Crying at the Donut Shoppe

After I sent out last month’s note, my friend Molly Surno, of the excellent Push Projects; (like ‘n’ subscribe) said she wanted to know more about Minneapolis.

Next month will be more about work I’m involved in - there’s some.

I was in the Twin Cities to help my folks move a couple weeks ago, and I asked my friend C how the solidarity in this moment was different than during the uprisings in the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder in 2020. We were eating, along with her husband J, at one of many restaurants that had shown up hard during ICE’s incursions (which are, by the way, ongoing).

C, who has been in harm’s way during the past couple of months by doing radical things like delivering groceries to neighbors, and who is very very good at putting things together in a simple-yet-layered way, said, “After George Floyd, the city was battling itself. Now we are battling an invasion from outside.”

My AirBnb, where I’ve stayed a bunch of times, was a block from where Alex Pretti was killed. As mentioned last month, this is a corner where I spent a lot of time 40 years ago, when Little Tijuana’s Cafe was one of the only places that you could go out for food after midnight if you were underage.

The day before I returned to New York, I stopped by the memorial to Pretti, which is right at the site of his killing, just across from Glam Doll Donuts, which has been one of several focal points of neighborhood solidarity in the past two months. There is something especially wrenching about this site, as with George Floyd square, because it’s exactly where the murder happened. People in the Twin Cities are exhausted, and the memorial somehow holds the fatigue, the grief and the hope all in one.

I lost it. Maybe it was the post-it notes on a wall next to all the names of other police killing victims from the past ten years; or the simple notes about what a good person Pretti seemed to be; or, again, how close I was to this place at formative times in my life. I was ugly crying on Eat Street (the name the city has given to the stretch of Nicollet Avenue South, between Franklin and Lake Streets, because of all the restaurants there, many started by immigrants).

Maybe just because in this ever-escalating poly-crisis, I really wanted to see that my hometown was compassionate, organized, fierce and loving, at its best, even if, like for most of us, at its best is not all the time.

I started collecting myself and decided that I’d get donuts from Glam Doll to bring back to my folks. I hadn’t been before, and I love a donut. My first job was at a donut shop (Scandia Bakery, on East Lake St, 1984) where I learned from a former Vegas trumpet player named Al, how to clean up efficiently while also rearranging pastries on trays to mask the ones I stole.

I walked into Glam Doll and was greeted by a young counter person who asked me what I’d like, and man I couldn’t help it but started crying again. I collected myself and said, “I grew up here but haven’t been back in a couple months.” They were like, “It’s a lot.” I nodded, snuffled, and ordered three donuts - something with salted carmel, something with pecans and something bright pink.

I noticed, and loved, that my counter person was not going out of their way to be extra nice, accommodating or even sympathetic, but was also warm. Meaning they had boundaries, weren’t putting on a show of solidarity or care, but also were just letting me be moved. I thought, ‘this tracks; people are kind of done.’

I didn’t need someone to pat me on the back for my tears or tell me I’m awesome. I need us to witness together that these multiple shitshows are real in the world right now, and that we are not pretending. I need people with boundaries but who aren’t afraid to look. That feels like a pathway.

Maybe I was crying for all of what Minneapolis has been through in the past few years; and maybe it was about how much I needed to leave this place where I grew up, and how great it is that it has evolved.

On some level, too, I was aware that George Floyd Square did not foster the same level of simple, unequivocal love behind it. It remains contested space, if not in stone then in memory. Because of the fires, because not only was Minneapolis battling itself in the wake of that murder, it was disgorging the violence that Black and indigenous people have always borne more of.

One murder’s not worse than another. They signify differently. Even dead, Floyd had to answer for the assumptions white supremacy made about him and other people. Is it possible we ignored or forgave Alex Pretti his possible human flaws a little more easily?

In response to Molly, what I can say is, of course, very much limited by my own experience. Growing up, it was a place that prided itself on taking care of its own; but don’t rock the boat, push too hard or ask for too much. Behave and you’ll get yours.

But for real, though: it’s Prince and Husker Du, George Floyd, Philandro Castile, and people did speak up with a lot of love. It’s Paul Wellstone; it’s also burning where you live, it’s FBI informants historically lighting the first match. It’s Penumbra Theater and The Walker Art Center and The Post-Modern Times diner. It’s The Anarchist Bowling League and micro-organized mutual aid.

It’s a good place to be, if you’re liberal or modestly progressive, especially if you’re white. The city can rally around its new arrivals better than many other places. It is growing into the organized, liberating place it has become, through so many trials.

I think I was crying because the memorial left me bereft and hopeful. What is a hometown if not complicated?

Want to read a little reflection of Minneapolis thirty years ago? A paid subscription could be a nice way to support thinaar studio’s work, if you can!

I am home for a holiday visit, walking around on a cold night, just after last call, and I stop by Curly’s, a diner with a counter and a couple tables on Bloomington and Lake, open until four, where people can sober up over 50-cent coffee after last call.