We started the week (and the year, really) with an attack on Venezuela and images of Maduro with his wrists bound, being led out of a helicopter on American soil. We’re ending the week with blood in the streets of Minneapolis and a rising tide of impromptu protests.
There have been around 50 weeks since the inauguration, and so many of them have been marked by heavy sadness. I can’t really say it any other way. I’m pissed off. I know you are, too. But I think even more than that, I am mourning.
Yes, yes, yes. I know that all is not lost. We have fight in us, and I know we will never, ever give up. There’s too much at stake.
But I am mourning the fact that we have to fight in the first place. None of this had to happen. MAGA does not solve any pressing problem. A masked, poorly trained militia isn’t building a better world for our children.
So this week, I’m grasping at hope.
Minneapolis, my Former Home
The show was sold out, but it was a few hours before we were set to go on stage. We loaded-in early and read through our lines, bounced around the greenroom and grabbed beers from the front-of-house. Our house band set up and rehearsed the score, looked over the cues.
The Ritz Theater is in Northeast Minneapolis, several miles and probably a 20 minute drive from where Renee Good would be killed 18 years in the future.