A version of this story was originally published in “Pre-Loved,” journalist Emily Stochl’s Substack covering vintage and secondhand fashion, on January 20. Subscribe to it here. As community needs and donation efforts evolve quickly, please reference local pages like Twin Cities Vintage Map for the latest information.
Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids, arrests, and detentions have risen significantly over the last year as the Trump administration pursues a politicized agenda of massed deportation, increasingly targeting people without criminal convictions or charges. Immigrant members of the vintage community, who are legal residents in the United States, report to “Pre-Loved” that they are afraid to leave their homes alone, to speak Spanish in public, or to shop or source at thrift stores—for fear these indiscriminate ICE raids could make them a target.
In Minnesota, many began preparing for this reality at the start of 2025 when President Trump took office for a second term. Drawing on neighborhood networks first established during the 2020 uprising that followed the murder of George Floyd, Minneapolis residents say they began reviewing their emergency plans. And when 37-year-old legal observer Renee Good was shot and killed by a federal agent, now identified as Jonathan Ross, on January 7 in South Minneapolis, the response was immediate—but not built from scratch.
Walking to work at her vintage shop in South Minneapolis, Jessie Witte wears a whistle around her neck every day. When she hears urgent, sharp bursts echoing through her snowy neighborhood, she adds her own cutting trills to the chorus.
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These whistles signify that ICE agents are present—short bursts to alert neighbors agents are nearby, and long blasts to identify when a community member is being detained. Whistling is an effective advocacy technique Minneapolis has imported from Chicago, where vintage shops like Lost Girls have been passing out free whistles since October during the height of then “Operation Midway Blitz.”
As ICE enforcement has intensified, with thousands of armed and masked agents deployed across Minnesota, and raids reported daily in neighborhoods from the Twin Cities to the distant suburbs—area vintage shop owners are leveraging their positions as neighborhood gathering places to coordinate resident protection efforts, distribute supplies, and connect community members with resources.
“We already had infrastructure for some responses,” said Witte, whose South Minneapolis neighborhood is blocks from where the Third Precinct burned in May 2020 during the Floyd protests. “The community was already organized. We know we are the ones who keep us safe.”
That organizing began as “block clubs”—text message chains and emergency phone trees, created during the pandemic. Since then, they have evolved to encrypted Signal groups, where residents carefully vet any new members and coordinate specialized roles for emergency response: drivers who shuttle people to work or school, grocery shoppers, delivery volunteers, fundraisers, and neighborhood patrols.
Witte’s neighborhood has created this division of labor, which is designed to keep people safe while meeting community needs. “People have chosen the thing that they’re best suited to be doing in Minneapolis,” she explained. “We’re trying not to cross streams”—meaning those providing rides, for example, can’t also be the most visible protesters, as that could endanger people they’re protecting.
But no matter the role, whistles have become ubiquitous. “Everyone and their mom has a whistle,” Witte said. She hears them constantly—multiple times daily, she estimates—mixing with the sound of helicopter blades overhead. Following whistle bleats, community members emerge from their homes at a moment’s notice to respond like watch-dogs. Rapid responders say that if the agents know bystanders are filming and watching, they are less likely to abduct their targets.
“In the media, you’ll hear them say things like, ‘You can hear the ‘activists’ blowing their whistles,’” Witte said. “But these are just neighbors.”
At Moth Oddities in northeast Minneapolis, volunteers navigate floor-to-ceiling stacks of community donations: diapers, formula, cleaning supplies, nonperishable food, books, and games for children who have been confined to their homes. Vendors from Olio Vintage, a few doors down, come over to help their neighbors sort the supplies.
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“We’ve been overwhelmed with the love from everybody,” Isabel Moran, store manager of Moth Oddities, told CBS News Minnesota, describing the outpouring of donations. “We’re going to be working pretty tirelessly to get all this to the people that need it throughout the week, month, however long it takes.”
Like Witte’s neighborhood, Moth Oddities’s volunteer effort has roles—the vintage store isn’t delivering goods directly as organizers fear being tracked by ICE could put others in danger. Instead, they’re coordinating with local schools, churches, and agencies to ensure safe distribution. “I know people who are community drivers,” Witte explained, “and they don’t use their phones. All the drivers have paper maps to avoid surveillance.”
Across town, Queenie & Pearl in southwest Minneapolis has repurposed the orange bus the vintage shop typically uses for their sourcing road trips, partnering with Twin Cities Food Justice to collect and deliver food, diapers, hygiene items, and other essentials to a centralized warehouse where they can be distributed to meet immediate community needs.
“We are finding ways to be the helpers that Mr. Rogers told us to look for when we were children,” Lisa Banwell, owner of Queenie & Pearl wrote to “Pre-Loved.” “We will continue to do so for as long as it takes.”
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At Audrey Rose Vintage, Witte has raised close to $2,000 in mutual aid, with most of it already re-distributed. When people reach out about families in need, her response is direct: “‘How much money do you need?’ That’s what mutual aid is supposed to be like,” she says, “No questions asked.”
On January 24, 37-year-old Alex Pretti was shot and killed by a federal agent near 26th Street and Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis. Two nearby resale shops, b. Resale and Bro Bros Closet, have since become community hubs and donation sites near this memorial site. Audrey Rose Vintage continues to raise mutual-aid funds. As of January 26, the Moth Oddities team was still fielding supplies. “We’re working on creating a sustainable system for donations,” Moran said. “With the first rush of donations, we were able to feed families through 16 schools, and countless neighbors.”
This transformation of vintage stores into mutual aid centers reflects the unique role local shops play in neighborhood ecosystems. “We’re intrinsically tied to our immediate neighborhood,” Witte said. “Our own mini-epicenters, we’re all active on social media, talking to our neighbors, talking to people who randomly walk in. So we have a built-in infrastructure, and an ability to tap people into community.”
Recently, Witte’s mother had a friend in Madison whose children moved to Minneapolis—young people who hadn’t experienced the protests in 2020—her mom knew exactly where to send them: “I told them to just go to your shop. You’ll tell them what’s up.”
As she mentally prepares for what will be a long struggle to remove ICE from Minneapolis, Witte reflects out loud. “It sounds so crazy, but I hope we can be an example,” she says. “We’ve been mobilized before.” And as ICE enforcement intensifies and spreads, her message to other communities is straightforward, but urgent: build these networks before you need them.
“Know your neighbor’s phone number, know everyone on your block’s phone number,” she says. “I don’t care if you like them or not, you could depend on them. They could depend on you.”
And remember that in community organizing, sustainability of efforts is critical. There are many valid ways to contribute. “If a neighbor asks for assistance at the kids’ bus stop one day, I’m like, ‘Sure I’ll go stand outside’,” Witte said. “It’s just that basic.”
“This is a marathon,” she adds. “There really is a role for everyone.”