ESSAY: Whistling with my Neighbors

Lynn Sikkink

In my home state of Minnesota, plastic whistles shrill the tune of nonviolent protest against ICE. I watch footage from Colorado, though my torn-up heart seems to be beating in Minnesota.

A week after ICE agents flood into Minneapolis, I go looking for an old photo album. I want to find the pictures of my canoe trips from the era when I was a high schooler in a small Minnesota town.

I want to remember the most beautiful parts of my home state while I’m confronted by the ugliness of ICE’s contaminating presence in it. I want to remember the Northwoods, limpid lakes, the aurora borealis.

I don’t need photographs to see these — they’re the vivid places I still recall when I’m trying to calm myself in the middle of the night or take a deep breath during the day. Rather, I want to remember myself as the determined teenager who thought she could lead trips into the wilderness despite her fear of bears and lack of experience.

Those early trips made me who I am, and I’m hoping that who I am is the same person who would be bringing groceries to her neighbors, with a whistle around my neck, getting in the way as ICE descended on parts of the city.

I find a few of the old square Kodak pictures in my oldest collections, some showing my friend Mary on our first trip when we were 16. She was the only friend whose parents allowed her to sign on for my two-week canoe trip — maybe only because Mary’s mother and father had never been in a canoe and didn’t know about the bears or wolves or how wind could capsize a canoe in a large lake.

Mary and I took only a few rolls of film on the trip. Mostly they were pictures of ourselves on the water or at campsites, the keel-side of our aluminum canoe tipped up, sometimes leaning against a big white pine. The colors of these images are glazed, as if the water-filled landscape has washed over them with time. They bring back memories — but not the person I was.

Going to my old map tells me more. On the yellow and blue image, I find the route we followed, which I’d chosen for being portage-light though paddle-heavy: a loop that leaps like a big walleye into the Canadian/Quetico side of wilderness through remote lakes like Agnes, Kawnipi, and Kahshahpiwi. These big lakes were connected by dozens of smaller potholes with names like Yum Yum and Sultry and threaded together by rivers.

Because of bears, Mary and I liked to camp on islands when we could. Even though we knew bears could swim, we felt safer surrounded by water.

Lynn Sikkink

I spot on the map the narrow and island-less Lake Isabella, where a lone bear found his way into our campsite. We had escaped into our canoe with our food pack, only to discover we’d left our paddles behind. We swore. Then laughed.

Floated away from shore, we watched the bear flatten our tent and snuffle around our cook fire before moving on. We waited a long time, collecting our courage, before we returned.

“Forward!” I directed from the stern, as I did when we were pushing into wind — though in this case we had only our limbs to propel us. It took a long time to arm-paddle our way to shore, but we made it, tired and terrified.

The bear in my memory seems almost teddy-like compared to the cruelty Minnesotans have been facing down as they confront ICE agents.

The day after meeting our bear, Mary and I told the story to a family we met when we were resting on an especially long portage. As we walked back to the take-out to portage our second load, we saw our canoe hefted onto the back of the father, who was carrying it for us — his family was helping us cross.

I didn’t understand the full significance of this family’s kindness, helping us portage during that canoe trip — and likely even the family thought of it as a simple thing. But I see the power of this kindness in operation today as Minnesotans protect their neighbors.

From my distant — but not too distant perch — in Colorado, watching Minnesotans in action, I realize there is a bullheaded-ness to Minnesota Nice. Neighbors will bring you a tater tot hotdish, like it or not. In the face of adversity, I have watched the actions of Minnesotans who answer force with steadfastness, despite the dangers.

I watch it in awe. Protestors, immigrants, mutual aid delivery people — and even murder victims Renée Good and Alex Pretti. They are neighbors helping each other. In my mind, I bring a whistle to my lips and make it howl.

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