The story wasn’t about those who spoke, including Archbishop Harry Flynn. Most of us were too far away to hear those designated to speak. And others were sitting in traffic on Highway 94 while 30,000 people walked, marched, roller-bladed or pushed strollers to the Capitol.The story wasn’t just about those 30,000 people who had come from as close as University Avenue and as far away as Waseca and Rochester. It wasn’t about the home-made signs with home-spun heart: Don’t deport my family, Children are not Criminals, We didn’t cross the border—the border crossed us, and Who Would Jesus Deport?
It wasn’t about the lone bagpiper who performed until being upstaged by mariachi singers. It wasn’t about the coalitions: union, church, community organizations, peace groups and others.
It wasn’t even about the multi-generations present at the rally: children who begged to be lifted on shoulders to “see all the people” or a young man pushing the wheelchair of a veteran in full, military uniform along John Ireland Boulevard.
The story was really how 30,000 people stepped forward willing to share, and more important, to listen to the stories of immigration. For too long, these stories have only been shared at the kitchen table after the dishes were done. Often told in whispers, these are stories filled not with fictitious characters but of our flesh and blood brothers and sisters. They are stories about the journey to the US. They are as tame as not being allowed to learn Swedish (fill in the blank with the language of choice) because it was un-American. As nightmarish as crawling through sewage tunnels or fording a river with a squirming toddler.
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