When to breakup with your country

On Saturday morning, I gathered with my family, enjoying time with neighbors. We made coffee, shared small talk, and watched as our children looked at an interactive globe we’d bought for our son’s birthday.

You spin it around and point a little stylus at countries, landmarks, and geographic features. Our son likes to explain how Kathmandu is the capital of Nepal, and how earthquakes create tsunamis that impact Japan. How his brain retains these facts, I do not know. But he’s also learned about conquest and imperialism by simply asking, “Why is France in Europe, but also in the middle of the ocean?”

Globes and maps have a funny way of showing our scars — a complex history etched into the surface of our planet. We have so many arbitrary borders and leaders. Why does Denmark manage Greenland? How did Easter Island become Chilean? Israel and Palestine. Iraqis and Kurds. Davids and Goliaths are everywhere.

In this pleasant and peaceful moment with neighbors, the globe was merely an educational toy.

After our neighbors left, we returned to our phones and watched videos of a man murdered by Border Patrol agents in… Minnesota. What border were they defending? The fleeting peace was gone. Adding horror to the nightmare, a government apparatus designed to propagate lies, obfuscate, and distract quickly assembled and told us that we shouldn’t believe our own eyes. Many fellow Americans still haven’t seen the moment-by-moment execution; they have only been presented the “facts” our administration wants them to know.

We were told this VA ICU nurse was “brandishing a weapon,” that he was “Antifa,” and part of a “highly organized” network of rioters. We were told he threatened the lives of ICE and Border Patrol agents. We were told that the protesters — human beings out in the frigid temps of Minneapolis’ winter — are paid actors and provocateurs looking to sow discontent.

“The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
-George Orwell, 1984

A lump filled my throat and traveled down to my abdomen — it’s just been sitting there for days. Living in this America is an onslaught to the nervous system. I am frequently caught between survival responses: Should I fight, flee, or freeze? My neurological system is inundated by this near-constant stream of governmental harm against my fellow Americans.

Alex Pretti and Renée Good were both 37.

It crosses my mind that I will be 37 in three weeks. I have donated, spoken out online, and rallied in person against this administration. But peaceful protest gets you killed these days — never mind the First (or Second) Amendment.

What does my country think of me? What does my country think of the millions of people who have flooded the streets of the Twin Cities in recent days to say, “ICE out”? Are we all paid protesters trying to smear a “good” president?

These questions and the closeness of these killings swirl around in my head at all hours now. This is what it means to be American. We live amidst such wealth and privilege, yet the government chooses to use it to kill and kidnap people in foreign lands and our own backyards. We could be affording healthcare and improving education; instead, we are dismantling it all for war at home and abroad.

I watched Pretti get shot ten times and hesitated to tell my partner about it, but I couldn’t help myself. Eventually, she saw it for herself. Silence fell over us both. I turned to her and said, “We need to talk about our red line.”

I talk about interpersonal boundaries like this frequently at work. The best example I was ever taught uses a simple analogy of a traffic light. Each color helps us assess our boundaries with others. Often, I provide examples without setting expectations for what their specific lines should be. For instance, a couple of red lights I often hear are “If my partner cheats on me with another person, it’s over” or “If they ever physically hit me, I’m done.” I explain to clients that red means you’re supposed to stop, but some people run red lights anyway.

Yellow lights may be areas of caution such as name-calling or a partner looking at their phone without permission. This might not signal the end of the relationship, but we should definitely be questioning things — slowing down.

Green is overlooked most of the time, but I emphasize with my clients that knowing what’s working well and leaning into that is just as important. Maybe a partner surprises you with flowers, takes an hour to just be there for you and listen to your hard day, or gives a hug. They don’t have to be major overtures, but they communicate safety and trust.

By creating traffic light examples, we turn fleeting thoughts and uncertainty into concrete lists that can be cited by the client in the future. If a partner or colleague or family member should cross a boundary and move from yellow to red, perhaps it’s time to “stop the car and get out.”

The traffic light analogy was intended to be employed with interpersonal relationships — not an entire country. My wife and I hadn’t created one for America. Ten years ago, who would’ve thought we would be here, needing to define our red lines? Even after convening and trying to talk, we struggled to make it concrete. What does it mean to have a red light with a country? We were pained to completely outline what our limits would be, but there was something in Pretti’s murder that haunted us.

The future is darker suddenly. My family immigrated from Europe in the early 20th century, making a brave and courageous move for a better life. My wife moved to Canada from Iran when she was ten. The fall of the Shah, followed by a theocratic autocracy, destabilized the country and disparaged its women. The country is still unstable today, with authorities killing thousands over the last couple months. I know it’s in our blood to move when necessary.

We’ve talked about staying and digging in. Or leaving and starting over in Canada. She’s a citizen of our northern neighbor, as are our two children. Moving there would be easier for us than most Americans. We’d be able to buy property without the Foreign Buyer Ban (aka, “Prohibition on the Purchase of Residential Property by Non-Canadians Act”). Our professions would require significant licensing burdens, but our American degrees are transferable.

Then, we look around our neighborhood and broader community — at real friends and family. They are close by, and we don’t know what we’d do without them. We are here in America, not because its marketed veneer of success and power, but because this is where our people are.

Our community is here. Our cups of coffee and children’s playdates are here. To us, America isn’t a polished brand of achievement. It’s the place where my neighbors are texting in grief and unison to say: There is something deeply wrong here.

Every day brings another yellow line — warning signs of what’s to come. The greens seem lost to the past, and whether we stay or go, the red grows nearer.