The bitter wind blows out the candles and the flowers wilt, victims of the cold. But Alex Pretti’s memorial continues to grow.
Seven days after Mr. Pretti, a 37-year-old nurse, was shot dead by federal agents on a Minneapolis street, tributes to him and denunciations of ICE have steadily spread outward from the site of the shooting, claiming walls, windows, and street poles on the block where died.
The makeshift memorial along Nicollet Avenue, a popular stretch lined with shops, restaurants, and grocery stores, has become a solemn gathering place for mourners, who have left hundreds of prayer candles and bouquets, piling one atop another.
More than anything, though, there are words: in letters and handmade signs, on placards and scrawled graffiti. The messages are sometimes angry, and obscene — calls for retribution.
But most are simply wrenching, expressive of the sorrow, anxiety, and dread that many here in Minneapolis — and elsewhere — are feeling. On one storefront, dozens of sticky notes have been left by visitors, offering small messages. Some plead for peace, others for justice.
“Do Not Look Away,” read one on Friday evening.
“Empathy & Patience,” read another.
The street scene — running perhaps 40 feet long now — is demarcated by a feeble length of construction tape, but it makes its own border as the circle of offerings expands. Even a barricade set up to close some traffic has become part of the tribute: “Viva Alex!” someone has written on the orange-and-black sign.
On Friday, hours after thousands had marched noisily through downtown Minneapolis in a defiant protest of ICE, the memorial was quiet. Food and hot drinks were handed out by some Samaritans. Most who came were silent, though some sang softly.
Don Baker, 70, who lives in nearby Saint Louis Park, Minn., and works in insurance, says that the memorial — which he has visited three times — reminded him of New York after the 9/11 attacks.
“I remember feeling sad, anger, hate. Just lots and lots of mixed emotion,” Mr. Baker said. “And I had, Sunday night, the exact same feeling.”
There are small crosses and American flags, and many visitors have left testaments and letters offering prayers and thanks to a person whom they likely didn’t know.
“Alex Pretti was a very good man,” reads one. “Alex Jeffrey Pretti should be alive right now,” reads another. “Nurses are heroes, Alex was a superhero,” reads a third, with a hand drawn picture of a figure in a cape.
Mr. Pretti, who was carrying a licensed handgun, was slain after coming to the aid of another protester; the two agents who shot him are on leave and federal authorities say they are investigating the killing, which Mr. Trump and others in his administration have defended.
For those coming to the site, there seems to be no question about Mr. Pretti’s actions.
“Thank you for being brave, kind and standing up for us when it mattered most,” one note read. “Hopefully you’ll meet my daughter in the heavens.”
Poems both laud Mr. Pretti and decry the actions of authorities.
“One of these days/you’ll go to sleep,” one stanza read. “And wake up/forgetting what freedom means.”
Elsewhere there is gallows humor. “What would Jesus do?,” one homemade placard asks. “He would have been killed weeks ago.”
On a wall opposite the shooting site are two large posters, of Mr. Pretti and Renee Nicole Good, another Minnesota resident who was slain by an ICE agent on Jan. 7. “American Mom,” it reads above her photo. “ICU Nurse,” it reads above Mr. Pretti’s. Their captions, however, are the same: “Murdered by ICE.”
There is a refrain of worry, too, and resolve.
“We Are Under-Reacting,” reads a poster, mimicking the form and colors of an American flag.
“No More MN Nice,” reads another, referring to the Minnesota’s reputation as the capital of politeness.
Some deploy a dash of humor or hope. “I nominate the people of Minneapolis,” one reads, “For the next Nobel Peace Prize.”
Quotations seeking to comfort or explain are common. “Neither love nor terror makes one blind; Indifference makes one blind,” one sign says, quoting James Baldwin.
Some words were more plain.
“Damn, just damn,” one note read. “I’m so sorry for you, Alex. And for us.”
On Friday evening, Steve Anderson, 68, said that those gathering were grieving, letting the community reconnect and “carry on, adapt, survive, move on.”
“I don’t know anything about all that closure stuff,” Mr. Anderson said. “But this is big medicine.”
One handwritten letter left suggested that Mr. Pretti and this stretch of Nicollet Avenue would be permanently linked.
“Your spirit will remain here, at this very site, and in my heart, forever,” it read.
Jesse McKinley is a Times reporter covering politics, pop culture, lifestyle and the confluence of all three.
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