Michael John Garcés which model ways for young people and parents to talk about ICE and CBP encounters.
“We are a social justice organization, and we are storytellers,” said Valdez. His city’s ordeal had received coverage through quick bursts of video and received journalistic commentary from mostly outside sources, but it also felt important to him to generate first-person creative accounts of the takeover. So Valdez decided to commission 50 local writers to capture those harrowing days through monologues, a short form that would allow for more immediate showings and distribution, a kind of first-responder art form.
“Playwrights are some of the best at being able to capture the feelings of the times, in complicated ways, in ways that help us make some kind of meaning,” said Valdez. In response to Mixed Blood’s call came vibrant pieces that disrupt a paralyzing nightmare with scenes of humanity, resilience, and family amid chaos and in spite of despair. Several monologues were performed at a gathering on March 28 with Mixed Blood, Sahan Journal, and community organizers called “I Got Your Back.”
We are honored to publish six of the first 30 monologues: “Daniel” by Zola Dee, “I Want to Hold You in the River” by Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay, “Mitakuye Oyasin” by Isabella LaBlanc, “Parent” by Andrew Rosendorf, “Child born…” by Nora Montañez Patterson, and “Mayday people” by Elle Thoni.
Thoni’s piece refers to an annual, community-led puppet gathering to theatrically greet the sun and welcome spring’s return. Each year, the community rises again with circles of song and story. The May 3, 2026 edition memorialized the lives lost and torn apart this past winter, in an event encompassing the defiance of joy and relief from grief. As the ice melts, this community rises again.
Daniel
by Zola Dee
Character Description: D ( Daniel): 30s, Mexican American
[D stands by the front door and coat rack as he gets dressed for the cold.]
D
Coat…
[He puts on his winter coat. Does a mental check for each item of clothing he puts on.]
Hat…
[Slides on his hat.]
Scarf…
[Wraps scarf around his neck.]
Boots…
[Slides on his boots]
Gloves…
[Places mittens over his hands.]
And…
[A baby cries in another room of the house.]
Hon, can you get Angel, I’m going out to shovel the sidewalk?
[No response. The baby’s cries grow louder.]
[The baby’s cries grow louder and louder. D begins to take off his boots when his passport falls out of his coat pocket and lands on the floor in front of him. The cries abruptly halt as D slowly reaches for his passport. He grabs it as the passport stares back up at him. He does a double check.]
Coat…Hat…Scarf…Boots…Gloves…Passport.
[The baby, no longer crying, can be heard giggling in the other room. D grips the passport in his hands tightly.]
How will I explain this to my son one day?
That in between his waking and sleep,
those moments when I was not consumed by my daddy duties of feeding him
and changing his diapers, that there were moments just like this one
when stepping outside of our front door felt like crossing a threshold into a world I didn’t recognize anymore.
Will he believe me?
When he’s older, will the world be closer to the one I knew before all of this?
Will things get drastically better that when I tell him about this time, all of this will sound like make believe? Some bad dream?
When I tell him that just walking outside to shovel snow, something so mundane,
made me feel the need to make sure my passport was on my at all times.
Hopefully, he’ll say, “Come on, Dad, that’s crazy.”
[Beat]
I can hope, right?
That he will be in such disbelief instead of this being his future reality.
Before he was born I thought about what I would teach him.
What stories, lessons, and values to instill, down to the basics of right and wrong.
But how will I explain to him that even if you do things the right way, just like his abuelita…
ya know, legally, by the book, waiting years and years to cross over from Mexico to settle in L.A. and find a new home in Minnesota in search of her own version of the American Dream…
that even after doing things absolutely right…none of that can matter.
That the way you speak or look can label you as criminal, illegal…
and that existing as you are, to some, is not right but wrong.
[Beat]
Ever since I moved here 16 years ago, I’ve experienced my fair share of Minnesota winters and this is by far the hardest…and the longest.
Every day waiting for the cold to break and the ice to melt…
Never in my life have I clinged to the safety of my passport to guard against the harsh
conditions outside my front door.
That this booklet can prove that I am good.
That I am supposed to be here.
That I belong…
[Beat]
What does that do to the soul when this becomes your new everyday?
My therapist reminds me to focus on only the things that I can control.
So, each day when the doomscrolling becomes too much and the weight of the world outside feels impossible to bear, I come back to counting the rise and fall of your breaths when you nap, the differences in tones from the babbling noises you make to try and communicate with me
and I focus on this home we are building for you, son.
To be a microcosm of a world your mother and I long to see.
