Poet with a Press Pass - In Memory of Renee Nicol Good

As far from Texas as geography will allow
citizenship, a new family moved to a Minnesota town
with nascent hopes for life to begin, again,
for a future spun from stories arduous yet full of ardors.

A divorcee, a wife, a mother, a generous friend,
a neighbor checking on the comfort of protestors,
a sweet smile inside an SUV coming from the school
where her son was still walking to his classroom.
…and, in my world, a poet, a woman whose award-winning
college poem admitted doubts that faith could heal
by sliding long hairs behind my ear like my mom used to do
and mouths whispering, make room for wonder.

Thursday, driving through a crowd of cars and armed men,
one of them wanted her out—or him in. No…
Slowly she moved her car away, flashing him her morning smile,
offering the last line of the last poem she would ever write,

That’s fine, Dude. I’m not mad at you.

His point-blank shots were his brutal applause.
The country gasped. The authorities lied.
The people gathered in the thousands, for the girl named Good
Whose testosteroned death could only be called Terrible.
Anne McCrady, 2026

I wrote this poem the day after Renee Good was shot and killed by ICE agent, Jonathan Ross. I first shared it at a candlelight vigil held on a sidewalk in front of a building with painted wing pairs in downtown Tyler, Texas. The event was hosted by Indivisible Smith County on Sunday, January 11, 2026.

The program was brief. First, a woman who advocates on behalf of Hispanic citizens interacting with law enforcement spoke about how violence and injustice is already happening in our city to her Hispanic friends. Next, I read my poem and then tried to connect those gathered with Renee by painting her as a young woman in an SUV, a wife, a neighbor at peace rallies, someone who helped people, a poet who wrote deeply thoughtful poetry, a mom who loved her kids, ran errands, and whose life was similar to theirs. With the worsening expansion of ICE brutality and the disappearance of even American citizens, I assured them that we are all closer and closer to the risk of being confronted…or worse.

With a cold, clear sky above us and the circle of solemn candlelit faces huddled close, the chance to remember Renee was so moving. Afterwards, we each lifted up words of witness and also hope, some said short prayers of remembrance, others quoted inspirations. Finally, we sponstaneous sang an A cappella hymn, then closed with a gentle pastoral benediction, and silence…

As I walked to my car, I thought about our gathering in the dark in our very conservative Southern city and the other local peace events and political rallies where I have been honored to speak in the last months. I wondered about the small risk of confrontation we have taken and are ready to take again. I thought of Renee’s death and rubbed the shiny, silver whistle in my pocket.

My Poet with a Press Pass poems can also be found at www.poetwithapresspass.com, on FaceBook @ Poet with a Press Pass, and as recordings at SoundCloud. You can contact Anne McCrady at annemccrady@gmail.com

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