relationship abuse/ white supremacist violence following the murder of George Floyd
I’m writing this essay in May 2024. It’s been four years since George Floyd passed away, suffocated under the knee of former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin. Floyd’s last words echoed throughout the world, an utterance so painful, so universal: “I can’t breathe.” That summer in Minneapolis felt revolutionary. That is, both alive with hope, power, and the will to create social change... and teeming with state repression, right-wing vigilantism, and terror.
Citizens around the world demanded justice for George Floyd, defunding the police, and even calling for its abolishment. (I helped organize a Minneapolis police abolition campaign that began in 2017, which grew out of the Black Lives Matter movement. Our intention was to mobilize our communities beyond moments of crisis. I believe this work helped make our city’s political moment so resonant in 2020.) Sadly 2022 and 2023 reports from major news outlets such as ABC and Minnesota’s Star Tribune have indicated that U.S. – and specifically, Minneapolis – police funding had actually increased since the 2020 uprisings. This trend rises in conjunction with our country’s increased military spending, which continues to grow year after year. As I continue to pursue a career in art, I cannot help but reflect on where I’ve come from and what I want to create.
As an Indigenous person – in part, a descendent of the Hmong hill tribes of Asia – art represents more than aesthetics or even utility. It is akin to breathing, inextricably linked to our evolutionary growth as humans. My creative work invites us to imagine becoming a more “human” human being, a term crafted by late Providence-born,Detroit-based philosopher and activist Grace Lee Boggs.
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The year was 2020. It was Memorial Day weekend in Minnesota and officially spring, meaning the snow had turned into rain... which turned into flowering trees and hay fever. It also meant that COVID-19 social distancing could happen outside, and I spent my fair share running,singing, and crying around the lake.
My partner’s parents invited us to spend the holiday with them in the suburbs. Grateful for a reprieve from our compact apartment in the city, we agreed.
His mom prepared a feast which included a variety of hand cut fruits, homemade Vietnamese beef jerky, and Bun Rieu (a Vietnamese crab and tomato based soup) topped with aromatic homegrown herbs. We enjoyed a leisurely meal on their three season porch, which was lined with string lights, kitschy souvenirs from tropical destinations, liquor merchandise, and a lazy wooden ceiling fan. Together we laughed, discussed health prognoses (his dad had a back injury), and swapped advice. We shared ways to mitigate the spread of COVID-19, and they offered relationship guidance. The day ended with the four of us lounging in the backyard. A manicured yard and blooming flowers lined the outside of their home. I laid in a hammock while my partner and his parents sat in lawn chairs around the fire pit. Their dog Toby – the sweetest bichon terrier mix – ran back and forth between us all.
I fell in love with a boy named Minh. He was a Vietnamese American trans man whose satirical humor, boyish smile, and rebellious nature belied his struggles with addiction, mental health, and chronic illness. As two queer descendants of Southeast Asian refugees born and raised in the Twin Cities metro, we described our connection as ancestral, fated, and divine. U-hauling not even five months into our relationship, he was the first partner I ever lived with. All of my immediate family resided thousands of miles away, and I yearned for someone to call home.
Our relationship, however, was deeply troubled. It was pockmarked with screaming matches, cold shoulders, accusations, threats, and manipulation. Four years later and I still can’t pinpoint what exactly went wrong. The majority of our issues stemmed from Minh – I can point to innumerable instances I experienced his narcissistic abuse. Then the problem became us.
Minh and I planned to stay the night in the suburbs, sleeping in the basement of his parent’s home. We made our bed – two couches shoved together piled with blankets and pillows harbored from his childhood. It was always a bit chilly down there, but the air conditioning was a welcome luxury. We settled in for the night with Toby nestled between us. I woke up to the sun streaming through plastic window blinds. Toby was outside already, patrolling his territory and following Minh’s dad performing yard work. I was languidly browsing social media on my phone when a news article from Huffington Post filled my screen,
“‘I Cannot Breathe’: Man Dies After Encounter With Minneapolis Police.”
An hour later, the whole world would know his name – George Floyd – and days later Minneapolis would go up in flames.
“Babe, wake up.” I attempted to shake Minh awake. “A Black man was murdered in Minneapolis last night, right outside Cup Foods.” The convenience store that Floyd bought his last pack of cigarettes from was in Minh’s old neighborhood, South Minneapolis. Together we moved to Uptown, just 3 miles north. Minh woke up – resistant at first – then with a start. We agreed to drive back to the city. Protestors had started gathering at the site of Floyd’s murder, and we felt compelled to join in rage and mourning.
The uprisings escalated quickly. Irate due to COVID-19 lockdown, incalculable job layoffs, and yet another racist police murder, the people of Minneapolis were ready to take to the streets. Minh and I drove to 38th and Chicago, the intersection of Floyd’s last breath. Protestors shut down the city roads, climbing on top of bus stops and flooding the sidewalks with flowers, artwork, and handmade signs. Guerilla murals made of chalk, acrylic, and spray paint appeared honoring George Floyd and countless other Black lives stolen by police. The neighborhood group chats we’d been using to organize COVID-19 supply drives and food redistribution morphed into protest planning and safety. Within days white supremacists, SWAT teams, and the National Guard descended into the city. Protesters were blamed for the looting and arson; our intel told us that it was typically outside agitators who broke the first windows and started the fires.
