The Battles of Home 2 Suites Hilton and Springfield Suites By Marriott
A Dispatch From Minnesota
A dispatch today from two protests and police escalations around hotels believed to be hosting ICE and DHS agents in the Minneapolis area by Sean Beckner-Carmitchel. He previously wrote for Hell World about a wave of protests in Los Angeles over the summer during which he was shot in the face by cops with a gas canister.
Luke O’Neil
If you haven't yet please be sure to read this recent piece by Minneapolis resident Erik Hane about the bonds of community in the face of a fascist invasion.
Luke O’Neil
But if we mean what we say about solidarity, what choice is there? If every abducted child is our own, if every person they want to make disappear is someone Minneapolis cannot and will not live without, the decisions on how we must respond have already been made. And as reports appear that ICE is planning to do this elsewhere, I believe these other places will be making the same decisions, because they have to. We all have to.
The cycle repeated itself
by Sean Beckner-Carmitchel
“Come to the Home 2 Suites in Minneapolis,” a protester told me on Sunday. “There’s a noise demonstration.”
“It should be fairly relaxed. As far as kicking armed fascists out of our city goes.”
This past week there’s been a rise in such “noise demonstrations” at hotels housing federal agents. Though they aren’t a new tactic during the recent deportation surges, they have rarely evolved over the course of a night into full-on surreal scenes like this one did. It’s not often, for example, that you see bloodied federal agents screaming at members of the press for information on where local law enforcement is.
By the time I arrived, protesters had successfully thrown various items into the lobby and check-in area. There was a refrigerator turned over, and two masked men of unknown affiliation standing guard alongside a fairly cheery-seeming Minneapolis Police Department officer, trampled Goldfish crackers all over the ground, and an anger that you could feel.
“Minnesota nice, except for ICE,” is a common refrain you’ll hear at protests in the Twin Cities. The people here pride themselves on an overwhelming pleasantness. When you experience it, you begin to realize that the outward anger and frustration you see within the city must be extreme. These are people whose entire identity is invested in taking care of each other and remaining kind; they are among the last group of people you’d expect to throw a brick.
But now two local people are dead and an unknown number of others from the area have been dragged into detention centers by masked police. Nearly all of them will end up being deported.
The two that were killed were by all accounts some of the best examples of the spirit of Minnesota. Renee Good was a mother of three who had recently moved to Minneapolis to start over, according to a man who knew her. She was making progress on turning around what had previously been “a hard life.” She was shot in the head. Members of the same agencies that killed her began to slander her as a terrorist immediately after.
Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse at the VA hospital, and by universal account was an incredibly kind man who spent his professional life taking care of the critically ill. His personal life was filled with moments of kindness as well. Like Good he too was maligned in death and accused of attempting a “massacre,” of law enforcement by the Trump administration.
For once, it seems, slandering the names of those killed by law enforcement won't stick. They were too obviously not what they were accused of being. Videos of the shootings also made it very clear how unnecessary they were, even to many typically predisposed to default to siding with cops. The contradictions at work have only increased the outrage among locals.
At the Home 2 Suites on Sunday, things seemed to have mostly de-escalated by my arrival. Activists shined lights on the lobby and nearby rooms. They made a hell of a racket. Whistles handed out in the thousands (maybe more) cut through the bitter cold creating a vapor every time they were used. Repurposed trash cans were used as drums. Ad-hoc barricades were built from traffic cones, and hotel signage and the like were placed on opposite ends of the road.
People with charming midwestern accents walked around offering hand warmers. “Hey derr, do ya need anyting? It’s cold ya know.” “Oh hey, noticed ya arrunt wearin’ mittens. Do ya need some?” “Ya know, I hear it’s gonna get warmer soon. Double digits.”
At the same time, screams of anger and frustration were hurled towards the hotel and the federal employees staying there.
“Get the fuck out of our city.”
“Eat shit, pig fucker.”
“I hope ya jump off da roof.”
For hours, activists continued to chant and bang on items. Occasionally a crash of glass could be heard; several windows were broken in spots where people staying at the hotel lingered watching the protest. A protester jumped on the shoulder of another, and with a snow shovel he smashed the first “S” in the hotel’s Home 2 Suites marquee.
