FOUR DECEMBERS TURNED TO JANUARY

Joshua Preston

INTRODUCTION

            As I write and revise this piece, it is December 24, 2023. It’s the night before Christmas and sitting on my balcony, I hear rain. It’s raining in Minneapolis; it feels like fall. The night before Christmas.

            When my family moved here [to Minnesota] after my father died, I was told winter was like the opening scene from The Empire Strikes Back. They were right. But now it’s raining, before Christmas. We moved from Texas.

            There’s a reason why it doesn’t feel like winter. I’ve lived here for 25 years; this is the land I call home. As we neared the solstice—and as the solstice passed—I kept waiting to wake-up to the familiar scene of snowdrifts; the closeness of all things; footsteps on snow. Yes, it’s an El Niño year. Yes, it’ll snow again. But it’s also true we won’t know our last “real” Minnesota winter until it’s passed. In retrospect. In old photos. Years from now.

            We’ll look back and try not to dwell on the warning signs.

[1]

            This is an essay titled “Four Decembers Turned to January.” It is an attempt to summarize the last four years of my life. It is about language and the Internet. It is an admission I don’t have the tools to survive on my own. At a different time in my life, it would be a suicide note; in a different hand, a manifesto. But it’s just an appeal for money. I am trying to persuade you.

            Because I’m broke.

            I suspect this will be most interesting to those who know me in some tangible way, though I’ve tried to make it interesting for those who don’t. I am a lawyer, writer, and former infantryman in the Minnesota National Guard; and I am writing this as an account of how and why I fell into the legal profession. In this way it’s about family grief, my relationship to the military and January 6 Insurrection, and the environmental justice movement known as the campaign to Stop Line 3.

            It’s not the essay I planned to write when sitting down to make an account of myself (which at some level feels like justifying my existence), and it’s not what I expected I’d say when—in light of my financial difficulties—I realized there is no way forward without holding my hat out to the public. But as I see it, character reveals itself in scarcity as well as abundance. So while I’m requesting mutual aid from the community, I’m really asking for charity. I’m asking for your charity.

            I’m asking for financial support because this is what I need, not simply what I “want.”

• Rent money. I would like to be able to pay rent. I had to borrow money to pay January’s rent, and absent a steady stream of income, I don’t know what I’m going to do moving forward if it feels like the rug’s being pulled from beneath me. It would be nice to have a few months’ worth of rent covered so I may plan the next step of my professional life. As discussed below, this is not something I’ve historically had the time or resources to do.
• A new pair of glasses. The prescription for my only pair of glasses is from sometime in 2020. The lenses are scratched and made of plastic, and they hurt my eyes.
• A visit to the dentist. I would like to go to the dentist. I haven’t been to the dentist since college, and it’s something I’m sensitive about.

            My Venmo is @JPPreston. My PayPal is joshuappreston@gmail.com. Thank you.

* * *

            Throughout my adult life I’ve been fortunate to move from one project to another, one opportunity opening itself to the next—sometimes with an idea where they’d take me (though just as often not). While this gives one a lot of experience and stories to tell, it hasn’t given me any savings to speak of and so it’s not a path that lends itself to planning for the future. This is just how it’s ben since I was a teenager so eager to go to college that I spent the first semester sleeping out of my car since I didn’t have money for room and board. In my twenties, after enlisting in the military and starting law school, the demand of the Guard interfered with my ability to follow the traditional legal path. It was just too hard to settle down with one foot out the door. I didn’t want to join JAG; I was more interested in scholarship and writing. In fact, that’s why I went to law school in the first place: I wanted to be an academic. (I wanted to hide in libraries).

            The kind of law I do doesn’t lend itself well to stable or well-compensated work. I’m not against entering the traditional legal market but I also understand doing so comes with its own trade-offs. To work in government curtails one’s ability to be a public voice; many law firms restrict the kind of pro bono work they allow their employees to do; and nonprofits can be just as beholden to their donors as they are their mission. In the end it all comes down to interests, and their conflicts.

            Some of what I see out there I just don’t find interesting (not that one’s employment must be interesting), and from afar I’ll admit that a lot of legal work out there looks spiritually devoid of meaning, at a time when we are living through a period of unprecedented socioeconomic upheaval. Right now we are losing the small-d democratic consensus after having just experienced the hottest summer on record. As the United Nations Secretary General said in September of this year: “climate breakdown has begun.” There were days this year when I couldn’t open my windows because I couldn’t breathe the air. So to plan for the future while focusing on anything else other than these problems feels if not shortsighted, then purposely avoidant. It feels demeaning and insincere to struggle for groceries and rent while the culture at-large admonishes you for thinking about the future (in terms of investments, retirement, homeownership) when as far as I can tell given the misplaced priorities, most people don’t seem to take the future seriously at all. How could they? How can anyone?

            The future value of one’s investments, retirement fund, and property will look different in the emerging political system that rejects the rule of law while eroding our system of checks and balances. The future value of anything at all will be different if we can’t breathe the air, drink the water, or go outside. What do you think the world will look like in four years? What are we even supposed to be saving up for? Is it to pay the interest on our student loans? To have food mailed to us in a box?

