Cody Raisch
Waiting Together
I knocked, and two men let me into the building. The doors are locked this week, for the tribe’s protection, but patrons walk in and out from the back door I’m sitting next to. My body folds into the exact leg cross position I’ve sat in for the last two hours. I’m in a room filled with indigenous people waiting for new Tribal IDs. We can’t leave without this, because it’s our proof of being American Indians, and citizens of the United States, in the ICE occupied city of Minneapolis.
Every time I’ve ever been to the Red Lake Embassy, the building has only a few people in it. Sometimes there’s coffee and a few elders visiting. I admittedly rarely come here. Today however, I’m here with everyone else. The room is packed with people of all ages–half sitting, half standing. There’s a constant flow of newly entering patrons grabbing applications. To the far left, a woman holds her fussing newborn baby in a fuzzy blanket with a sunset-colored tribal design. A couple sits across from me, recalling the names ahead of them in the queue.
The Tribal ID is federally recognized, but most of the time, bartenders, waitresses, police, and the TSA all brush it off, because they don’t know how they work compared to the average regular state-issued IDs. This ID is currently a symbolic kryptonite against arrest and beatings from the federal government. I personally don’t believe it will help me, but it also can’t hurt, right? The Tribal ID has served me at times, sure… Usually in any formal capacity, showing my Tribal only gets me a stare like I’ve just handed the nightclub bouncer Monopoly money.
This is the Red Lake Embassy, and I’m an enrolled member of the Red Lake Nation. We’re commonly known as the Ojibwe, but we go by many names. Commonly, we’re referred to as the Chippewa, a title born through non-natives being incapable of pronouncing the word Ojibwe. We also call ourselves the Anishinaabe, which means “First people.” The irony isn’t lost on me, as
I’m sitting for hours in a room packed like sardines, at what can essentially be called the Native American DMV, waiting for my papers that scream out “don’t deport me.” Deport me to where? I’m not exactly sure.
When the ICE raids began, I felt sorrow for the immigrant community here, and naively didn’t see myself as at risk. With all my free time, I worked toward being helpful to those in need. I wore pins, I carried a whistle, I donated to food drives, and shared the news on social media incessantly. It wasn’t until around the time of the murder of Renee Good that my own life became at risk. ICE agents began going door to door. Videos were uploaded daily of ICE stopping any brown person walking down the street, demanding to see their papers.
I can’t pinpoint when I personally became afraid of the government, but in hindsight I see the micro-movements that led to it. One day I started locking my car door twice when getting in. When out on a walk, I’d wear a hat to hide my hair, and a big scarf to cover my face, and I lied to myself, saying it was because of the cold. On my days off, I opted for a cozy day in. One day became two, then three, and then I found myself only ever leaving home to go to work.
Back in the waiting room, I overhear people saying, “They don’t even care if you’re Mexican or Native. They’ve been stopping everyone because they can’t tell the difference!”
I knew they weren’t wrong, because I’ve experienced a lot of mistaken racial identity from non-native people. Native people seem to know the difference though. We all have a look that’s obvious to other Native people, but invisible to non-Native people. It’s not even the tan skin and the dark hair, but instead, it’s in our cheeks when we smile.
I’m jolted back to the waiting room when the woman next to me announces to the crowd that ICE is going door-to-door at her apartment building, and a few people gasp. Shortly after, the desk clerk announces 10 people’s names. There isn’t a number-pulling system or a robot saying the names on the list. It’s just one man yelling names as articulately as he can. Some mention a person who just walked out.
“Rob isn’t here! He went to his brother’s place to grab lunch!”
“Does anyone have Rob’s number?” the announcer asks.
Many people speak up, one saying, “I do! Want me to call him?”
“Yeah! Tell him to walk back over, or we’ll skip‘m!”
Everybody here is operating on a word of mouth system. Rob appears a few minutes later, and the clerk says, “Rob, we almost skipped you!” Rob smiles and turns the corner into the room, and the waiting room returns to a mumbling silence.
A man across the room starts yelling, “I was just in yesterday! You lost my name on the list? Where am I on the list today?” and the clerk who has been announcing names says, “Looks like you’re ten thousandth in line! Ehhhh, just kidding!” The man sits in confusion for a second, and half the room bursts out laughing. He joins the laughter and says, “well shit, guess I’ll be sitting here all night!” and half the room roars again. It’s charming that even in these times, we’re laughing together. A man walks through with a sage stick and an abalone shell, smudging everyone in the room. I knew before he approached me that I’d want him to smudge me. He wafts a billow of sweet white smoke my way, and I put my hands up to my chest, limply pulling the smoke toward myself. I soak up the feeling of lightness and safety afterward, worried the feeling will fade, but it stays with me.
Through everything we’ve seen these last few weeks, our community finds its familiar ways to pull through. The smoke smelled as sweet as it always did. The laughter in the room sounded just like my aunties cackling around a kitchen table. The babies wrapped in native blankets look almost like cocoons on the precipice of becoming butterflies. I want to put this small sliver of hope in my pocket for good luck. After getting my ID, I walk out of the building proudly, my steps striking in rhythm like a dance, magnetized to the only home I’ve ever known, and to the people just like me who will get through it like we always do.
Cody Raisch is an Ojibwe writer and essayist with work published for a storytelling non-profit named Obvi. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Technical and Professional Writing from Metropolitan State University. She writes essays and creative non-fiction prose on her blog TheRollerCodester and substack of the same name. Working as a Teaching Artist at The Loft Literary Center, Cody brings free writing workshops to local libraries to uplift literacy in the city. When she isn’t writing and teaching, she works as a bookseller at a used bookshop. She lives in Minneapolis with her Fiancé Eric and her tuxedo cat, Bruce.
Banner Art:
Gary Kuehn, Melt Piece, 1967, WikiArt