Just before 10 pm things took a turn. A fed wearing a bloodied gaiter charged into the crowd from around a corner, throwing cans of chemical irritant and grenades sending gigantic sparks into the night sky. Fumbling with one gas can, he placed a shotgun between his legs. Most of the protesters moved away across the street. Several were screaming. A small fire ignited from one of his canister, but it burned itself out quickly.
He then proceeded to kick two trashcans on either side of him, building what may have seemed to him like an impromptu barricade against bloodthirsty insurgents, but from an outsiders’s perspective looked a lot more like an adorable fort made by an elementary school child.
Teargas soon filled the street in front of the Home 2 Suites. The cacophony of whistles intensified. The percussive sound of the drums was overtaken by the sharp bangs of crowd control munitions.
“Is everyone here press?” the masked agent yelled. His voice sounded like it was either a put-on or a result of significant amounts of blood leaking into his throat. On his chest, insignia for the Bureau of Prisons sat atop a plate carrier. Blood was pouring out of his face and his nose was beet red. As he spoke he repeatedly spat out trails of crimson onto the lobby floor. His hands were also covered in blood.
Nobody seems to know how this man, screaming like a character in a Batman film, ended up bloodied. There’s no evidence I’ve seen that anyone threw anything at his head. There are theories he may have fallen on his face at some point, or improperly held his gun when firing it.
“Where is the local PD? That’s my question to the press,” the agent in question asked. There was that one officer I saw earlier. It’s possible he left after a single federal agent decided to make his bizarre stand atop his own improvised Home 2 Suites fox hole.
Off to the side residents of the hotel could be seen with their hands up as other men in green camouflage and tactical gear cleared the zone.
Nobody in fact knew where the Minneapolis Police Department was at the moment, but they would respond shortly after. They told everyone to sit down with their hands up and that they were all under arrest. I don’t think anyone complied. No arrests were visible at the Battle of Home 2 Suites.
One man asked the bloodied federal agent if he was alright and offered medical attention. Things had calmed a bit and a look of panic, fear, hostile adrenaline or maybe all three were visible on his reddening face.
“I’m fine,” he said.
I’ve covered a lot of protests, and over the years I’ve learned to be extremely wary of anyone whose eyes show panic and fear when they’re holding a gun.
Nevertheless a few journalists, including myself, tried to ask him for a statement. Did he have anything to say to the protesters he was responding to? Did he have anything to say to the people of Minneapolis?
“No comment,” he replied in between hocking bloody loogies out of his mask.
Then, without warning, he pointed the gun at me. He screamed at me asking if I was press and to show him my press pass. When I did, he lowered the weapon.
Not long after more feds filed in. Agents from Customs & Border Patrol began to pour out of several armored trucks; two of them dropped chemical munitions onto the ground as they filed out. They picked them up, and ran around the area covering it in white choking smoke.
Minneapolis Police Department responded behind the trucks via loudspeaker, telling everyone, once again, that they were under arrest. Activists began to reassemble a few blocks away from the hotel. Various journalists all started to form something like platoons to make sure everyone was accounted for and could move in tandem.
Just as bizarrely as the Battle of Home 2 Suites began, it ended. Green puffs of smoke (not to be confused with green gas) were thrown out of the armored vehicles as they raced away.
For a few hours, whistles could be heard all over the neighborhood. City vehicles and Minneapolis Police Department SWAT teams began to clean chemical irritant canisters out of the street. A few activists collected athem nd showed me what had been thrown.
On Monday, another quickly organized hotel noise demonstration began outside of the SpringHill Suites By Marriott in Maple Grove, Minnesota. This protest was meant to be a “bye bye Bovino,” demonstration at the hotel he was rumored to be staying at.
Earlier that day Customs & Border Patrol Commander-At-Large Gregory Bovino had been relieved of his duties nationwide. It was reported he would be going back to his former position in California. His leaving was largely celebrated among activists in Minneapolis and the rest of the country. But people who were familiar with him when he was in charge of El Centro Sector have shared concerns that he’d be coming back to where they live.