I remember driving down Lake Street, past the condominium (“Condominium, not apartment,” my dad chided) I grew up in. Minh and I had heard on the news that the Proud Boys, Hell’s Angels, and the Boogaloo Boys were in town. White supremacists were setting fire to our gas stations, businesses, and even post offices, hoping to cause discord and explosions in our neighborhoods. We witnessed a right-wing radical patrolling an intersection, carrying a baseball bat filled with nails. Police officers fired rubber bullets – sometimes coated in paint to mark cars and individuals – flash grenades, and smoke bombs at non-violent protesters. Armored vehicles drove down Hiawatha Avenue, the National Guard blocked off streets with assault rifles, and the incessant drone of helicopters consumed the city.
And then the Minneapolis Police Department’s Third Precinct burned down.
My phone flooded with messages from neighborhood group chats. People suggested filling our garbage bins with water because outside agitators were lighting them on fire. We were told that if a gas canister was found near your building, someone may be planning to commit arson. There was a city-wide suggestion to keep your lights on to dissuade attacks from white supremacists. Minh vehemently disagreed. He demanded that we turn off our lights at night and hide out of view. Our couch was pushed away from the window, just in case someone threw a Molotov cocktail into our first floor apartment.
I grabbed our flashlight from the closet, switched it on, and accidentally shone it on our window. Minh yelled at me, “Are you stupid? Are you fucking stupid? They’re going to see that!” He berated me over and over. A part of me saw what he experienced as a child, living with a father who was a war veteran and alcoholic suffering from PTSD. Another part of me saw my partner as a monster. I was crying, and I was terrified.
We went to bed late those days; 5 AM would be the norm. It was impossible to sleep while pickup trucks roared down the street, terrorizing the block. When I woke up the day after Minh’s verbal assault, I decided to leave him. He typically blamed me for incurring his abuse, but being called stupid over and over again for making a small mistake (Was it even a mistake? Should I be sorry for shining a flashlight against a window?) was a clear sign that our relationship was not okay. A friend invited my cats and me to stay in their apartment while I figured out a new place to live. They were only a few blocks over, less than five minutes away by driving. I packed my invaluable belongings (my artwork, family photographs, and important documents), my two cats, and their litter box into my friend’s car and left.
When we arrived at the apartment, I was numb from devastation. My friend gave me a short tour; the unit was quiet, spacious, and well-maintained, replete with hardwood floors, shelves full of books, and house plants. I was given my own furnished room and began unpacking. Taking care of my cats was my priority. I set up their litter box, food, water, and toys. I wanted them to feel as comfortable as possible considering the circumstances. Lying in bed, I had a difficult time processing what had happened. The past week felt like an alternate timeline.
I was messaging my friends when I received an incoming call. It was Minh. “Hey, I found a gas can in our parking lot. I asked our landlords if they recognized it, but they said they didn’t. Do you remember seeing one?” he said frantically. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me right now, but his fear was contagious.
“No, I don’t. Was it full?” I inquired.
“It was half empty. Fuck. What if a white supremacist put it here? What if our apartment blows up?” He sent me a picture of the red and yellow gas can. The cap was hanging off the spout.
“I don’t think it’s safe here. We should go. Can I come pick you up?” Panic consumed me.
I looked at my cats, who were finally resting in this strange room.
Foolishly I took the bait, “Where would we go?”
“We can go to my parents. Maybe we could ask your family. Who knows, we just need to go. The police are closing down the highways soon. Once that happens, no one will be able to come in and out of Minneapolis.”
Minh was almost manic. Looking back on this exchange, this was one of his countless attempts to manipulate me... to win me back and keep me dependent on the relationship... to begin the cycle of abuse once more. However, at the time I was fully under Minh’s control. So I agreed. I said goodbye and thanked my friend just a couple of hours after arriving. Minh helped me load my belongings into his white sports car. We drove onto I-35W North and escaped the burning city.
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It’s been four years, and I’m still processing the trauma I experienced in Minneapolis as a result of relationship abuse, police brutality, military oppression, and white supremacist violence. After the uprisings Minh and I stayed together for over a year, and our relationship continued to disrupt my personal and professional life. I am not proud of the ways I responded to his abuse... of the ways it spread into the world outside of our tiny apartment. Due to his escalating isolation tactics, I burned bridges with close friends and professional contacts. As a result I almost gave up on my art career. I finally left Minh when I left Minnesota. I wouldn’t be here without the family, friends, and lovers who supported my healing.
George Floyd changed me – he changed the entire city. And yet the U.S. and countries around the world continue to see an increase of right-wing power and abuse, despite politicians having promised the opposite. However society as a whole is more connected than ever. People must try very, very hard to hide from the truth and our responsibility to it. The future is not guaranteed, and I believe there is a universe where ordinary people (like you and me) end intergenerational cycles of oppression, abuse, and violence. There is a universe where we create new ways to become more “human” human beings and thrive.
