January 7 began as a normal day for Renee Good.
She packed her six-year-old son into the back seat, along with his lunch and their large dog, and drove him to school. As she drove home, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a group of huddled ICE agents.
She decided to drive closer to observe what was happening to her neighbors—not, of course, before opening the glove box to draw out her weapon: a whistle. It was not long before ICE noticed this “obviously dangerous” woman sitting in her parked car with a whistle in her hand. Afraid she might use it, they approached the vehicle.
The request was simple: “Get out of here.” As she rolled down her window, she spoke her last words: “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you.”
As she turned her wheels to leave, the ICE agent shouted the last words she would ever hear— “Fucking bitch”—and fired several shots into her car, killing her.
That snowy morning, Good was consciously choosing to help her neighbors, no matter the color of their skin or nationality, simply because they were neighbors. It cost her her life.
The news spread like wildfire. By the next day, streets in Minneapolis and across the nation were filled with people. In every state, millions of ordinary citizens dressed warmly and came out to protest.
In the melting snow lay flowers in tribute and a Pride flag showing one of our own had been lost.
Renee’s 15-year-old daughter, following her mother’s legacy as a poet, began writing poetry to express her grief. Within weeks, it was turned into a compelling, heartbreaking, and heart-healing book, Stamen and Salt: A Poetic Archive of the Killing of Renee Good by The Daughter.
A tantalizing title. The stamen produces pollen grains for reproduction, after which seeds spread far and wide. Salt preservation was used in Egypt by at least 2000 BC—and it cannot be destroyed.
The title signals an insistence that the truth will be pollinated everywhere by windblown seeds. It will endure. It cannot be destroyed.
By the next day, the flowers had wilted and the snow had melted away, but the news continued to spread— warmer than the melting snow. For most of the protesters, it was their first time marching for anything. For the first time, they stepped out of closed doors into a world of unanticipated but urgent action.
This poem by her daughter, written after her mother’s death, says it all:
“The Vigil”
We gathered. Thousands of us. Candles in the snow. Steel drums with burning wood to keep warm. ‘Justice for Renee.’ We stood on the street where she died. We reclaimed the asphalt. We melted the ice with our heat.
My father stood there. My brother. Becca. We were a tableau of grief. But we were not alone. The city held us. The ‘supportive community’ she wanted. She found it. In death, she found it. The neighbors came out. The strangers came out. They whistled. A symphony of whistles. Not a warning this time. A salute.
The candles flickered in the wind. A sea of stars on the ground. We sang songs. We cried. We held hands. We created a human barrier against the night.
And for a moment—just a moment—I felt safe. I felt the ‘coastal jungle sounds’ returning. The tercets of the heart beating in unison. We were not victims. We were a choir. And our song was louder than the gunshot.”
The next time you hear the call to action, grab your shiny new whistle and step out into the eagerly waiting world.
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advocate and educator for those experiencing hearing loss.
