Jacob Frey will forever be remembered as the mayor who stood up against ICE and stood with Renee Good. In that moment, when cameras rolled and microphones caught his voice cracking with fury, he did not mince words. “Get the f--- out of Minneapolis,” he said, staring down the federal agents who had killed Renee Good. And when reporters pressed him later, asking if he regretted the profanity, he shot back, “I dropped an f-bomb. They killed somebody. Which one of those is more inflammatory?” That was not just a mayor defending his city; it was a man defending the very idea of liberty.Frey’s rise to that moment was not accidental. He was born in Virginia, raised in a middle-class family, and trained as a lawyer before moving to Minneapolis. His background in law gave him a sharp sense of civil liberties, but his life in Minneapolis gave him something deeper: a visceral understanding of poverty, housing insecurity, and the daily grind of working families. He often said, “Freedom is not just the absence of chains. It is the presence of opportunity.” That line, repeated in press conferences, was not a slogan. It was his philosophy.
When he ran for mayor in 2017, Minneapolis was already a city grappling with questions of policing, immigration, and justice. The killing of George Floyd in 2020 had turned the city into a national symbol of resistance. Frey inherited that legacy, and he knew that every word he spoke would be measured against it. He was criticized for being too idealistic, but he never backed down. “Idealism is not a weakness. It is the backbone of democracy. Without it, you have slogans. With it, you have substance,” he declared at one press conference.
The confrontation with ICE was the crucible of his mayoralty. Renee Good’s death was not just another tragedy; it was a test of whether a city could stand against federal power. Good was a mother, a community member, and her family hired the same law firm that represented George Floyd’s family to seek justice. The parallels were impossible to ignore. Minneapolis was once again the stage for a national reckoning. And Frey, standing before cameras, refused to play the role of a compliant mayor. “They killed somebody. And now they want us to stay silent? No. Get the f--- out of Minneapolis,” he thundered.
That statement was more than anger. It was a declaration of independence. It was a reminder that cities are not colonies of Washington, that local leaders have a duty to defend their people even when federal agencies demand obedience. Frey later added: “If defending liberty requires offending ICE, then I’ll offend them every day of the week.”
His support for Renee Good was unwavering. He urged the public: “Watch the video. Watch what happened. Do not let them spin this into something it is not.” He made clear that the city would not cooperate with ICE in covering up the incident. “We are not their accomplices. We are the people’s representatives. And the people demand truth.”
Frey consistently tied immigration enforcement to broader issues of poverty. He argued that ICE’s presence destabilized communities already struggling with housing and wages. “You cannot claim to support freedom while terrorizing families who are already poor,” he said. He linked liberty to housing, often repeating: “A roof over your head is freedom. A wage you can live on is freedom. A city without ICE raids is freedom.”
This was not abstract rhetoric. Minneapolis had lived through the trauma of George Floyd’s killing, and the city knew what federal and state power could do when unchecked. Frey’s confrontation with ICE was seen as a continuation of that struggle—local leaders demanding accountability from federal forces. The city’s history of protest and resistance gave his words resonance. He was not speaking in isolation; he was channeling a tradition of defiance against unjust authority.
What made Frey’s words powerful was not just their content but their delivery. He spoke with the cadence of a man who had lived through the city’s pain. He did not hide behind bureaucratic language. He did not soften his tone to appease Washington. He spoke as if liberty itself were on trial. And in a sense, it was.
The broader themes of his confrontation with ICE were clear. Civil liberties were at stake. Economic justice was at stake. The balance of power between federal agencies and local governments was at stake. And above all, community trust was at stake. Frey understood that trust in government depends on defending the vulnerable, not siding with federal intimidation.
His words resonated beyond Minneapolis. Across the country, mayors and city councils watched as Frey stood his ground. Some criticized him for being reckless, but others saw him as a model of courage. In an era when federal agencies often operate with impunity, his defiance was a reminder that local leaders can push back.
Frey’s confrontation with ICE also highlighted the contradictions of American democracy. On one hand, the federal government claims to defend liberty. On the other hand, its agents kill citizens like Renee Good and then demand silence. Frey exposed that contradiction. He forced the country to confront the gap between its ideals and its practices.
The Justice Department’s refusal to share evidence of Renee Good’s shooting only deepened the crisis. Frey demanded transparency, but Washington stonewalled. That refusal was not just bureaucratic inertia; it was a deliberate attempt to shield ICE from accountability. And Frey called it out. “You cannot claim to be the Department of Justice while hiding the truth. Justice requires sunlight. Justice requires honesty. Justice requires courage,” he said.
His words were not just about Renee Good. They were about every immigrant family living in fear, every poor household struggling to survive, every citizen wondering if liberty still meant anything. He connected the dots between immigration enforcement, poverty, and civil liberties. He made clear that the fight against ICE was not just about one agency but about the soul of the country.
Frey’s defiance also raised questions about the role of mayors in American democracy. Traditionally, mayors are seen as administrators, focused on potholes and budgets. But Frey showed that mayors can be moral leaders, capable of challenging federal power. His confrontation with ICE was not about municipal management; it was about moral clarity.
The legacy of his words will endure. “Get the f--- out of Minneapolis” will be remembered not as profanity but as prophecy. It will be remembered as the moment when a mayor declared that liberty belongs to the people, not to federal agents. It will be remembered as the moment when Minneapolis once again became the stage for a national reckoning.
In the end, Jacob Frey’s confrontation with ICE was about more than Renee Good. It was about the meaning of freedom in America. It was about whether liberty is real or rhetorical. It was about whether cities can defend their people against federal intimidation. And it was about whether leaders have the courage to speak the truth, even when it offends the powerful.
Frey spoke the truth. He spoke it with anger. He spoke it with conviction. And he spoke it with the knowledge that liberty is not given; it is defended. His words will echo in Minneapolis and beyond, reminding us that freedom is not polite, justice is not silent, and democracy is not obedient.
Recent Reader Comments