Mixed Blood Theatre stages monologues reflecting on ICE/CBP occupation in Minneapolis

Artists at Renée Nicole Macklin Good's memorial. (Photo by Elle Thoni)

Creative Writing | First Person

May 20, 2026 Various Authors Leave a comment

Monologues and Mayday in Minneapolis

In defiance of early 2026’s harrowing ICE/CBP occupation, Mixed Blood Theatre commissioned theatre artists to process and document the moment.

By Various Authors

When an intense surge in militarized ICE and CBP raids came to Minneapolis in early 2026, community members resisted in extraordinary ways to help their community, from protest to neighborhood protection to puppetry. While folks outside the city primarily saw viral images, videos, and accounts of violence, the people of the Twin Cities lived through scenes that didn’t make it into journalistic coverage. Parents helped other parents with groceries and resources, bands played on in the streets, artists painted murals, and as always people communicated and told stories to stay alive.

A number of artists and institutions in the Twin Cities’ vibrant theatre community were affected. Mark Valdez, artistic director of Mixed Blood Theatre , felt an urgent responsibility to offer his company’s platform as a way to process and document the moment. Early in the takeover, they initiated a variety of rapid response work, including an interactive role-playing program with ACLU and Immigrant Law Center of MN called “Know Your Rights, Say Them Loud” and a series of short plays for youth by Michael John Garcés which model ways for young people and parents to talk about ICE and CBP encounters.

“We are a social justice organization, and we are storytellers,” said Valdez. His city’s ordeal had received coverage through quick bursts of video and received journalistic commentary from mostly outside sources, but it also felt important to him to generate first-person creative accounts of the takeover. So Valdez decided to commission 50 local writers to capture those harrowing days through monologues, a short form that would allow for more immediate showings and distribution, a kind of first-responder art form.

“Playwrights are some of the best at being able to capture the feelings of the times, in complicated ways, in ways that help us make some kind of meaning,” said Valdez. In response to Mixed Blood’s call came vibrant pieces that disrupt a paralyzing nightmare with scenes of humanity, resilience, and family amid chaos and in spite of despair. Several monologues were performed at a gathering on March 28 with Mixed Blood, Sahan Journal, and community organizers called “I Got Your Back.”

We are honored to publish six of the first 30 monologues: “Daniel” by Zola Dee, “I Want to Hold You in the River” by Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay, “Mitakuye Oyasin” by Isabella LaBlanc, “Parent” by Andrew Rosendorf, “Child born…” by Nora Montañez Patterson, and “Mayday people” by Elle Thoni.

Thoni’s piece refers to an annual, community-led puppet gathering to theatrically greet the sun and welcome spring’s return. Each year, the community rises again with circles of song and story. The May 3, 2026 edition memorialized the lives lost and torn apart this past winter, in an event encompassing the defiance of joy and relief from grief. As the ice melts, this community rises again.

Daniel

by Zola Dee

Character Description: D ( Daniel): 30s, Mexican American

[D stands by the front door and coat rack as he gets dressed for the cold.]

D

Coat…

[He puts on his winter coat. Does a mental check for each item of clothing he puts on.]

Hat…

[Slides on his hat.]

Scarf…

[Wraps scarf around his neck.]

Boots…

[Slides on his boots]

Gloves…

[Places mittens over his hands.]

And…

[A baby cries in another room of the house.]

Hon, can you get Angel, I’m going out to shovel the sidewalk?

[No response. The baby’s cries grow louder.]

[The baby’s cries grow louder and louder. D begins to take off his boots when his passport falls out of his coat pocket and lands on the floor in front of him. The cries abruptly halt as D slowly reaches for his passport. He grabs it as the passport stares back up at him. He does a double check.]

Coat…Hat…Scarf…Boots…Gloves…Passport.

[The baby, no longer crying, can be heard giggling in the other room. D grips the passport in his hands tightly.]

How will I explain this to my son one day?

That in between his waking and sleep,

those moments when I was not consumed by my daddy duties of feeding him

and changing his diapers, that there were moments just like this one

when stepping outside of our front door felt like crossing a threshold into a world I didn’t recognize anymore.

Will he believe me?

When he’s older, will the world be closer to the one I knew before all of this?

Will things get drastically better that when I tell him about this time, all of this will sound like make believe? Some bad dream?

When I tell him that just walking outside to shovel snow, something so mundane,

made me feel the need to make sure my passport was on my at all times.

Hopefully, he’ll say, “Come on, Dad, that’s crazy.”

[Beat]

I can hope, right?

That he will be in such disbelief instead of this being his future reality.

Before he was born I thought about what I would teach him.

What stories, lessons, and values to instill, down to the basics of right and wrong.

But how will I explain to him that even if you do things the right way, just like his abuelita…

ya know, legally, by the book, waiting years and years to cross over from Mexico to settle in L.A. and find a new home in Minnesota in search of her own version of the American Dream…

that even after doing things absolutely right…none of that can matter.

That the way you speak or look can label you as criminal, illegal…

and that existing as you are, to some, is not right but wrong.

[Beat]

Ever since I moved here 16 years ago, I’ve experienced my fair share of Minnesota winters and this is by far the hardest…and the longest.

