Kathleen McQuillan

Throughout history, our society has wrestled with attitudes that exclude many people from its promises and privileges. In the 1860s, we fought a Civil War to confront one of our most egregious exclusionary institutions, that of slavery. One hundred and sixty years later, we still struggle with discriminatory behaviors embedded in our culture.
In recent years, many of the worst aspects of racism have resurfaced. Even the president is writing executive orders that reverse much of the progress we’ve made. His full court press targets national policies that have promoted DEI, short for diversity, equity, and inclusion. His strategy is to purge language, references, and entire policies responsible for integrating and creating a more just society. DEI practices had begun to open doors for those who had previously been denied access to many opportunities that most Americans take for granted. He’s doing this with a threat of cutting critical funding for research and development to government agencies, universities, human resource departments, nonprofit organizations, and even private contractors. These entities conduct research and provide essential services that benefit all of us and depend on the support that only our federal government has the capacity to provide. When the funding disappears, the research and services disappear with it. And in many cases, these critical contributions available to our society will never be able to resume again. Our investments in them and those losses are immeasurable. The negative impacts of Trump’s policies not only harm the “protected classes,” they target — people discriminated against on the basis of the color of their skin, the culture of their birth, their age, gender or sexual orientation. No, not these people alone, but every American.
We call ourselves a “melting pot.” But in truth, this isn’t an accurate description of who we are as a nation. Some of us have always had to fight for equal rights to vote, practice our religion, be accepted into the school of our choice, land our dream job or the house we want to call home. Progress has always been slow. But Trump’s campaign to scour our historical narrative of any reference to these struggles is an attempt to distort or erase the truth of our national identity.
Recently, I visited the VEMA Center, short for Voices for Ethnic and Multicultural Awareness, a nonprofit organization located in Chisholm. VEMA, like its name states, is dedicated to raising awareness of the diverse population that resides on the Iron Range. It also provides a safe space for people of color, and others, to meet for social and educational opportunities that highlight the valuable presence and contributions made by the black, indigenous and people of color, BIPOC members of our community.
The Center was founded in 2020, not long after the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis the spring of that same year. Nathaniel Coward and Seraphia Gravelle, two long-time residents of Chisholm, shared the pain and anger of grief following that awful event. They felt what other Iron Range people of color were feeling, invisible and vulnerable in their grief. The two agreed to take action and founded the VEMA Center, located on Lake Street in downtown Chisholm. It wasn’t long before they were advocating for greater understanding and equal justice for the BIPOC community.
I first learned about VEMA in December of 2020, when I joined a small group of folks on a highway overpass in Virginia, Minn. We were there to honor the life of Estavon Eliof, who’d been shot and killed by St. Louis County deputies within months following the murder of George Floyd. Seraphia and Nathaniel had convened the rally to demand further investigation into Eliof’s untimely and tragic death. Standing together on that bridge was a call for justice. We felt the loss of one of our own, again at the hands of law enforcement agents. It was a time to express the anger and pain of our grief. On that bitterly cold day, I was invited to visit the Center. From that chance meeting on the bridge, a friendship began.
Last week, Nathaniel and I were discussing VEMA’s upcoming activities. We commiserated over current events that were triggering bouts of insomnia and emotional exhaustion. The uncertainty and stress from the constant barrage of bad news from the White House left us feeling pummeled. Incessant reports of gutting and cutting staff and funding from key government agencies was overwhelming. We couldn’t help but anticipate the negative impacts on vulnerable people who we knew relied on these at-risk government services.
“What wears me down the most,” Nathaniel explained, “is their desperation and this feeling that there’s nothing we can do to ease their worries.” The surge of calls were from people afraid they were losing their health insurance, housing, or food assistance. “They’re worried about how to take care of their kids.”
Nathaniel had been gathering information and speaking with community leaders about how they could help. I was busy organizing constituents to make phone calls to their state and federal legislators asking them to fight these cuts. We couldn’t tell yet if anything we were doing would make things better.
These community leaders weren’t strangers. Nathaniel had been visiting them for years about needs in the community. He was troubled by how little progress there seemed in their level of awareness. “It’s like they don’t care or can’t hear the truth in what I’m describing. They’re in denial that these barriers even exist for people in the BIPOC community. Whether with landlords, in schools, or on their streets with neighbors, or law enforcement. People don’t feel heard.”
“I try to explain these things over and over — different story, different places, different faces, same issues. But they just can’t seem to accept that it’s real. And that they have any power to help change it.” With this, his voice grew weary. “And after, I have to fight my own feelings of hopelessness. That drains my energy, too!”
“People just don’t like to hear the truth. They want to believe that nothing’s ever gonna change. Maybe if that’s true then they won’t have to feel guilty about not doing anything to make it different. If they won’t go there, then of course, nothing is ever going to change. And now it’s going to get even harder.”
What is it that blocks a shift toward a different direction? We drew the same conclusion. For a long time, the combination of denial, fear, and cynicism has been a curse on American society. Nathaniel took a long sigh, closed his eyes, and let his head rest on the back of the couch. I waited. And then, almost as quickly as he’d drifted off, he returned, suddenly opening his eyes, turning his gaze to me, and sighing again. He then uttered, “It’s all okay.”
I’d seen him do this before, always thinking it was emotional fatigue. This time, I wondered how he could keep doing this work. When I asked him, he said, “The work wards off the despair. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t feel thanks for what I do, the people I meet. We don’t need a key that’s going to unlock it all at once.” “So,” I asked, “What do we do next?”
“Resources are in short supply” he began. “We need more people. To staff the center and do more outreach. There’s so much mistrust out there. It’s rampant throughout the whole community. We’ve gotta figure out how to address that mistrust we have for one another.” We both knew how difficult and complex a problem that is.
“We’ve gotta keep talking with each other. And listening better. The fears and indignities we’ve experienced in our past keeps messing with us in the present and casts a shadow on the future. We need safe spaces where we can explore that together. Where we can be brave enough to risk telling our stories.” I knew doing so would be so worth it. But I also knew that it’s impossible to ensure that. We agreed we would never know if we quit trying.
We stopped there and both sighed, and smiled, agreeing to sit for a few minutes and imagine a world where we could really feel cared for by our community, knowing that we really belonged. Imagine life if we found more joy in creating things together versus tearing them apart. How different it would be. These thoughts are about building something new and lasting. A goal that’s uplifting and worth something, but so far away.
“You think this is even possible?” I asked. Nathaniel answered. “Hope is what keeps us going. But I know we can’t sustain it alone.” It hit me. This is what Nathaniel devotes his life to. It’s what he invited me to join into that day on the bridge five years ago.
This conversation brought me home. We don’t have to turn the tide. We just have to attend to our own boat. Change is made one person, one community at a time. And giving up is not an option.