One with more warmth, love, compassion, and empathy.
Imagining this world and the person you will become is my light in these dark times.
Because one day when you are older.
You’ll be sitting in the passport office, grinning a toothy smile
for your first passport photo so that I will be able to share with you my first home.
The place where the values of warmth and love and compassion were first embedded into me.
We will leave the passport office with nothing but excitement knowing this document
will be a gateway to a homecoming and adventure and travel…
and that it will not carry the weight of fear that it does at this moment.
At least, that’s what I hope for you…
for us…
for this world..
[D tucks his passport in his pocket. Slips back on his boots and exits out the front door with snow shovel in hand.]
I Want to Hold You Down in the River
by Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay
You thought the night belonged to you.
You kicked yourself into our homes,
face hidden,
name forgotten by your own mother,
her skin like mine,
her throat holding the same scorn for you,
how you took my neighbors.
You pried yourself into our homes,
tore screeching babes from their beds,
tried to fold them like they were old rugs.
Children are not furniture,
things to be lifted, loaded, and broken.
The floors creak where laughter used to sit.
Their beds still know the shapes of these babies.
The block remembers them.
I want to keep score.
I want to keep the old ways,
to carve into your secret faces,
dull knives with teeth, skipping over your chapped skin.
Many times, I went to the Mississippi
and asked her, “What do you do about cowards?”
She held me, said: Let me carry them until they drown.
But I want more
for the ones who hide their faces.
Hear this, even if you hear nothing else.
I will not chase you with dull blades,
will not stain my hands.
I will serrate you in the way that only stories and truth can.
You will run, and your shadows will stretch and point at you,
remind you of how small you actually are.
You will fold into yourself because you’re unworthy of existing.
You’ll tell yourself lies,
hoping they’ll keep you from carving out your own face,
from suffocating into your own pillows,
I want
a deep indentation,
deep enough to hold all of the names you tried to erase.
I will hold you down in the river,
and your eyes will try to bargain.
Before I let you float away,
I’ll promise you that my neighbors will return,
love draped over them,
there will be dance
and laughter will fill our kitchens again.
The streets will breathe.
But you.
Your name will be erased,
a mistake we corrected.
Mitakuye Oyasin
by Isabella LaBlanc
They killed our neighbor yesterday // down the street from
where they killed our other neighbor // To clarify, there
have been countless other neighbors // I keep remembering
// not forgetting // the one who served lunch at my
elementary school // Philando // I wake up thinking of his 4
year old in the back seat.
They killed Good yesterday // And when you mark this day
on the calendar you’ll see it is one week from The
Anniversary // of 1862 when they hanged 38 of us at once //
2 others sometime later // you will know that they kept the
rest of us imprisoned at The Fort.
On the news today // When you see ICE back at The Fort //
Remember what they will not tell you // that this is the
place life began // Bdote // the confluence of the Minnesota
and the Mississippi.
In the center of the universe // we must continue the poem
until completion // And now I must start over.
They have done it // Again // They killed our neighbor
yesterday // down the street from where they killed our
other neighbor // To clarify, there have been countless other
neighbors.
On the news today // When you see them kill Alex // When
you see them take the child // take the parent // take the
elder // take the neighbor // kill the neighbor // kill your
neighbor // Remember what they will not tell you // that
this is the place life began // Mni Sota Makoche // The land
where the water reflects the sky // where the past reflects
right now.
They will not tell you that we remember it all // in this most
beautiful place.
Parent
by Andrew Rosendorf
The monologue should move. Especially once the listing begins. The listing is rote—it’s the everyday of being a single parent. The escalation comes from how many tasks there are before throwing in obstacles. It all builds until it finally explodes.
PARENT
It’s January
So it’s cold
Minnesota cold
When negative degrees is the norm
When you forget to check the forecast and wake up to snow you didn’t plan for
When you see people bicycling through that snow
When kids wear snow pants for outdoor recess
When you long for 10 degrees but sunny
I’m from the East Coast
An inch of snow shuts down D.C.
Sometimes I wish D.C. got more snow…
No one likes January
I think that’s something we can all agree on
And the ice here
Ever present
Sometimes noticeable
Sometimes not
Sometimes causing you to fall holding a cake
And that’s what we deal with—every day—as Minnesotans
So I hate when people ask: “How are you?”
How are any of us?
