I walked out the door and heard the screams. Couldn’t make out the words at first, but they were angry. One voice, another; a crowd forming in the distance.
I could hop on my bike and ride to the left, let the noise fade behind me and carry on with my day. But I had seen too many videos, shaky cameras compelling masked men to back off, or at least trying. Two weeks into Trump’s occupation of DC, carrying on like normal felt out of touch with reality.
I rode to the right. Around a bend and down a hill a newly familiar scene was developing. There were a dozen passersby like me scattered around the intersection, stockstill on the sidewalk, pausing their coffee run or dogwalk to bear witness. On the corner stood a large apartment building. Outside flashed the lights of several police cars and an unmarked truck. Two officers guarded the door.
“Six more officers just went inside!” someone yelled.
“¡No abren sus puertas! ¡Es la migra!” shouted another.
The apartment building stood on the border of Columbia Heights, a neighborhood with lots of Hispanic residents that had suffered some of the most egregious ICE kidnappings caught on camera. Now, it seemed an ICE raid was happening in front of us, officers infiltrating the building to snatch people from their homes.
Someone walked up, took stock of the situation, and started chanting “ICE out of DC!”. The crowd took up the call, the dozen—no, now about 20—people chanting together on all sides of the intersection.
Credit: Reddit u/Braveoo
Word must have spread in the Signal chats. New arrivals jogged to the scene, cardboard signs ready: ICE MELTS IN HELL. A man with a backpack hustled over near me. He pulled out a battered pan and metal spoon and began keeping time for the chants.
The officers guarding the door were visibly exasperated. One seasoned activist approached, staying on the sidewalk while starting to verbally confront them. The crowd began chanting “Quit! Your! Job!”
One of the officers put her finger to her lips, making an exaggerated shushing motion. The other officer started yelling back at the activist: “I know why we’re here. Why are you here?”
I paused mid-chant. Was he serious?
The activist said something about ICE. The officer yelled back that they had been called in to fix an elevator.
I wanted to laugh. He had made himself a punchline: How many cops does it take to fix an elevator? But moreover, who the fuck would call the police for that? Especially after Trump federalized the police force, who were now officially and openly collaborating with ICE. But the officer was insistent. Defiant. “I don’t know what you’re protesting. But go ahead and take your videos of nothing.”
More and more people. More chanting. More warnings yelled desperately at the apartment building. Inside, people hiding in their rooms? Pushing their couch against the door? Rushing to make an escape? The impromptu protest crescendoed, the 20—now pushing 30, 35—voices cohering into a singular shout.
To the side of all the action, a firetruck pulled up. A handful of firefighters walked up to the building, carrying big, heavy tools that might be used to fix an elevator. The police officers let them inside.
I dropped my voice from the chant, hesitant. I wondered if the cop was telling the truth, if this could have just been a maintenance call. If that even mattered. When any police interaction can summon ICE, benefit of the doubt amounts to denial of reality.
Maybe it wouldn’t happen now. But it would happen eventually, and we would be more ready. This was practice. The civic body, strengthening a new muscle. A reminder of the latent power we share, the potential energy present every time strangers on the street both notice something amiss.
I joined back in. My throat got hoarse. At a certain point, I had to leave. I don’t know how it ended.
And it didn’t end, really. That moment put it into sharp relief, but it’s a daily discordance. The hypervigilance of the public. The readiness to shout, the unwillingness to just walk by, the instant self-organization. The willful ignorance of the officers. Their refusal to imagine the rage against ICE could have anything to do with them. The plausible ambiguity of the particulars; the moral clarity of the bigger picture. The discovery that our safety is in our own hands, and that we are capable.
One Sunday morning in an occupied city. And only one of the first Sundays, only one of the first cities, only one of the first new realities ahead. And every day, around every corner: choices.