            Please, someone tell me. If ever I have savings, I’d like to know.

            I feel comfortable talking about this because just as there are some things that can only be said with money, there’s a lot more that can only be said without it. I’m proud of what I’ve done, and I don’t mind sharing it because I believe good works inspire great works. I believe this even if I’m sometimes dissatisfied with where it’s taken me or embarrassed by the current state of my bank account. But I would rather be truthful to my experience as it is than hide it from those who have watched me grow thin over the years. We will never change what’s happening in the world without naming the problem; and we’ll never name the problem if we can’t share what we’ve experienced and seen; and we won’t even know which experiences are problems-to-be-named if we aren’t willing to start by talking about trauma and how we’ve each tried to work through it.

            I am asking you for money, and I am trying to do so in a manner that feels honorable to me. Like everyone in this country, I experience all the same feelings anyone would when admitting to the limits of their capabilities and need to ask for help. We are not a nation that’s very good at handling loss. But I nonetheless believe it’s important to speak frankly (if mindfully) so we might model what is the reality of 21^st-century life knowing nothing’s really private and the children are always watching. Afterall, this is their world to inherit, too.

            I don’t mind drawing from my life because what use are all our lessons learned, if not to be shared?

* * *

            One of most significant turning points in my spiritual and adult life was finally coming to terms with my father’s death. I was six, and it was 1997. In some ways it was a black box, one I would think about but not open. Twenty-five years later—in 2022—I finally let myself open it. I spent a lot of that spring thinking of my father and what it meant for me, at the age of 31, to have spent so much of my life in the shadow of his suicide.

            I spent the 25^th anniversary reading the Bible (Ecclesiastes), Seneca, and old letters and emails from my Grandpa. Whatever these voices are worth, they’re the ones I turned to while looking for guidance, insight. After he passed and my family moved to Minnesota, I’ve spent the time looking for the right words—as though words can raise the dead, not just the spirit—but I see now how such prolonged silence within myself only made it harder for me to make sense of my memories of this past life. By fearing the failure that may come from putting pen to paper, I failed to separate the death from the man—who loved me—and went out into the world afraid of both. I lived in shadow and did well in shadow. I didn’t like to say his name, which is Jerry. It’s only this year I put his picture on the wall.

            On the day of the anniversary, I spent a lot of time thinking about what to say. All I could say is that life went on. Life continues even in absence and there is life after a death, as my family knows. It’s not always a pretty life, but it’s a life. I decided then for all my grief, 25 years was enough. Everyone else moved on, why couldn’t I? Despite the anger and resentment, the soul sadness, which is rocket fuel for a boy trying to escape home, these feelings won’t shake the part of him that wonders if he’ll escape its orbit, his father’s fate. Such feelings will take him far, especially if he seeks power and control, but all the stories I know, the voices I listen to, say the same thing: no amount of accolades will return them to the world they lost, the home they abandoned and are afraid now to call home. The past has passed us; the future follows the arc of memory. We are each living proof there is life after death. Life goes on. So what is it we choose to remember? and why, father?

            The only answer I know is to be comfortable with silence and to know the difference between the silence of others and the silence inside ourselves. Having spent so much time trying to make sense of absence—and not just absence, but absence forever—made me blind to what was still before me, the clear view obstructed by the silhouette of nothing: the sight of absence, the view of gone.

            I spent the rest of the year thinking about my mother and what it meant (and means) to grow together, what it means to survive. I thought about forgiveness. I thought about how I forgive with so much silenced inside me and wondered if it’s even possible to forgive a harm one hasn’t allowed themselves to feel. After all, if you haven’t sat with what you’re forgiving, then what are you forgiving other than an idea, a thought? Don’t brag about the scar if you can’t talk about the wound. Don’t brag about the wound if you can’t stop picking at the scab. All the stories I know say we’re supposed to do better.

            Regardless of the nature of my circumstance, I carried this grief through my teens and twenties, feeling it grow heavier as I went through the early-thirties transition, when a decade’s worth of responsibilities finally reveals the hard truths we spent our youth ignoring. But as we grow and learn from the world, we learn more about ourselves since all knowledge is self-knowledge. To confront these truths within ourselves helps name and identify the consequences of these truths in the world. This is the only way we grow. We don’t change what we believe still serves us, and this goes for everything from our relationships to the very work we do. Because it’s all about the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. If we can even say anything at all.

            In the fall of this same year, I had the honor of reading at the poet Robert Bly’s memorial service (Bly being a central figure in my poetic life). As I meditated on what this experience meant to me, I grappled with what’s always been the contrarian voice when I become too comfortable with a life of the mind: What does it mean to be a part of your time? What does this mean when the cultural currents that shape our lives can only be described as everything, everywhere, all at once, and when ever since I was a child with unfettered access to the Internet, I was exposed to a little bit of everything, all of the time? When life demands action—that we do more than post infographics and memes—where are we even supposed to begin? Who do we ask for guidance? And how can any of us fault those among us who stand frozen when all around us is indecision because there isn’t a clear direction forward?