Maple Grove is a small, affluent suburb of the Twin Cities. “Not much happens here, to be honest. We shop at the outlet mall nearby, that’s where people tend to hang out.” one local told me at the protest.
Outside of the SpringHill Suites, local and state police congregated, appearing to be prepared to respond to a large-scale protest. Armored vehicles, dozens of cruisers and caution tape surrounded the hotel complex. Snowplows blocked road access to the hotels outside of pretty specific access points. Members of the Plymouth Police Department and Hennepin County Sheriffs manned the perimeter. One told me that as long as I stayed on the sidewalks I could pretty much go wherever I pleased.
“We try to be reasonable,” one youthful-looking officer told me.
As protesters filed outside of the area, one Captain of the Maple Grove Police told them they had to remain on the sidewalk across the street. Several agreed. More seemed inclined to let him get bored talking.
After hours of protesters banging on pots and pans, playing out of tune guitars and blowing whistles, some local police began to fire pellets of chemical irritant on the ground. Most of the protesters coughed a bit but were undeterred. Some ripped down the caution tape, then police put it back up, and this cycle repeated itself.
Then the targeted arrests began. More police arrived wearing armor. Additional lines kept forming. They were carrying large sticks. Protesters would get close to the line, and the police would push them back with the sticks. A few were struck in the arms by them.
Eventually Minnesota State Patrol announced an order to disperse via loudspeaker. Threats of “less lethal” munitions and more arrests were made. Protesters backed up a touch, but largely remained in the area. Others took shelter at several local stores and coffee shops within the outlet mall across the street.
A convoy of large trucks with tinted windows exited from the parking lot. Though it was difficult to see inside, when I got close a series of flashing lights came atop the vehicles. They raced away shortly thereafter.
Protesters then gathered again in front of the hotel. Once more, via loudspeaker came the threats of arrests. This time the crowd was surrounded, and several dozen were arrested, although they were let go almost immediately.
I left myself not long after, thankful things had not gotten as bad as they could have. As I did one image stuck with me from a bit earlier in the night.
A crowd of feds had formed in a window on the top floor of SpringHill Suites. Several of them wore masks as they taunted the crowd from above. One of them pulled down his pants. They were showing the city, and the world, their ass.
Sean Beckner-Carmitchel has been out in the streets of Los Angeles and the nation reporting on federal and local cops' assault on cities and their beautiful people. He’s a freelance writer/photographer and also runs The LA Ten Four.
Read more from him here.
Zack Budryk brings up a good point there. He wrote a piece about this recently for Hell World in fact. About how being a man should be about how many people you can help not how many you can harm.
Luke O’Neil
All this is tumbling around in my head shortly after the release of Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another, a project Anderson worked on for years but which feels hyper-relevant to the current moment with its themes of political violence and resistance to a fascist state. One of the movie’s breakout characters is Sensei Sergio (Benicio del Toro), a man with no connection to the French 75, its defunct leftist guerilla organization. When he’s introduced, Sergio is seemingly just an easygoing local karate teacher. It’s only when his student Willa’s (Chase Infiniti) father Bob (Leonardo DiCaprio) needs to flee that Sergio reveals he has “a little Latino Harriet Tubman situation.” It’s not just that Sergio is sheltering seemingly dozens of immigrants in his home, it’s that his entire community trusts him implicitly and will aid Bob because Sergio vouches for him.
It's a film, I know, but it really is true that there are young men who want to be Sensei Sergio and young men who want to be Colonel Lockjaw and it's pretty obvious which one is the righteous aspiration.
A good one by Kristen Radtke for The Verge.
Kristen Radtke
There is something destabilizing about having known someone only as a child and then hearing they were gunned down in the street. The person you see in your mind lying in that street is still a child. I’m sure his mother feels that way, too, or she sees him at every age all at once, including those he did not live to see.
Kaleb Horton's family has put together a site collecting all or most of his work over the years which I highly encourage you to read through.
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If you aren't familiar with his work or never read this one please read my memorial for him from earlier this year.
Luke O’Neil