In December, I made a short trip to Minneapolis to play a few shows and pick up my mom for a Christmas visit.
The voyage was bookended by blizzards, but we had one glorious, clear morning in the middle, where she and I did a little shopping, and then decided to grab a quick lunch as the first soft flakes of the next storm started to fall.
The place we wanted to eat at turned out to be closed, so we drove around a little more, getting hungrier and starting to worry about the weather changing. We circled one block twice before deciding on a nondescript restaurant tucked beside a parking lot. It was a place I used to go often for a quick, cheap meal when I lived nearby and wanted something reliably decent but otherwise unremarkable — not exactly what I had in mind for my one day in the city, but by that point, I was too hungry to be picky.
I was pleasantly surprised when I stepped inside, however. The place was under new ownership, and they’d redecorated and opened a miniature dining room that faced the street, just big enough for a few tables. The space was bright and cozy, literally sparkling clean, and full of spicy, warm smells. My mom and I marveled at the plants that lined the bank of sunny windows facing out onto the snow-slick sidewalks, wondering how we could get our house plants to be that happy and healthy.
The woman who came to take our order was older and smaller than I, but looked like she could run circles around me. Her hair was elegantly styled, and she was wearing sensible rubber-soled shoes, bright rhinestone earrings, a bright colored vest and a wide, beaming smile.
My mom and I couldn’t help but beam back — she looked like sunshine bursting through the clouds against the gray backdrop of the city street. I complimented her on the renovations, and she beamed even wider, accepting my compliment with a nod and a laughing thank-you in accented English, then bustled off to the tiny kitchen tucked behind an even tinier counter.
Our food was delicious — big, steaming bowls of homemade pho (a traditional Vietnamese soup) and a plate of delicately wrapped fresh spring rolls. While we ate, my mom and I kept repeating, “This place is fantastic!” as we talked about how she was going to bring my brother’s kids the next time they were in town and my own kids the next time they visited.
It’s hard to believe that was barely five weeks ago. Over the weekend, I saw that restaurant again in a video clip online. Everything was the same — the same woman, the same bright vest, the same flawlessly styled hair, the same tiny counter and pristine white walls in the background.
But this time, she was crying, ushering in a disheveled local news affiliate’s film crew who had shown up to report on a protest happening after a man was shot and killed less than a block away, and had instead been enveloped by flash bangs, tear gas and mace.
“Come in, come in!” she says in the video, opening her arms wide, reaching to hug the nearest person. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, guys.” And then, through tears, gesturing to more people off-screen, she says again, “This is my home. Come in. Come in. Everybody, come in.”
There’s a pause as the cafe begins to fill up. A reporter asks how she’s doing, and she stutters, momentarily breathless: “I’m scared, so scared, so scared… I don’t know what to say… But come in, come in… Come in to be in my home, OK? Tell everyone to come in here to be safe. I want everyone to be safe.” And then she starts pulling out chairs, asking who wants pho.
And that’s how I know a better world is possible. Because I’ve already seen it in a small dining room in Minneapolis.