            We are living through an inflection point in our country’s history, and I see the violent and electric discourse as emblematic of something larger than ourselves but of which we are all a part. While people may call it by different names, I believe we’re going through a period of cultural revolution and moral reformation (or in any case, a reformulation of ethics). As we spend our lives in a hybrid space, with the Internet transforming everything around us into a mix of “public” forum and market, I believe it’s going to fall on the millennial generation to figure out how to not only function in this environment but do so with some shared vision of the future and tenable quality of life.

            When I graduated from law school, I wasn’t sure what the future held in store for me, but I wasn’t expecting this. No one was. This is just where we are after years of struggle, and I tell myself there’s not a single class I could’ve taken to make my experience of the pandemic easier. A higher score on the bar exam wouldn’t have brought down inflation. Writing this essay won’t change AI.

            There’s no going back and there’s nothing that could’ve individually prepared us for the changes we’ve witnessed and the changes we’ll see. All we can do is think about the stories we tell ourselves and why. Which might take us further than we think.

            Life goes on. We are living proof there will still be life after death.

[2]

            In hindsight it feels ironic that not only my legal career but my reluctant turn to radicalism would begin with a rally to stop the steal. (But I’m getting ahead of myself).

            I graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 2019 but couldn’t take the bar exam until February 2020 because of the Guard’s training schedule. That May when I was sworn into the profession (via Zoom) was the same month my local police department murdered George Floyd, a resident of my city (and therefore my neighbor). The ensuing riots led to the Governor activating the National Guard, and I was one of the thousands activated to restore civil order. This experience coupled with the nation’s failed response to the pandemic shook my faith in what the future had in store as the prospect of reconciliation and learning from such traumatic and violent events was undercut by the politics of a presidential election year. As I watched the discourse shift and evolve through the summer and fall (via Instagram), it was clear to me that, as a nation, we were walking down a very dark path.

            Because of the prospect of overseas deployment hanging over my head, I effectively put my professional career on hold for two years. When I was removed from my unit’s deployment roster in December 2020, I had to start thinking about what to do. Because of the pandemic, I had no idea where to start, let alone how to chart a path through that winter and beyond. Fortunately, one of my lieutenants introduced me to a local movement attorney who led me to the local chapter of the National Lawyers Guild (NLG).

            Given the year’s events, I knew there must be a lot of people in the community who needed legal help, and I figured that despite my lack of courtroom experience, I could at least do as well as someone representing themselves. There was also enough legal fund money being raised and thrown around that I figured this would be a way for me to do work I believed valuable without having to charge my clients anything. (I’m not an entrepreneur; I don’t want to start a business).

            Now for those who don’t know how Minneapolis felt after the riots, it was like living on a powder-keg. Throughout 2020-2021 I knew within the hour when a confrontation with police turned violent (regardless of the time or circumstances) by the messages coming in from friends asking the same question—ARE YOU BEING ACTIVATED AGAIN? (I wasn’t; I spent my “two weeks a year” loading rail cars in El Paso).[1] Like most people, I never experienced anything like this. In addition to the larger awakening of the community to police violence and the city’s racial disparities, there was an explosion in class consciousness among my generation as the closing of the economy revealed who the nation deemed “essential” while drawing a sharp contrast with the many more non-essentials living a few paychecks from poverty. Those were just different times: A lot of people learned to bake bread and went to the park. A lot of poor people defrauded unemployment, but even more people defrauded the PPP. That’s just what happened. A lot of people died; this was before the vaccines and horse medicine.

            Eight months of this coupled with periodic threats of martial law set the stage for a contentious November election. Even if it seemed people didn’t know what they wanted, everyone seemed to know what they didn’t. Then in a move that shocked but shouldn’t surprise, the President (following the lead of the Senate) fast-tracked an appointment to the Supreme Court, two weeks before the election, following a very expected vacancy. But well before this the President through his actions as the chief executive and as a private citizen running for public office was already seeding doubt about the integrity of the vote (and therefore the legitimacy of the election), in a manner indistinguishable from Administration policy and “truthful hyperbole” (lying). On November 3, 2020—on Election Night—when the polls closed and the nation watched the results come in, the President—who in our constitutional system serves as commander-in-chief—declared victory while the votes were still being counted. No candidate for the presidency—let alone the sitting head of state—had ever done this. Consequently, some people were scared the Supreme Court might intervene and unfairly influence the election’s outcome (as some believe happened in the year 2000). A lot of people didn’t know to whom or where to turn. A lot of people felt helpless in what was for many an otherwise helpless year. The second stimulus check wouldn’t arrive until December ($600).

            The next night—November 4, 2020—local civic groups organized a rally and march to warn the public about the President’s attempt to further delegitimize and/or use the powers of his office to go beyond politics and in fact shape the (still then-unknown) outcome of the election. As one batch of demonstrators’ signs read: Don’t let [the President] steal the election. But given the summer’s protests, both the Mayor and Governor made it clear there would be no tolerance for lawlessness. Everyone knew law enforcement would be on high alert and the march closely monitored by helicopter. Demonstrate at your own risk. But if anyone crosses the line, it’s done.