With winter
With ice
With parenting
How are you? makes me want to throw up
How are you? makes me want to gouge the eyes out of the person asking
It’s an unanswerable question under normal circumstances
’Cause as a parent—a single parent—you’re never okay
Or on time
You try, but you’re Sisyphus
I wake up [The following list should move fast—breathlessly]
To a six-year-old
Sleeping in bed with me
’Cause he’s got sleep issues
For years
I can’t remember the last time I slept alone
The last time I slept
Without feet in my face
Without hands slapping my face
Without fingers poking my face
And we wake up too early cause he wakes up too early
I convince him out of his PJs
I cajole him into his clothes
He has opinions
We don’t have time for opinions
I make breakfast
Two breakfasts because he doesn’t want the first one after asking for the first one
I get yelled at for telling him he’s eating school lunch
I put on morning clothes to save time
I look at the speeding clock—even still, I need to I wash my son’s pits cause the stink can wake the dead
I get his jacket on
I get his boots on
I get his homework in his backpack
I remember I need to sign his homework so have to take his homework out of his backpack and put it back in
Shit, he’s not wearing underwear – can he go to school without underwear?
I get his boots off
I get his jacket off
I get his clothes off
I get him to put on underwear
I get his clothes back on
I get his boots back on
I get my boots on
I get my jacket on
I get his jacket on
I forgot my underwear—no time
I get him to the car—moving slowly because of the ice
I get him in the booster seat—click the seatbelt
I turn the car on
I hit defrost—full blast
I scrape the front windshield
I scrape the back windshield
Good enough
I realize I left his passport and adoption papers inside
Fuck
I go back inside
I grab the folder with his passport and adoption papers
I’ve never had to carry papers my entire life living here
I hope this never becomes routine
We’re already 5 minutes late
My son is reminding me we’re 5 minutes late
I’m not the one who forgot to put on my underwear! Wait—shit
I drive him to school
Snowplows have been through but there’s ice everywhere
I skid on a patch
I get to the school’s neighborhood—residential mainly
Kids waiting at bus stops
Waiting with parents—parents with whistles
I turn right
Shit
The street is clogged—backed up—ICE
I turn around
Try another route
Street has gone from two lanes to one
A car is blocking it
Dented
Abandoned
I turn around
I realize we’re 10 minutes late
My son tells me we’re 10 minutes late
I tell him it’s fine
It’s only kindergarten
We’re so close to school
I try a third route
This way looks good
Until more ICE
Someone’s on the ground
Hurting
People filming
We’re 12 minutes late
My son’s yelling we’re 12 minutes late
I don’t want to be 12 minutes late
Cars are stuck behind me
No place to go
This is worse than winter
We’re 14 minutes late
My son is yelling we’re 14 minutes late
I’m trying not to yell at him
Trying not to yell at him about ICE
Trying to let him be a kid
Trying to distract with Siri—with songs
We listen to “Golden”
We’re 16 minutes late
We listen to “Try Everything”
We’re 18 minutes late
We listen to “Shake It Off”
We’re 20 minutes late
My kid should be in school
I should be home already
It’s January
In Minnesota [an exorcism of pain] I JUST WANT TO DROP MY KID OFF AT SCHOOL!!!!!
[A long moment.
The words echoing in the air.
Parent collects themself.
Tries to collect themself.
It takes as long as it takes—it takes a long time.
Then the Parent returns to their list.]
I finally…
[Collecting themself one more time.]
…I finally get him to school
34 minutes late
Many people are 34 minutes late
I tell him I love him
I tell him I miss him already
I drive home
I park
I grab the folder with his passport and adoption papers
I get inside
A work Zoom starts in 2 minutes but…I shower
And shower
And shower
And shower
Taking in the warmth
I shower for too long
I shower and worry someone won’t have water at some point in the future because of my shower
I dry off
I put on… underwear
I dress
I open my computer
I cry
Not for too long today
Is that bad?
Does that mean it’s becoming normalized?
I don’t want this to become normalized
God help me if this becomes normalized
My kid can’t have this be normalized
…
I sign on to Zoom
I see my coworkers
I apologize for being late
They’re kind
Kind about my being late
Kind about none of them living in Minnesota
And then one of them asks:
“How are you?”
End of monologue.
Child born…
by Nora Montañez Patterson
Dear child born in the South Side of Chicago, raised in the South Side of Minneapolis to a mother born South of the Equator:
Mija,
On the eve of your 12th birthday, I sit with flickering memories of your strenuous entrance into this world. Like every parent who witnessed and experienced the chaos of labor, we make a deliberate attempt to honor your story. You see, out of chaos and pain came hope, joy and beauty on that bitter cold January 2014.
