
Almost exactly a year ago, I was amongst a large group of local and national community members who had organized a benefit concert for the Hmong teenager, Fong Lee, who was killed in North Minneapolis by police officer Jason Andersen. Lee was riding bikes with friends near Cityview Elementary when Andersen and his partner approached the youth in their squad car. The officers chased the young men. Eventually Lee was separated from the others, and was shot eight times by Andersen, in the back as he ran and then into his body as he lay dying on the ground.
Lee's family was present last year at that benefit concert, which we organized to help raise awareness on Fong Lee's death and also raise money to cover legal costs for the Lee family as they pursued a case against Officer Andersen, claiming he used excessive force.
Back then, me and my partner's first child was still in the womb, about two weeks before the expected date of birth. We joked that our baby seemed to like hip hop, as baby seemed to turn and kick inside her mama at this event and others like it. I remember how powerful it felt, to be in a space with many different people and communities who had come together for the Lee family and to seek justice in cases of police brutality. I remember the slide show of Fong Lee that the family showed at the event, how it humanized him: the picture that most mainstream press used of Fong Lee made him look like a gangster. But the Lee family slideshow painted a different picture – a kid who went fishing with his family, went to the mall with his friends, who sometimes wore traditional Hmong clothes and sometimes wore Minnesota Vikings gear. I remember admiring how strong the Lee family was, for enduring such a tragic loss and to have to deal, publicly, with the injustice inflicted on their family.
A year later, and community members, activists, and members of the Lee family are meeting once again to talk about what's next. My engagement with this movement has been admittedly sporadic since the benefit concert – it happened two weeks before baby was born. People who know me, know that I have been in "babyland", learning how to be a father with me and my partner's first child. Our baby is almost a year old, and usually she's good in public, but on this night she's fussy and restless, so as my partner helps facilitate the meeting I take our baby out into a hallway so she can crawl around and chuckle without being disruptive. I am looking at her, this glorious little bundle of joy, amazed to think how she grew in her mama's womb to become this tiny creature sitting on the carpet furrowing her brow at a wrinkly package she can't figure out how to open.
Shoua Lee, Fong Lee's sister, comes out of the meeting for a short break, and stops by to say hello to us. She admires my daughter, her beauty and her relative calm, and says she looks like her mother. We talk a little while about kids, and family. And I'm looking at my baby daughter as we speak, her large head slowly turning, oblivious to our conversation, her wide open eyes taking in everything.
And it's at this moment that I am reminded of what a horrifying loss the Lee family has suffered, and what they continue to endure.
I wrote in-depth about this case and my own experiences about a year ago, which you can read here: