An Assassination in the Heartland
The pain of political violence
It’s Saturday morning and the neighbors are hosting coffee in their garage. My alarms are set at fifteen-minute intervals because coffee starts at nine and I like to be there on time. I sleep through them all. When I open my eyes, it’s after ten. I reach for my phone and — my worst habit, it drove my husband crazy — pull up the New York Times.
A video statement from my governor, Tim Walz. Targeted shootings. Politically motivated. Four shot, two dead, in the suburbs of Minneapolis. The headline is stark. Assassination.
I return the phone to its cradle. Stare at the ceiling. Try to think of a time when Minnesota Nice meant something. When the state I’ve lived in all my life was not known for violence.
I don’t go to coffee.
The previous day, June 13, I’d called my son.
”Happy anniversary! I can’t believe it’s been five years.”
He laughed. “Longer. We met in high school. So, twenty.”
Twenty years. My son had just detonated the mother-bomb. Cherish every moment, they go by so fast.
I let my heart settle. “Are you protesting tomorrow?”
My son: union steward, autism teacher, Bernie supporter. Of course he’d be at the state capitol, surrounded by tens of thousands of his well-behaved fellow citizens.
“What about you?”
“I’ll let you know. Make sure you celebrate tonight. Have a glass of champagne for me.” I paused. “And one for Dad.”
Two for Dad, I wanted to say. One for each year he’s been gone.
“How about an Old Fashioned on Sunday? It’s Father’s Day.”
Another surge of love and sorrow. My husband had saved every Father’s Day card his son and daughter gave him. After he died, I found them in stacks, organized by the year. From crayon hearts to beer steins to Dad, I couldn’t have done it without you, thanks for taking out those student loans! I almost forgave him for falling asleep while I was in labor, fully effaced, ready to bear down.
“I’ll cook dinner,” I said to the boy for whom I’d clenched my fists until they nearly bled, as I waited for his dad to track down the nurse so he could make his way into the world.
I found a pen and a Post-it. I could try, once again, to replicate my husband’s beef tenderloin. What else? Caesar salad, Julia Child’s recipe, always a hit unless I forget the Parmesan.
An anguished yowl from the living room. Mini.
My 22-year-old cat, wandering. Walking into furniture, skirting the baseboards, pulling back when her whiskers touched.
“Sweet girl. It’s okay,” I whispered. “We all get old.”
I closed the French doors to the sunroom and barricaded my study with a board propped up by two stoneware jugs. It’s impossible to cat-proof a house. My actions are gestures of magical thinking.
Protest? Maybe. Not sure. Depending on.
Mini.
It’s possible that I’m the only member of my generation who’s never attended a political demonstration. I’ve worn buttons and T-shirts, glued stickers to my bumpers that lasted longer than the cars. Caucused. Knocked on doors. But I never took to the streets.
Long ago, I wrote an essay that landed at the top of the Star Tribune’s Sunday op-ed page. It was about a shooting at my son’s school. At that time, it wasn’t normal for children in kindergarten to learn numbers, the alphabet, and how to hit the floor at the sound of gunfire.
The suspect is at large. The public is advised to stay home. If someone comes to your door dressed as a police officer, do not answer. Call 911.
It’s the language of Dragnet. Imagine how TV producers from the sixties would have entertained a story pitch with these plot elements:
Around two a.m., a man disguised as a police officer drives to the home of an elected official whose policies he disagrees with. He shoots the man nine times; his wife, eight. Miraculously, both survive.
The gunman proceeds to the home of another elected official whose policies he disagrees with. As law enforcement arrives at the scene, he shoots at and kills the official, her husband, and their golden retriever. He escapes on foot.
His abandoned vehicle has fake police plates. It’s loaded with weapons, including assault rifles, and a stack of papers printed with a slogan that shows his intent to target a crowd of protesters, whose beliefs he disagrees with.
Also in the vehicle is a hit list with more than 60 names. Most are elected officials whose policies he disagrees with. There are maps. Addresses. Detailed plans for mass carnage.
The producers look at each other, incredulous. No one — no one! — in the country, in our one nation under God — would believe a word of it. What’s an assault rifle? Hit lists are a mob thing. Shooting the family dog? Not even Charles Manson would do something so heinous.
As the writer slinks away, one producer says to the other, “Do you think we should notify someone? This one sounds dangerous. Delusional.”
The second producer says, “I think CBS sent him. Trying to get us canceled.”
Although memes claiming otherwise are posted on the Internet, including a tweet by a United States senator, the suspect is not a socialist, Marxist, or Democrat.
The suspect is a white nationalist who identifies as a Christian and votes Republican.
Just the facts, Ma’am.
2020 was the year we should have sensed, known, seen this coming.
January: Covid. Fear.
March: Covid. Shutdowns. Fear.
May: George Floyd, five miles from my home. Just across the river, the third precinct burns. Stores and pharmacies looted. Without my Lunesta, I can’t sleep. No one sleeps.
June: The stars align. Restrictions lift. In the gazebo of a bed-and-breakfast he reserved a year in advance, my son marries the love of his life. Twelve in attendance, all family. Dinner: masked, sitting three feet apart. The servers wear face shields. We learn all over again how to eat in public.
September: A morning brilliant and serene as the day that planes flew into the World Trade Center. My daughter, haloed in sunlight, walks across the parking lot into what is ahead.
October: What is ahead is cancer.
November: The election. Will life be normal again?
December: Snow, like when an old TV set was done broadcasting for the day.
2020 is the year we forgot what was normal.
Protesters gather on the Capitol grounds. I text my son the What’s going on? emoji.
We’re good. Big crowd.
I text my daughter. No response. Wait an hour; call. It goes to voicemail.
My son texts. Rally’s over. Celebration emojis. I call.
“ Have you heard from your sister?”
“No. Haven’t you?”
“She’s probably asleep,” I say.
Or walking the dog. In the shower, phone in the kitchen. Yes, any of those things.
I wait an hour. Text her again. No response. I leave a voicemail.
It isn’t the gunman I’m afraid of, though he is still at large.
Sunday evening, June 15. The suspect is taken into custody near his home, 70 miles from the place where two people and a golden retriever were murdered.
A search of his house reveals four dozen guns, five body bags, a second police vehicle, and $17,490 in cash.
Body bags. Why five? I wonder. Then I remember: the suspect is married, with three children.
My daughter calls.
“Mom, I was sleeping,” is the best news of the day.
“Glad to hear it, sweetie,” I say. “You’ll need plenty of rest before Tuesday. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“You don’t have to. My appointment’s at five-thirty. Sorry they scheduled me so early. I can Uber.”
No. No, you may not Uber. And I will sit in the surgery waiting room the entire time, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times you tell me to go home, that you don’t need me to stay. Because I need to stay.
“Feeling better, Mini-girl?”
I don’t know how many times this cat has come back from the dead. Nine, or ninety. Her eyes are fixed on the spot where at one time I reliably appeared. That certainty has faded. When she isn’t wandering, she’s watchful.
Tired of waking up with swollen eyes and wisps of shed winter fur glued to my face, I’ve ceded my pillow. My husband’s side of the bed is now mine. I slip under the covers; Mini presses against me. Her small relieved sounds are those of a human child. I’m here; she’s safe. Her purr deepens and slows.
My heart goes out to the families and friends of Melissa Hortman, speaker emerita of the Minnesota State Legislature; her husband, Jack Hortman, and their golden retriever, Gilbert. Through an organization called Helping Paws, the Hortmans trained therapy dogs for veterans suffering from PTSD. Gilbert failed the program, as his natural friendliness interfered with his ability to bond with just one veteran, rather than the entire universe of sentient creatures.
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When my heart is so heavy with the ugliness of the world, you find the words, and I feel a little bit healed. Thank you, Mary.
Good god this is powerful. I so admire your capacity to drop into all these scenes , then let go. On to the next. Then another . But the mood ( for me, anyway) carries through it all - or an underpinning of the mood is present throughout. Just magical. And of course, just fucking sad.