            Coincidentally, I was there. It was held down the street from where I live, and I wanted to hear what people were saying. Like them, I’d never heard an American commander-in-chief declare victory prematurely with the intent of altering the election’s outcome. I wanted to know what people had to say when not sitting behind a screen. As hundreds gathered outside a local bookstore, organizers talked about many things—some of which I agreed with, some of which I didn’t—while emphasizing the importance of “the people’s mandate” being an important part of governing authority. Afterward, the group marched down the street (while I marched home). Because actions speak louder than words, the group headed toward I-94 where, as expected, they were surrounded within minutes and collectively detained. Held for several hours on the highway, everyone was booked and later cited by mail. This was the case for everyone present, regardless of whether they were on the road or not, and though the tally varies, an estimated 646 were detained that night, making it the largest mass arrest in Minnesota history (after being admitted to the Union).

            When I met the public defenders and NLG attorneys handling these cases (via Zoom), I was amazed by their spirit of collaboration and support. As a new attorney, I was relying on them to basically teach me how to “do” law. [Law school doesn’t teach you how to “do” law; it doesn’t even prepare you for the state bar exam; you pay a third party to teach you how to study for (and then take) the bar]. I spent most of our first meeting as a fly on the wall, doing more listening than talking. In fact, all I contributed was what I saw on the news that day, telling the other attorneys that these people—their clients—were arrested for warning us about what was happening right before our eyes and as we spoke. In one of those strange coincidences that belongs now to history: It was the afternoon of January 6, 2021. That day news was spreading that supporters of the President, marched on the Congress under the direction of the President (who still refused to concede the election) and breached the Capitol building. Their intention was clear in spirit, if imperfect in execution: to interfere with congressional certification of the votes of the Electoral College, as certified by their respective states, each consistent with their respective divisions of state and popular sovereignty.

            I’ll never forget how uncanny it felt discussing the November 4th protest while the Capitol building was still unsecured. As we spoke, men wearing military-style helmets and zip ties on their belts walked the Senate floor. An Air Force veteran was shot and killed. Someone walked off with the Speaker of the House’s podium. Yet, while all this happened, here I was with a group of underpaid defense attorneys in the Midwest parsing out whether being a “pedestrian on the highway” includes the grass along the sound barrier (further than you’d stand if your car broke down and you were waiting for a tow).

            As I saw it—(despite having no legal experience but having benefited from almost two decades of the state’s public education system; back when we funded schools)—weren’t the events of this day vindication enough for the criminal justice system to reevaluate its posture toward these people?

            (The answer was no).[2]

* * *

            Looking back, it seems everyone’s responded differently to January 6^th. Three years later, the nation can’t even agree whether it was a riot, rally, or siege, let alone an uprising, insurrection, or coup. Some people think it was a sightseeing tour; in which 7 people died. Regardless of what anyone calls it, the images and videos will forever remain the same as the day they were recorded. We all saw it. You can even go see it again if you want. The people who stormed the Capitol were proud of what they were doing. That’s why they recorded it. People don’t share what they’re ashamed of. You only cover up what you don’t want others to see. You only ignore what you yourself don’t want to see.

            Now three years later, after having been dissected and analyzed by historians, scholars, the media, and the bipartisan House Select Committee on the January 6 Attack, we have to accept that what’s done is done. The evidence isn’t going to change, and there comes a point to choose: We can’t exist forever in a state of willful uncertainty, we have to give a name to what happened that day, and for the sake of our democracy we must hold accountable those who used the power and influence of their office to facilitate what became a violent plot to overturn the results of the last presidential election. For all the ongoing problems of the world we are witnessing live and in real-time, I do not see any serious or constructive policy solutions advancing forward without first addressing this outstanding issue. We cannot advance democracy through antidemocratic means, just as we cannot advance the law if we deem some men beyond reproach.

            My whole life’s trajectory changed that day because my country’s trajectory changed. When I saw the first photographs from inside the Capitol, I felt angry and betrayed. I felt a part of history in a way that comes with watching a massive tragedy unfold before you. The people who seized possession of the Capitol building, including the very floor of the Senate, were carrying their own flags. They weren’t cardboard signs and placards: they were carrying flags, all of which were variations on a theme; and they flew together. Among them was the flag of the Confederate States of America. Watching these symbols pass through the halls of the Capitol, I was incensed. While our nation’s lawmakers and staff (including every custodian) hid in fear for their safety—half of them credibly for their lives—here was everything I needed to see. Here hanging over the shoulder of a clearly broken man was the legacy of silence, the consequence of corner-cutting across the centuries. Here the whole world could see—both in real-time and over the course of months and years—as the reckless words of the President, left unchallenged by those around him, inspired and achieved what no West Point graduate or Confederate General ever could: With each refresh of the news feed, each hour of silence, here we were briefly united as a nation waiting for someone to do something,while a single man’s contempt undid what was sacrificed in the once-deemed-sacrosanct Civil War and which Lincoln committed his life and legacy to hold together. And he died because of it. He was shot in the back of the head.

            And as the flags passed, here it was all unraveling, as seen from a cracked screen.

