Minneapolis Anti-ICE Protests: Where Ice Has a Different Meaning

I’m about 20 blocks south of the epicenter of discord, and hence I do not drive 20 blocks north. Where I live in Minneapolis, there’s no drama. Occasionally, there’s one lady on a corner with a placard soliciting honks. Someone up the street has a lawn populated with signs expressing solidarity with all the Current Things, and I imagine her scrolling Facebook soaking in the horrors and stoking up the rage, but if we pass on the street, it’s a nod and a smile, since it’s generally assumed that people who live here are smart people, duly appalled by everything.

The sole example of the current unpleasantness happened a while ago during a nice warm streak. Temps in the upper 30s, if you can believe that. A surprising surge of heat softened the treacherous carapace of ice that locked every sidewalk. For a week, walking anywhere was an invitation to a busted hip or concussion. It works like this: The snow falls. Industrious early-morning walkers with dogs pack it down, and the snowblower doesn’t scour down to the concrete. There’s a sudden melt, and a sudden freeze, and now every street and sidewalk is covered with ice. Block after block. Cars whine going up the hill outside our house; old folks look at the slick surface and correctly decide a walk is like pogo-sticking through a minefield. People with eager pups are pulled down the sloping blocks without anything to hold on to, trying to get to the boulevard, where crusty snow provides some purchase.

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James Lileks

James Lileks blogs at www.lileks.com.

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I’m about 20 blocks south of the epicenter of discord, and hence I do not drive 20 blocks north. Where I live in Minneapolis, there’s no drama. Occasionally, there’s one lady on a corner with a placard soliciting honks. Someone up the street has a lawn populated with signs expressing solidarity with all the Current Things, and I imagine her scrolling Facebook soaking in the horrors and stoking up the rage, but if we pass on the street, it’s a nod and a smile, since it’s generally assumed that people who live here are smart people, duly appalled by everything.

The sole example of the current unpleasantness happened a while ago during a nice warm streak. Temps in the upper 30s, if you can believe that. A surprising surge of heat softened the treacherous carapace of ice that locked every sidewalk. For a week, walking anywhere was an invitation to a busted hip or concussion. It works like this: The snow falls. Industrious early-morning walkers with dogs pack it down, and the snowblower doesn’t scour down to the concrete. There’s a sudden melt, and a sudden freeze, and now every street and sidewalk is covered with ice. Block after block. Cars whine going up the hill outside our house; old folks look at the slick surface and correctly decide a walk is like pogo-sticking through a minefield. People with eager pups are pulled down the sloping blocks without anything to hold on to, trying to get to the boulevard, where crusty snow provides some purchase.