Every day waiting for the cold to break and the ice to melt…

Never in my life have I clinged to the safety of my passport to guard against the harsh

conditions outside my front door.

That this booklet can prove that I am good.

That I am supposed to be here.

That I belong…

[Beat]

What does that do to the soul when this becomes your new everyday?

My therapist reminds me to focus on only the things that I can control.

So, each day when the doomscrolling becomes too much and the weight of the world outside feels impossible to bear, I come back to counting the rise and fall of your breaths when you nap, the differences in tones from the babbling noises you make to try and communicate with me

and I focus on this home we are building for you, son.

To be a microcosm of a world your mother and I long to see.

One with more warmth, love, compassion, and empathy.

Imagining this world and the person you will become is my light in these dark times.

Because one day when you are older.

You’ll be sitting in the passport office, grinning a toothy smile

for your first passport photo so that I will be able to share with you my first home.

The place where the values of warmth and love and compassion were first embedded into me.

We will leave the passport office with nothing but excitement knowing this document

will be a gateway to a homecoming and adventure and travel…

and that it will not carry the weight of fear that it does at this moment.

At least, that’s what I hope for you…

for us…

for this world..

[D tucks his passport in his pocket. Slips back on his boots and exits out the front door with snow shovel in hand.]

I Want to Hold You Down in the River

by Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay

You thought the night belonged to you.

You kicked yourself into our homes,

face hidden,

name forgotten by your own mother,

her skin like mine,

her throat holding the same scorn for you,

how you took my neighbors.

You pried yourself into our homes,

tore screeching babes from their beds,

tried to fold them like they were old rugs.

Children are not furniture,

things to be lifted, loaded, and broken.

The floors creak where laughter used to sit.

Their beds still know the shapes of these babies.

The block remembers them.

I want to keep score.

I want to keep the old ways,

to carve into your secret faces,

dull knives with teeth, skipping over your chapped skin.

Many times, I went to the Mississippi

and asked her, “What do you do about cowards?”

She held me, said: Let me carry them until they drown.

But I want more

for the ones who hide their faces.

Hear this, even if you hear nothing else.

I will not chase you with dull blades,

will not stain my hands.

I will serrate you in the way that only stories and truth can.

You will run, and your shadows will stretch and point at you,

remind you of how small you actually are.

You will fold into yourself because you’re unworthy of existing.

You’ll tell yourself lies,

hoping they’ll keep you from carving out your own face,

from suffocating into your own pillows,

I want

a deep indentation,

deep enough to hold all of the names you tried to erase.

I will hold you down in the river,

and your eyes will try to bargain.

Before I let you float away,

I’ll promise you that my neighbors will return,

love draped over them,

there will be dance

and laughter will fill our kitchens again.

The streets will breathe.

But you.

Your name will be erased,

a mistake we corrected.

Mitakuye Oyasin

by Isabella LaBlanc

They killed our neighbor yesterday // down the street from

where they killed our other neighbor // To clarify, there

have been countless other neighbors // I keep remembering

// not forgetting // the one who served lunch at my

elementary school // Philando // I wake up thinking of his 4

year old in the back seat.

They killed Good yesterday // And when you mark this day

on the calendar you’ll see it is one week from The

Anniversary // of 1862 when they hanged 38 of us at once //

2 others sometime later // you will know that they kept the

rest of us imprisoned at The Fort .

On the news today // When you see ICE back at The Fort //

Remember what they will not tell you // that this is the

place life began // Bdote // the confluence of the Minnesota

and the Mississippi.

In the center of the universe // we must continue the poem

until completion // And now I must start over.

They have done it // Again // They killed our neighbor

yesterday // down the street from where they killed our

other neighbor // To clarify, there have been countless other

neighbors.

On the news today // When you see them kill Alex // When

you see them take the child // take the parent // take the

elder // take the neighbor // kill the neighbor // kill your

neighbor // Remember what they will not tell you // that

this is the place life began // Mni Sota Makoche // The land

where the water reflects the sky // where the past reflects

right now.

They will not tell you that we remember it all // in this most

beautiful place.

Parent

by Andrew Rosendorf

The monologue should move. Especially once the listing begins. The listing is rote—it’s the everyday of being a single parent. The escalation comes from how many tasks there are before throwing in obstacles. It all builds until it finally explodes.

PARENT

It’s January

So it’s cold

Minnesota cold

When negative degrees is the norm

When you forget to check the forecast and wake up to snow you didn’t plan for

When you see people bicycling through that snow

When kids wear snow pants for outdoor recess

When you long for 10 degrees but sunny

I’m from the East Coast

An inch of snow shuts down D.C.

Sometimes I wish D.C. got more snow…

No one likes January

I think that’s something we can all agree on

And the ice here

Ever present

Sometimes noticeable

Sometimes not

Sometimes causing you to fall holding a cake

And that’s what we deal with—every day—as Minnesotans

So I hate when people ask: “How are you?”

How are any of us?

_Originally reported by [American Theatre](https://www.americantheatre.org/2026/05/20/monologues-and-mayday-in-minneapolis/)._