* * *

            When the next day my company pushed a message from battalion leadership referring to what happened as “the timely events occurring on the national stage,” I was taken aback. Despite such a blatant assault on the democratic process, I was disappointed by how few voices even tried to speak to the weight of the moment. We were in new territory. With two weeks until Inauguration Day, we were living in a window of time when seven generations (240 years) of the peaceful transition of power was over. As far as anyone knew, the threat was ongoing, and had this happened anywhere else (or had the people carried different flags), no intelligence officer or company captain would hesitate to call it what it was: a coup. Yet in that decisive moment for the conscience of the nation when the time called for moral clarity and judgment, most Americans couldn’t stand to face the truth. We still can’t. We can’t even agree on the cause of the Civil War.

            As for myself, I coped the way I do with most things: by writing, if only to create an internal record for the sake of my own soul. Most tragedies that have befallen the nation—and which have guided the course of my generation—are preventable but left to happen because what’s foreseeable can’t be addressed through a reactionary approach to governance. Perhaps this is an institutional problem, but I think it’s more so a failure of leadership. I’m not going to blame flags for what happened—since flags are just symbols signifying something from afar—because the speech of images will always be second to the speech of language and spoken word. As the gospel reminds us: it’s not what enters our mouths (or eyes or ears) that defiles us, it’s what comes out of us because such are the feelings of the heart. In other words: words matter.

            Over the course of a few very tense days, I wrote a 12-page memo directed to the Minnesota National Guard Joint Force Headquarters. In it I discussed what I saw as a larger cultural problem in the military and the federal government’s historical refusal to treat rightwing extremism with the same seriousness as any other domestic security threat. For better or worse, there seems to be a well-documented connection between antigovernment extremism and former military and law enforcement personnel (as demonstrated through the militia movement). Furthermore, lest I be accused of being a lower-enlisted infantryman naming the problem but not solving it on behalf of the Army, I even included four proposals that I believed would go far in enforcing discipline and renewing the public’s trust in the military (especially after the riots).

            After showing the memo to my chain of command, I was dismissed and treated with the patronizing attitude that can only come from an officer. Given what I felt to be the urgency of the situation—and since there are only so many ways to get people’s attention—I gave it to the local media where it was mentioned in the Star Tribune and elsewhere.[3] Aside from a few kind notes from a few kind people (and only one threat of violence), I received no response from either the military or any branch of state or federal government. So I took the silence for what it was, and I told myself what I tell myself a lot nowadays: the act must be its own good, otherwise things will get real dark, real quickly.

            If you’re interested, you can find the memo online.[4]

* * *

            Following the Inauguration of the new Administration, the incoming-Secretary of Defense issued an order calling for a military-wide stand down to discuss the issue of extremism and domestic terrorism. While I’m sure this assuaged some public concerns, I wasn’t especially hopeful. By the time the effect of this order trickled down from the Pentagon to my unit drilling at Camp Ripley, I was frankly more amused than surprised that, even with three months’ reflection, the military still couldn’t come up with a way for processing what was, by then, being publicly reframed as something to move on from. Instead of taking the time to consider the realities of what it means to be living in a society where the State’s monopoly on the legitimate use of force is under contest, my unit’s 1-hour “anti-extremism” brief spent more time dwelling on the “extremists” occupying Minneapolis’ George Floyd Square versus the militia groups that provided material aid and support to the January 6^th Insurrection. Unlike my neighbors, these militia groups provided material aid and support for the purpose of using unlawful means (e.g., through force and coercion intended to cause duress) to seize not property but federal executive authority, meaning the procedural power to alter the law under the cover of law itself. One is about land, space, and memory; the other about power. One is at an intersection in a poor Midwestern neighborhood and is a way for the community to honor the dead and try to make sense of a senseless murder. The other was at the United States Capitol Building, taken under siege. There must be a difference.

            Afterward I organized my notes from the brief into an article for MinnPost, believing it important for the community to know how members of their own state’s militia viewed them.[5] There were speculations of violence, and because this was my first coup, I thought people should know. Again I received no response from either the military or my own government. Not that I was expecting anything.

            Those were really dark days. When my unit eventually deployed to Kuwait that year, the men I spent years training with went on without me. As I grappled with the complicated emotions that come with duty and service, I watched from afar (via Snapchat) as my friends went silent. As I found out later, they were called to save their second burning city in less than two years, returning back to base not in a Humvee but on one of the last flights out of Kabul Airport. Thankfully everyone I know was safe; but sadly not every family who knew someone over there can say the same. But the war was over. Twenty years of death and deficits for nothing.

            When my six-year contract with the Guard ended the next year, no one asked me to stay and no one asked me to go, so I left. In the end, I wanted to serve, and I did. I tried my best. It’s more than most people do.

* * *

            No President will be around forever, and as our nation threads the needle of reconciliation—or at least tries to bridge the ideological divide—there is now a clear dividing line between those who, in the face of moral crisis, when the moment forced us to choose, chose to speak up and those who didn’t. Now three years later, no matter how much those under indictment (or threat of indictment) wish otherwise, what’s done is done. The book has closed. The records are out there. For better or worse, this is part of living through social upheaval in the digital age: we are all participants in the public record, stocking the public archive. We’ll all be held accountable by someone, even if only by those who come after us.

