Reactions

I cry a lot.

Perhaps it is more factual to say that I cry easily— “a lot” implies an excess, as if I should be crying less. I’m not sure if that is true.

This is a fairly new development. I’ve hit perimenopause: I am raw. I am angry. The world is a shitshow.

I thought I was doing okay with the murder of Renee Nicole Good. And by okay, I mean I watched the footage and cried. I cried seeing the stuffed animals hanging from the glove box. I cried hearing her voice say, “I’m not mad at you.” I cried watching Jonathan Ross switch his cell phone from one hand to the other, that moment when he decided that he was going to draw his gun in anger and kill her.

All of these tears I consider natural reactions to the US news in 2026.

This is what sucker punched me: A close family member posted a video on social media that “proved” that murder was a justified shooting. A Good shooting. I didn’t expect it of them. They have historically had a nuanced view of current events even if we don’t always agree. I watched the video that they posted. I read the comments. And I cried some more, but this time it wasn’t just with sorrow but with hurt feelings.

We can’t even agree what is real anymore.

I see myself in Renee Nicole Good.

I’ve been attending protests since 2012, the shooting of Mike Brown. I was too chickenshit to attend those first protests in Ferguson during the birth of BLM. I was protest-adjacent instead, buying supplies in bulk from Costco with a friend and a few strangers with the several hundred in cash that was crowdfunded on the fly. Dropping them off and handing them off. I did not march then.

The names of the protests I’ve been involved with start to stack and the causes intersect: verdict of Jason Stockley, murder of George Floyd, Women’s March on Washington.

I attend protests because I think it is important to gather together, to raise our voices together, to link arms together. We cannot do much alone. Shouting into the online void serves one perhaps, walking with strangers who agree that this shit cannot continue serves another.

I have a close friend who says that protests that request registration and have no clear demands for change is merely performative. They aren’t protests, she says, they are rallies at best.

I believe it is the inverse: all rallies are protests. Perhaps performance is necessary in the world of constant filming for content— or maybe it isn’t performance at all but story telling. It is putting bodies behind the words online. It’s powerful to feel part of something, to have at least the shared narrative: this is not right. This is against the rules.

I only went to one protest in the entirety of 2025 because I felt it was too dangerous. I am not afraid of kettling or of tear gas, of being locked up for a night. These are known threats.

Now I am afraid of a car being driven into the crowds, of guns opening fire. Now I am afraid of having conflicting directions screamed at me and my hesitation being a justification for my death.

But.

If ICE moves a large scale operation into St. Louis, I know that I would be called to similar work as Renee Nicole Good: rapid response networks, becoming a legal observer, Know Your Rights training.

I would be afraid. And I know I would still do it.

I wonder what horrible things they would say about me, if I died in a similar way. I am a mother of two. I am queer. I’m openly polyamorous. I’m divorced.

I saw a comment on social media saying that Renee lost custody of two of her kids because she burnt cigarettes out on them. I tried to find any news article, any source for that— all I could find was it commented on social media from different accounts, but no actual source.

Me, me, me— I wanted to scream at my family member. This could have been me. Maybe you couldn’t see someone you love in the many, many others (disproportionally black and brown) folks who have died at the hands of law enforcement, but can’t you recognize me?

I’m a rule follower in a lot of ways.

I follow a rule until I realize that I do not agree with it. My dad was in the military when I was little, and I grew up saying ma’am and sir and being good at following rules. He retired, went to law school, and became a public defender when I was heading into high school. I had the typical upbringing of a middle class white teen girl with one big exception: my dad told me that all cops lie. He told me that even the good ones don’t lie directly but also won’t rat out their brothers, the bad ones who plant evidence and make shit up.

I was taught different rules than most as a teen— about the need for warrants before entering a house, noting whether they read you your Miranda rights. Never allow a cop to search your car if they ask. Be polite but ask if you are being detained.

During the video, I see this woman and she is following The Rules as far as I can tell. And by The Rules, I mean shorthand for all of the regulations and laws and trainings and definitions, everything that we have until this year collectively believed in and codified and enforced. Good is turning around, letting another car pull in front of her and go. Her wife screams at the Jonathan Ross. Screaming is not against the rules, despite what some may think.

The ICE agent has tick mark after tick mark of offences. Filming with a personal phone. Against the rules. Why is ICE even allowed there? Against the rules. Why are they allowed to stop civilian vehicles? Against the rules. Why did he go to block her in, what was his cause? Against the rules. Why did he fire multiple times from the side of her car? Against the rules. Why did he leave the scene right after? Against the rules.

It pisses me off when people don’t follow the rules.

But I am working on my anger. I don’t deny it but I do not dwell in it. On a good day, I can even say with conviction, That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you.