Fueling the Revolution

By Gabrielle Hill

“Hey, would you like something to eat?”

I was standing at the intersection of 38th and Chicago in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The temperature was stifling and the air was sticky under my mask. Crowds of people overwhelmed the intersection, a remarkable sight given the ongoing pandemic. There were stages in which local and national leaders were giving speeches, and painters were putting their mark on the city streets and the outer wall of the Cup Foods, which will forever exist in infamy.

After weeks of protests and the city being on lockdown, I summoned the courage to enter the George Floyd Memorial site. Although it was near my house, as a Black person in the United States, I was and continued to be overwhelmed with grief and hurt at the violence that my community faces from our country’s police forces. However, as I entered the site, I realized the true nature and purpose of this now infamous intersection. The ordinary cross-streets had been transformed into what our community needed most: a space for Black healing, whether it be through art, music, community, or food.

Overwhelmed with a sense of belonging and comfort that I thought disappeared with the COVID-19 and the recent police violence within the country, I was taken aback by a voice that called from my left: “Hey, do you want something to eat?”

Turning to the direction of the voice, I saw a woman standing over a griddle, spatula in hand, diligently flipping golden pieces of french toast. I noticed the smoke from grills whirling through the air, the crackle of bacon sizzling around me, and the cantankerous voices of people partaking in the fare around them. My father was standing near a smoker that was black and rusted from years of good use. The man behind the grill, sweat dripping under the brim of his hat, was serving up full and juicy pulled pork sandwiches to passersby. I even noticed someone placing tortillas covered in a vibrant red sauce on a grill, sizzling as they added ground beef and cheese to it. Some vendors gave slight smiles, others didn’t look up from their prep stations, but all had a shared intensity and determination about them. One where the work was tedious, the weather was hot, but their presence was necessary. Perhaps they were advertising their business, I couldn’t tell. I don’t remember any signs.

But the reality is they were feeding people for free.

I left the memorial that day having refused the french toast because of my own COVID precautions, but I arrived at home thinking about how food, who was making it and who was receiving it, told the story of Minneapolis in that moment.

You see, all around the city, and even into the first and second tier suburbs, people were organizing food drives for the heightened population of the food insecure, whether it was from COVID-19, the homeless sanctuary, or the recent protests. The George Floyd Memorial site also became one of the key packaging and delivery points in the city, as volunteers put together food packages for the homeless as more donations came in. Inside the “little libraries” on the lawns of homes, books were replaced with cans of food, snacks, and water. I was reminded that my own home was situated in somewhat of a food desert, given that there is a lovely neighborhood co-op, but no one in the neighborhood can afford to shop there.

I think food plays a special role in the revolution: to strengthen the resistors and to comfort the grieving. Through the exchange of food, residents did for themselves and for each other what local and state politicians had not. We, as inhabitants of the city of Minneapolis, were looking out for each other in a way that no political official had offered to. Through the power of community organization, we could nurture each other through acts that could be described as communal self care.

Everything and everyone has their place in the revolution.

Food won’t end police brutality or the homelessness that is endemic to the United States, nor am I suggesting that it will. We need significant systemic change that empowers communities and realizes a world where Black people are not terrorized by white supremacist institutions for simply existing. But I will say that I was comforted by these acts, these small exchanges between people. Because in our microcosm of the world, needs were being met and people were safe to simply exist. Perhaps that is why I felt so touched at the giving nature of the chefs and vendors at the Memorial site. The idea of being seen and visible to the world around you when larger systems of white supremacy want to suppress your every word and action, is revolutionary in and of itself. The woman standing at the griddle serving french toast saw me, and offered me a small form of respite in a time of terrible happenings on the precipice of great change.