            After the completion of my military service, this was the last I tried to express my experiences regarding January 6 before washing my hands of it and turning the page. By the summer of 2022, I was becoming much more comfortable in my sense of self and my abilities as an attorney (even if I was facing the same financial uncertainty as I am now). Having allowed myself to move beyond my father-grief and as I learned to accept the things I can and cannot change, my whole interior life changed. With the help and love of those around me, I began to evaluate how much of my relationship to political authority was informed by my understanding of manhood and my relationship to my parents.

            Reflecting on how it felt to be ignored by my own government, I wanted to do something. Inevitably I knew I’d need to reach some resolution within myself without being rude, bitter, or violent. After all, that’s how we got into this mess. People can’t meet the moment with more violence and destruction. Violence begets violence always. That’s just how it goes.

            When I found out the Governor was attending a lawyers’ fundraising event for his reelection campaign, I thought that maybe resolution was just telling the Governor—to whom I’m no stranger[6]—how I felt. So I attended the event and after hearing his remarks I approached and asked for a minute of his time. Knowing that most people—especially elected officials—can be dismissive of those who are too emotional, I tried to calmy and respectfully explain what happened and how it felt. I told him how alienating and emotionally painful it was to try and do the right thing when it seemed like the right thing mattered, only to be me with silence. I didn’t even get a blanket rejection, which could at least be the start of a conversation. But there was nothing. Nothing. As I told him this, I distinctly remember how he couldn’t even look me in the eye as I explained how lonely it felt being in this position. When he finally answered, saying he’d “make things right,” I took him at his word.  

            Out of personal respect for the Governor, I’ll leave it to him and his office to tell the story of what “making things right” meant to him, if he even thinks it’s a story worth sharing now that we’re three years from the January 6 Insurrection. But I will say this: it left me feeling humiliated and stupid, and such things stick with a young man. Even if life does go on.

            It doesn’t feel good. But you have to be comfortable with silence.

[3]

            Okay. Regardless of what little traces we leave of ourselves around the public archive, here’s how I actually responded to the Insurrection. It can’t all be about writing letters and thinking about Lincoln.

            I had a nervous breakdown, and as has always been the pattern in my life, I responded to what I couldn’t process by turning my attention elsewhere. I couldn’t process living in a country that refused to acknowledge the very real—and very tangible—breakdown of the nation right before our eyes. So I leaned into the NLG. In fact, a few days after submitting my memo (and around the time the article in the Star Tribune came out), I volunteered to do arraignments for some people up north arrested while protesting Enbridge’s Line 3 replacement pipeline. And so armed with nothing more than my bar card, Professor Google, and some former classmates willing to indulge some late-night phone calls: there I was calling the Cass County Jail as Joshua Preston, Attorney-at-Law.

            Until then I’d never heard of the movement to Stop Line 3, which was a campaign to protest the construction of a tar sands oil pipeline crossing through northern Minnesota. Not only would this fossil fuel contribute to the ongoing effects of man-made climate change, but it posed a severe risk to the native wetlands and ecology. Even more, it threatened the home and way of life of the Anishinaabe people who depend on the land to hunt, fish, and harvest wild rice (all of which is protected under treaty with the United States government). Aside from risks the pipeline might pose during operation, critics worried that construction would not only puncture aquifers (thus draining water from the region) but that there would also be “frac-outs” dumping drilling fluid into the water and soil [as happened numerous times, in fact].

            To get a sense of the public opposition to the project, when pipeline construction began in November 2020 and when I joined the movement in mid-January 2021, there were probably only a couple dozen arrests related to the protests. Nine months later, when the pipeline was completed that September, there was so much going on that upwards to 1,000 people were arrested and charged (in total). I ended up representing about 70 of these people.

            From January 2021 – September 2023, my whole professional and personal life was consumed by the movement. Joining the Pipeline Legal Action Network (PLAN), I did jail calls and arraignments, doing my best to provide something for many defendants who were scared and didn’t know what to expect [not that I did either]. Then when the protests were over, I was invited to join the Drop the Charges Campaign and wrote a report with clear asks for how the Attorney General could support the movement (if he wanted to). A lot of this was stuff I never imagined myself participating in, and I’ll confess that sometimes it’s hard to believe it was real. In retrospect, I wish I could’ve done more in-person rather than it being what I call “a revolution from an empty room.”

            In a manner that may never be replicable again, I got an experience at a time when the courts and criminal justice system were hybridizing as part of adapting to post-pandemic environment. From my first arraignments to the final dismissal of my last case, I managed to get years of courtroom experience while rarely entering a courtroom. On the one hand it was convenient since I didn’t have to spend 6-8 hours on the road each week, but it also meant that to many people I was just a face on a screen or a voice on the phone. I wasn’t paid much but that didn’t matter because I didn’t have many expenses (this only became a problem when I paid what was effectively a 20% tax rate because I didn’t have much to deduct since, as my tax agent told me, “Your work is just… you.”)

