I’ve been thinking a lot about duality lately, the idea that our minds can hold two opposing realities at once. If you’re over 40, you probably understand this instinctively. Life doesn’t pause for grief or fear. You might be going through something devastating but you’re still packing lunches, still driving your kids to baseball practice, still showing up to work. One minute I find myself prepping for a whole home presentation and the next minute I’m checking the news, hoping and praying that no one has been killed on the streets today.
I’ve just returned from England, where I attended Design Destination London for the first time. It was exhilarating. I visited workshops where I watched metalsmiths shape molten material into sculptural light fixtures. I learned about the architectural lineage of English design and listened to designers discuss the distilling of antique forms into something even more beautiful. The trip reminded me how art and design can make us feel. It pushes and pulls us, and brings beauty and relief to moments we need it most.
At the end of each day I’d call home to Minneapolis, timing it for when my two teenage sons were getting back from school, asking questions I never imagined I’d have to ask. Was there ICE at school today? Did you see anyone taken? Did you hear about any violence?
Because this is what’s happening in Minneapolis right now. My hometown feels like a police state. An estimated 3,000 ICE agents are operating in and around the city under “Operation Metro Surge.” For some perspective, the entire Minneapolis Police Department has roughly 600 officers. ICE agents are everywhere, dressed in tactical gear, faces covered, carrying weapons. They move through neighborhoods in rented SUVs with missing front plates and out-of-state tags—though even this is changing by the second. I just heard today that now they’re in plain clothes, no masks, and driving minivans.
Last Thursday, two painters I’ve known for years were taken. Poof. Gone. These are men who have lived here for decades; they have built families and whole lives. I don’t know the circumstances, only that they’re gone. The rest of their crew told our GC that they can’t leave their houses because it’s too dangerous. This huge project near completion was brought to a halt. This will affect every person working on it—the plumber now gets pushed out, the wallpaper and the electrician wait. The income of all of these tradespeople and small businesses is directly affected. Living in a police state, turns out, isn’t great for small business.
This is happening everywhere. You can’t find roofers. Landscapers are bracing for a summer without workers. Our Hmong and Somali restaurants, the backbone of our local food culture, have been closed for weeks as people stay hidden.
I was born and raised in the Twin Cities. My parents still live just outside St. Paul on the land where I grew up. I had a pretty idyllic childhood, a mix of countryside and city. When I met my husband, who’s proudly from the North side of Minneapolis, he made it clear he never wanted to leave. About 15 years ago, we bought our home in Southwest Minneapolis, in a neighborhood of oak trees and 1920s bungalows near Lake Harriet. The area is rich with art and natural beauty, often intertwined. Every winter, local artists take part in a festival called the Art Shanty Projects, building temporary structures on the frozen lake—playful architectural experiments you can walk through and explore. Families bundle up in their winter gear, kids and dogs in tow, to meet friends and neighbors on the ice in the middle of the city. This is our culture, rich in art and hygge.
One thing outsiders may not realize is how familiar some of this feels. We have muscle memory from five years ago, during the George Floyd unrest. When buildings were burning across the city and people were finding Molotov cocktails in their alleys and tucked inside their mailboxes, we counted on one another to show up because no one else would. We learned almost overnight how to take care of each other, to protect our blocks and our children, our elderly, and support our small businesses. When ICE began showing up in Minneapolis, the feeling was immediate. We’ve been here before. We know what to do.
I knew when I decided to go on the London trip that the timing would be complicated. In the weeks leading up to it, the ICE presence was growing, though the full weight of it hadn’t settled yet. I went to Target to buy supplies for a Mexican family I know personally who were going into hiding. I posted about it on Instagram, carefully, without inflammatory language. Within a day, I lost 300 followers. I was told I was supporting criminals, that I was on the wrong side of history.
Then everything escalated. More agents arrived. Random sightings turned into constant surveillance. On January 7, Renée Good was shot. That same afternoon, ICE agents stormed Roosevelt High School, where my son has friends and where one of my close friends is a social worker. As the gravity of it all suddenly hit us that day, our entire community snapped into action. Some of us gathered at the school to distribute groceries while others coordinated sidewalk patrols at bus stops or organized rent-relief donations. No one waited for someone else to fix things.
I had to decide whether I was still going to London. I spent a couple of days wavering, thinking about canceling. It felt strange to get on a plane for what is, undeniably, a privileged trip. But what surprised me was how grounding the experience became. Being immersed in generations-old craft, watching people who are supported, protected, and valued for their labor, gave me clarity. It sharpened my understanding of how deeply design depends on the dignity of workers, and how fragile that system becomes when fear enters it.
Back home, people are organizing quietly and carefully. Schools have shifted to online learning for kids who are afraid to leave their houses. Businesses are closing for days at a time in solidarity. Religious leaders kneel at the airport in protest, waiting to be arrested. My husband and a bunch of other dads are downtown right now at a huge protest. Kids and parents are on overpasses or street corners holding handmade signs that say “Love thy neighbor” and “Hate has no home here.”
So yes, I’m still working. I’m specifying lighting for one project, tinkering with some custom furniture designs for another. And I’m also organizing grocery deliveries, checking in on kids, and documenting my experience on Instagram. I don’t know if I’m doing enough. I don’t know what the consequences of speaking out might be. But I know that looking away isn’t an option.
That’s the duality. The work and the witness. The beauty and the resistance.
AD PRO Directory designer Anne McDonald was named one of AD's New American Voices in 2024. She lives and works in her hometown of Minneapolis.
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