When did our social media feeds shift from weekend party highlights, best friend selfies, and satiable meals to engagement announcements and posed smiling couples holding “Sold” signs in front of houses that look like our parents? In our early twenties, our social media feeds were beaming with self-expression, sharing our brag-worthy moments- events that captured joy from mundane activities. When did the status updates shift to reflect socially accepted life milestones? And where does that leave those of us without a “Sold” sign or ring to flash to our followers? What algorithms are we using to define our best days?

Driving through Denver feels like an early-nineties photo. Mostly clear, but dusted. A warm, tint- one mile closer to the omnipresent sun creating a golden haze. I always feel slightly removed from myself when I am in a dry climate. More aware of the harshness of the outer world, the strain in my eyes, chapped lips, short breaths, a consciousness of the environment that I have not needed to acknowledge yet in this abnormally warm autumn in Minnesota, where I am from. This awareness- distance- accompanies me by bringing a sense of presence to the current moment.

Anne’s silver Subaru Outback was parked on 14th Ave, a one-way road lined with an eclectic mix of beautiful brownstones and colorful multigenerational homes around the corner from her apartment. Kelly and I swooned over the contrast of the fallen yellow leaves against the still green lawns, which had not really turned yet in Minneapolis- again reminding us of the real separation of Anne’s new home froam ours. Riding in Anne’s Outback felt naturally Colorado, a state known for granola-loving, Birkenstock-wearing, all-wheel-driving adventurers. Riding from Anne’s apartment in Capitol Hill to Highlands’ neighborhood cafe and bar “The Radiator” felt like any Saturday morning before she had moved. A ritual we had taken to many neighborhood digs in the Twin Cities. Anne has honored small businesses far before it was trendy to do so, having been a vendor selling baked goods at farmer's markets since she was a high school student. As the months approached her move from Minneapolis to Denver, she had created a personal mission to take “Neighborhood Tours'' of each of Minneapolis’s 83 neighborhoods by strolling through and checking out local shops, art studios, and bakeries. A practice of mindfully connecting to her community. As we drove we noted the residents’ Halloween Pride- decor that definitely outdid what we had seen in the Twin Cities. Lawns scattered with skeleton families, windows laced with spider webs. The picturesque fall that I would screenshot into my memory as the backdrop of the perfect afternoon.

What surprises me about driving through Denver is that we do not enter the highway system, the way I am accustomed to doing when driving anywhere around Minneapolis and St Paul. In Denver, the neighborhoods ebb and flow together, harmoniously mutating and stagnating as waves of people move into and around the city. Anne always keeps a safe space between our car and the car ahead of her, both out of respect for others and for our group’s safety. We drove a short while down Colfax, which Anne points out is the longest continuous street in the United States. There’s also a Colfax Ave. in Minneapolis, in between Kelly’s apartment and the one which Anne moved out of a few weeks ago.

As we pass the Coors field and edge out of Downtown Denver, the western mountain view transfixes me to the past, remembering my years living in the Andes mountain range- the changes in my life since that time. I used to pause at work, which was surrounded by the mountains laced with rainforests and wrapped in wispy clouds, and despite whatever stress was pressing down, the beauty of the mountains would always lift it a little. I have never been a “mountains person.” I moved back home to Minnesota after the uncertainty of the pandemic persisted longer than everyone's initial prediction. As old friends were updating their statuses with husbands and babies, and while others continued at the same bars from our early twenties, I felt lonely reacclimating to the Midwest- not knowing what it was that I even wanted. The friendship I now held with the two sitting beside me and behind me in the Outback reaffirmed my truest version of myself. In the way that the Andes kept me present, the Rockies reminded me to record the moment to be accessible to return to and brought a sense of relief that the mountains always remind me to exhale a breath of gratitude- in this moment for finding my people.

We pass many Mexican restaurants as the neighborhood shifts towards the style of single-family homes. Box style with chain-linked fences. Throughout the drive our conversation never ceases, flowing as does the city, in and out and circling back around. I cannot remember what we talked about specifically, but I am sure of what we did not give any of our attention. Not about jobs. Workplace drama. Purchases. Accomplishments. Not about partners or children or neighborhood gossip. Our conversation is always driven from our individual hearts, from our vulnerabilities and our wishes and our desires. We ask questions about how to interpret the world, and listen because we care to learn from our friend’s perspectives. Kelly is at a crossroads, also ready to leave Minnesota, a state that people come home to and that fosters a hotdish-level comfort that keeps people around. Kelly is empathetic, and without acknowledgment sits in the backseat knowing that I easily get car sick. Throughout the ride, she asks questions, both showing generous interest in our lives and also seeking answers to large life questions- opposite of how many folks ask questions as a mask and an opportunity to really just share their own thoughts. Kelly always makes me feel heard. As we drive, we sing along to Anne’s “Justin Bieber” station on Pandora. We plan for the afternoon- a mountain drive, thrifting downtown, and a visit to Union Station, perhaps dinner at an Italian restaurant to celebrate Anne’s 28th birthday.

As we approached W 44th Ave., pebbles of sadness crept into my chest as the minutes to destination decreased, a dread that often accompanies me with any transition from a moment I am enjoying. We parked around the block on Umatilla Street. This seemingly uneventful car ride, less than twenty minutes from Point A to Point B, was a disposable '90s-camera moment that could have easily been lost in my endless waves of memories. The car door shuts like the shutter sound on the moment.

And maybe that’s the lesson that we can learn from a car ride with friends. That our best moments are not just the ones we post as a status update, seeking extrinsic acceptance through likes and comments. But that our best days might be the ones that are easily forgotten, unposted. Because these small moments, like a car ride to brunch with friends, gives us the assurance that no matter what life updates are ahead, wherever we are, that we will have real friends to share them with- unfiltered- and that is worth more than a million likes.

Healing Path Wellness Services

Healing Path Wellness Center burned on May 28, 2020. Two days after they reopened after months of closing their doors to keep out the Corona Virus, just one day after Floyd was murdered two miles away. The fire stole the photos depicting Somali culture and knittings woven by the hands of the East African communities that came through their doors. Hands that had resisted mental health support and the hands of staff that broke through intense cultural stigma in order to hold them. The clients whose hands carry the trauma of fleeing civil war, resettling in a frozen land, the fragments of refugee life. A community that despite this has been at the forefront of the uprising, standing hand in hand with their brothers and sisters with an intense empathy for injustice.  Founder Sulehka Ibramhim said- what happened to our building was unfortunate, but we can repair and rebuild, but what happened to George Floyd — his life can’t be restored. 

Gandhi Mahal

Gandhi Mahal burned on May 28, 2020. Gandhi Mahal was established during the great recession in Minneapolis, a place for people to bond over food. In her final days, Gandhi Mahal opened one of her spacious rooms as a makeshift hospital, allowing medics to service tear gas and rubber bullet victims, located just blocks from Minneapolis’s third precinct. The fire stole their aquaponics system in their basement and their way of educating the community about their connection to food. Owner Ruhel Islam said- we can rebuild a building, but we cannot rebuild a human. 

The Third Precinct

The Third Precinct burned on May 28, 2020. It is still a scar in the Longfellow neighborhood- burned, boarded, and barb-wired. In their final days, they were the destination of all the marches. The ground zero of unanswered questions, unanswered demands. Where their neighbors saw the police march against the citizens of the neighborhood. They put up a hard battle, loaded with armor, weapons, and the National Guard. The people believed that if they burned them to the ground the system would crumble with it. The Third Precinct did not survive, but the force is still standing. 

The city declines to speak.