            There’s a lot I could say about the lessons I learned as an attorney practicing in this space, but I’ll only say this. There are some counties in this state whose understanding and execution of justice is led not by the county attorney’s office but by the local sheriff. There are some places where members of my profession have to set aside what they deem fair and reasonable under the law in order to appease the sheriff’s office. A lot of this is local politics; but that doesn’t excuse it. The same alleged conduct shouldn’t result in major disparities in charging decisions (and therefore criminal liability) across county lines. I spoke about this to any media outlet willing to listen, even as public attention turned elsewhere after construction.[7]

* * *

            Through the movement to Stop Line 3, I joined a loose coalition of attorneys, legal workers, and activists who gave more than was demanded of them—and whose legacy is having created a multiracial, multigenerational movement whose legacy will be felt in social movements around the country, from Stop Line 5 to Stop Cop City. To this day I am immensely honored to have been a part of this group, and I’m grateful for the relationships I’ve built. I wouldn’t be writing about this if I wasn’t proud of my work. I write this because I do worry how we present and transmit the wisdom down the generations.

            Given the turnover within movement spaces and the way information is processed and shared, I worry whether we are doing enough to capture our experiences for the benefit of the next generation of activists and movement attorneys. While I think there may be support for this in principle, I know from my own experience that it’s hard to open the purse strings for this purpose. For example, I remember asking the executive director of a legal nonprofit if I could have some of the money raised for legal work related to the movement in order to write a law review article. At the time I wanted to formalize what I saw as the major legal issues regarding the State’s tactics use of prosecutorial discretion and quirks in the criminal law to chill otherwise protected First Amendment activity, at a time when the jurisprudence on anti-protest laws is evolving. Given my personal experience and firsthand knowledge, I also wanted to incorporate my experience as a movement attorney—I wanted to create the kind of reference I wish I had when I entered this space.

            Unfortunately, the director turned me down. She told me no one reads articles in a law review (which is a fair critique from those who don’t read articles in law reviews), but she also went further and suggested that such attempts to organize and document information in this way would make it easier for “the bad guys” to read it.

            Looking forward, I think we should celebrate the diversity of tactics. Regardless of my own views on developing the literature in a novel practice area, I know it’s not for everyone. But the absence of institutional structure within protest movements makes it harder to produce, transmit, and maintain knowledge across time. If you need an “in” to get access to the information you need to be successful in your work, how do you get “in” in the first place? While I share the concern that “the bad guys” may unveil a protest movement’s position on the First Amendment, I believe we also have a responsibility to develop the archive since there’s no guarantee the lessons developed in one movement space will be transferred to the next. We also need to rely on more than a few CLEs and information sessions to develop the next generation of movement attorneys.

            I think it’s wise to remember that both law enforcement and the fossil fuel industry host conferences where the first is taught the warrior ethos and the other the lessons learned from past projects with all the clinical seriousness of an international, multibillion-dollar industry. Energy is serious business. Not only has Enbridge managed to escape serious prosecution for even its documented environmental damage, it was able to do so while effectively funding local law enforcement. While we are still trying to process the scope of what it is we’re seeing, the Enbridge escrow account is a model and case study for private corporations to exercise influence over the State’s police power by subsidizing—to the point of supplementing—civil services. This is just another battleground in the balance between due process rights and private control of the police, which is a common conflict in our nation’s history (as those familiar with union history will know).

* * *

            This essay isn’t the space for a discussion of everything that happened in the Line 3 movement, but for those curious to know how everything ended, you can read about it online.[8] I would like to someday write my memoirs of the arguments I made regarding natural law, indigenous rights, and the interest of justice. But right now I’m just trying to pay rent.

[4]

            It is not easy telling new stories of ourselves and our place in the world, including what it means to be a part of this world (or what those around you mean when they say they mean world). Whether to stay or go is a dark dance of the soul, one I suspect many millennials know well by now—or will soon enough. This isn’t where I expected to end up in my thirties, but here I am. I went out and tried to do good things—and would like to continue doing good things—because despite our individual circumstances, part of entering our thirties in a modern democratic-republic means understanding we are in the midst of taking on the responsibilities of society, as recent examples of our generation on the national stage demonstrate. After all, while the youngest among us may rise through merit and favoritism, we will all rise in the end by attrition. As we speak, we shake the discourse, and when we are inevitably assigned the duties of government, there will be no one to save us but ourselves. Our grandparents will be gone; our parents will be gone; and it will just be us wishing we paid more attention, while the kids around us look on. This is self-governance. It’s not meant to be fun.

            Don’t believe anyone: No one knows where to start, only that we must start somewhere together. When they recommend a direction, ask them why they picked that direction. Ask them what they mean when they say they mean the world. Listen. Speak. Listen.

            While I believe talking about money is a radical act under the current socioeconomic system, I want to be clear that this fact doesn’t change the personal feeling of moral transgression—as though asking for help is a sign of one’s moral character. But of course it’s uncomfortable. It’s supposed to be. No one likes to reveal where they sit in the “hierarchy” as measured by numbers on a flat surface. This is why your employer doesn’t like it when people share their salaries. It’s the reason why they bust unions.

