I welcomed the new year in the USA, where I spent three weeks celebrating the holidays and visiting friends and family. But alongside those moments of reconnection I also got to see Trump’s America up close again, having spent nearly half of his second administration at a safe distance, on a remote island in the North Atlantic. I follow the news closely, of course, but the maddening, saddening, reality hits harder with a front row seat.
After months of listening to the fight over ACA subsidies, I had my own quirky run-in with the broken healthcare system. I don’t have a health insurance policy right now, so I tried to buy one for this trip. There are policies intended for expats living permanently abroad, who are traveling back to the US, but not for temporary residents like me. I called numerous companies, but when I described my situation they all told me I wasn’t eligible, so I crossed my fingers and went without. When I got to Michigan I asked at Walgreens how much it would cost to get a flu and COVID vaccine — $240 — which seemed exorbitant to me. Unfortunately, my parents were dealing with norovirus as I arrived, and then later in the week we all got COVID. The vaccine might have been too late anyway, but in hindsight the cost would have been worth seeing friends instead of spending a week in my parents basement. While I was recovering, RFK’s CDC changed their guidance to say children shouldn’t get COVID vaccines.
On January 3rd, I woke up to the news that the US had invaded Venezuela. Like Chekhov’s gun, all those naval vessels off the country’s coast had to play their role at some point. It was shocking to see the U.S. disregard a nation’s sovereignty in such a cavalier manner. Within hours the flimsy pretense about drugs was abandoned and Trump was stating clearly that this was done for oil money. In the days that followed the rhetoric about taking Greenland ramped up. My semester spent on Arctic Studies is uncomfortably relevant to this geopolitical moment, while my class that starts tomorrow on “The Role and Policymaking of International Institutions” is uncomfortably irrelevant, given that Trump just pulled the U.S. out of 66 international organizations.
On January 6th, I was in Chicago, walking around a city I love, eating great food and visiting friends. But this was also the five-year anniversary of the insurrectionist attack on the U.S. Capitol, the first since Trump pardoned nearly 1,600 people convicted or awaiting trial for their seditious and violent actions that day. I couldn’t help but think about how those criminals must be holding parties to celebrate that injustice, as I walked along the Chicago River in the shadow of the massive, ugly tower that bears Trump’s name in 20-foot letters. The “big lie” of the 2020 election has become a series of ongoing lies that try to rewrite much of the country’s history.
The next day, on January 7th, I flew to Minneapolis to visit Emoji. I saw someone on social media say that these days “all dogs are therapy dogs” and there is nothing more true. He’s helped me get through a lot and I miss him terribly. To anyone in Minneapolis that is surprised to hear I was there, I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch. This trip needed to be 100% Emoji time.
As my flight was taking off, I learned the news the Renee Good was murdered by ICE. Later that day I saw the videos that we’ve all seen, and the next day the lies from the administration began about what we could all verify with our own eyes: ICE is a rampaging paramilitary force that is allowed to act with impunity. They are staffed exclusively by bullies — the kind of people that most of us know and avoid — with hair-trigger tempers, superiority complexes, and deep-seated emotional problems. They’ve given them guns and told them they have immunity. I am crushed by this killing, but even more disturbed by the immediate attempts to demonize the victim. Minneapolis Public Schools were closed for the rest of my time in the city: the children are not safe from their government.
I went to Renee’s memorial, which was surreal to see after watching the videos so many times. It was part vigil, part protest, chaotic with the presence of police on a street that should have just been closed. It was emotional to be there, from the weight of this senseless act and for what it says about America today. But the community was standing together; an artist was painting a large portrait of Renee, a woman was handing out Somali sambusas.
I got back to Iceland yesterday and my body still isn’t sure what time it is, but it’s good to be somewhere quieter, and beautiful. Being back in the U.S. for a few weeks made me miss my people there, miss my dog, and feel the weight of this moment more deeply than I had been. I have not given up hope, but the refrain in the many discussions I had seemed to always be that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I hope we can build solidarity and strength fast enough to counter the forces that are seeking to destroy everything. I still believe we can, and I still believe that these displays of violence and wanton power are actually signs of weakness. But this is not an easy moment, and the path forward is still beyond the horizon.