On the eve of your 12th birthday, my thoughts spin into a disarray wondering from where will I draw the energy to celebrate you. I am running on very little rest, as for the last few weeks your Papi and I attended training after training, standing ground at mosques, schools and corner streets, driving students to their homes, delivering groceries and protesting miles upon miles. My heart is heavy with stories from our immigrant neighbors being kidnapped. As innocent people being targets of sanctioned violence brought by the chaos of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I have woken up in the middle of the night sweating, shallow breathing and a heavy pounding heart, wondering if I will be the next immigrant they will take.
Child born in the South Side of Chicago, raised in the South Side of Minneapolis to a mother born South of the Equator:
The lump on my throat throbs as the news from five miles away from our home an execution by ICE took place. This comes 17 days short of another ICE murder just three miles away from our home. Your Papi and I begin to have the “what if” conversation and hold each other. I feel defeated as I retrieve my passport and slide it into my wallet. Will this government document really save my life? The thought of the question makes me go numb.
Child born in the South Side of Chicago, raised in the South Side of Minneapolis to a mother born South of the Equator:
We hold you as we tell you the news. Your eyes swell up with tears that trace down the mountains of your nose. “Are we safe?”, you ask. Mija, you are not a stranger to this unrest and uprising. We are birthed from resilient and brave peoples historically advocating for their communities. This will not last. And it won’t be the last! Today’s chaos and pain are a distraction for what’s being born. Hope and Joy will rise up on this bitter cold January in 2026. It’s up to us to decide what to do with it.
Mayday People
by Elle Thoni
“Justice can’t bring back the dead.”
That was the new graffiti on the warehouse at Bloomington & 26th.
Everything was familiar, but haunted.
That’s how it felt, moving back to Minneapolis the first weekend in February.
And you know, after watching the surge from a screen for two excruciating months, I was just… desperate to be with people… so I volunteered to puppeteer at Renee’s memorial in Powderhorn Park.
It was Saturday and there was a human barricade outside the café.
Punks holding down the intersection with as much furniture as they could drag down the alley, blasting music like it was a house party.
They had to, of course. They had to keep up the energy. It was cold!
That’s what I kept telling people, back in Pittsburgh:
Imagine you’re the coldest you’ve ever been, and then imagine that’s everyday.
That’s Minneapolis.
But that day, Renee’s memorial, I forgot. Apparently I’d lost my winter imagination in Appalachia.
I forgot to wear a second pair of socks, so I did the entire rehearsal with my toes going numb.
It was strange. I was so used to it. Rehearsing here, in the park, with puppets.
Usually in the spring. The Mayday Festival—have you heard of it?
The first Sunday in May, people finally come out of their homes after the long winter.
They pour into the streets and parade their papier-mâché creations down to the park,
where—I swear—every year there is a giant puppet pageant with the same ending:
Hundreds of people on the hillside start chanting—and if you know it, do it with me—
“SUN,
SUN,
SUN,
SUN!”
And then, on cue, a fleet of red dragon boats launches from the island in the middle of the pond, flanking a towering sun effigy as together, they row with the thunderous cacophony of drums at their backs towards the shore. Everyone, racing —to resurrect the Tree of Life.
Yes. This happens every year. For 45 years. That’s the winter imagination I’m talking about.
But this time it wasn’t Mayday. It was the same people.
The same wise women who taught me how to make an object breathe.
But this time, instead of ripped T-shirts, we were puppeting up in our bulky winter layers.
Not in celebration, but remembrance. A mother killed in our streets.
And how many more kidnapped? How many more times would we need to do this…
hold these emergency rituals… until ICE was out?
At the end of rehearsal, we stood in a cold circle holding cardboard stars with long sparkly tails. Renee liked sparkles.
That’s what the Indigenous organizers of her memorial had told us.
And then Emily, one of the wise puppeteers, spoke up:
“Remember… there will be people in the first few rows… whose lives have very recently been torn apart. Their grief, their pain… is immense. It’s an honor to get to hold that with them.
All these years of Mayday, we’ve been rehearsing… we just didn’t know it was for this.”
Almost reflexively, I looked out across the pond. And that’s when I saw it.
Not the sun. People.
Hundreds of people—neighbors. Some with dogs. Some with kids on sleds. Some arm-in-arm with elders. Choosing to walk on the ice rather than the sidewalk—choosing, if they could, to leave their homes. To be together—in grief, in rage, in exhaustion, in the cold.
And suddenly I felt more at home than maybe I ever have.
No. Justice can’t bring back the dead. But that’s not what we’re trying to do.
We’re trying to bring back the living.