            Even though I know only good things will come from this act, I nonetheless feel all the things people like me are meant to feel when in the position of talking about money because he needs money. Even if it’s good to humble oneself. But as the person writing this—as the person’s name who’s attached to this essay—I feel self-conscious because I know that once I lay this out and post it, that’s it. What’s shared can’t be unshared. Everything leaves a record and an impression. And you wouldn’t believe how much time I’ve spent drafting this because I wanted to get the words right. Because as soon as I hit send, it’s: Hello, world! This is what I was doing on December 24, 2023: I was thinking about next month’s rent, which is due January 5, 2024. Late fees begin January 6.

            But I have to say something, and I have to do so while also being comfortable with silence.

* * *

            Thank you for reading this. I am asking for your financial support so I can take care of myself and plan for the future in a way I’ve not been able to do before, even if I don’t know what the future has in store. For everyone who’s ever crossed my path and wondered what it is I “do,” this is apparently it (or is any case what came out while I sit with my back against the wall). We find out who we are when we are desperate, and character reveals itself in abundance as well as scarcity.

            That’s all I wanted to say.

                                                                                    Joshua

                                                                                    (January 6, 2024; 1:34 PM).

---

[1] And I will frankly say I had to often clarify for others that my time in El Paso had nothing to do with immigration or children in cages.

[2] Minnesota’s largest mass arrest became the state’s largest mass prosecution of a nonviolent democratic movement. Consistent with the State’s approach to exercise its prosecutorial discretion without serious oversight, this group of demonstrators (later called “the 646”) were first charged by mail with misdemeanors. The State then extended reasonable (or at least tempting) plea offers prior to arraignment. When defendants wanted to take their case to trial organized, insisting the charges be dropped, the State (acting through the city attorney’s office) responded by re-charging the offenses as ticketed offenses, which are punishable by fine rather than incarceration. According to early-21^st-century American jurisprudence, the federal constitution, the only safeguard against state abuse of power, does not recognize the right to legal counsel for non-criminal defendants. This meant that anyone who wished to have their day in court would have to do so representing themselves. The same is the case under current interpretations of the State of Minnesota’s Constitution.

               Because the courts have yet to recognize the right to an attorney for non-criminal matters, it is very hard (because it’s so expensive) to defend oneself—and counterclaim—against other’s asserting the rights of property. I suspect most people experiencing financial hardship or emotional distress would buckle before a complaint is ever filed let alone brought before a judge. A lot of people experiencing hardship are afraid of courthouses, especially those attached to sheriff’s departments and prosecutor’s offices. Not everyone views these as safe, protective places.

               If there is a lesson here, it is this: We never know how our actions will look in retrospect, so act wisely, especially when dealing with matters of justice.

[3] Reid Forgrave, “Soldier urges Minnesota National Guard to take stronger stand against extremism,” Star Tribune (January 15, 2021), https://www.startribune.com/soldier-urges-minnesota-national-guard-to-take-stronger-stand-against-extremism/600010496/;

“Joshua Preston on his memo to the National Guard,” The Chad Hartman Show (January 15, 2021), https://omny.fm/shows/chad-hartman/joshua-preston-on-his-memo-to-the-national-guard; Sarah Danik,

“Minnesota National Guard soldier criticizes leadership on public response to Capitol riot,” Fox 9 News (January 14, 2021), https://www.fox9.com/news/minnesota-national-guard-soldier-voices-frustrations-over-response-to-capitol-riot.

[4] [For the URL, check out the linktree on my Instagram, @joshuappreston].

[5] Joshua Preston. “The National Guard should take right-wing extremism more seriously,” MinnPost (April 21, 2021), https://www.minnpost.com/community-voices/2021/04/the-national-guard-should-take-right-wing-extremism-more-seriously/.

[6] For ridiculous reasons.

[7] Kelly Hayes, “Enough colonial pageantry. Let’s rally behind criminalized water protectors,” Truthout (November 25, 2021), https://truthout.org/audio/enough-colonial-pageantry-lets-rally-behind-criminalized-water-protectors/.

Alleen Brown & Sam Richards, “Prosecutors hit anti-pipeline protesters with felony charges to send a message, defense says,” The Intercept (January 8, 2022), https://theintercept.com/2022/01/08/pipeline-protesters-prosecutions-felony/.

Mike Hughlett, “Enbridge-funded state account has paid over $4.3M for Line 3 policing costs,” Star Tribune (January 12, 2022), https://www.startribune.com/enbridge-funded-state-account-has-paid-over-4-5m-for-line-3-policing-costs/600135174/.

Abe Fisher, “The fight against Line 3 isn’t over yet,” The Progressive (February 28, 2022), https://progressive.org/latest/fight-against-line-3-asher-220228/.

[8] Randy Furst, “Judge dismisses charges against activists accused of disrupting Enbridge Line 3,” Star Tribune (September 18, 2023), https://www.startribune.com/judge-dismisses-charges-against-activists-accused-of-disrupting-enbridge-line-3/600305634/.

Alleen Brown, “Minnesota judge dismisses Line 3 charges against indigenous water protectors,” Truthout (September 23, 2023), https://truthout.org/articles/minnesota-judge-dismisses-line-3-charges-against-indigenous-water-protectors/.