Not Quite Communist

Photo: Gage Skidmore via Wikimedia Commons.

The Cubs season has come to an end after a tough loss to the Brewers in the NLDS. The final out brought that familiar ache to Chicago fans, the kind that lingers just long enough to remind us why we care so deeply. But Cubs talk hasn’t ended with the close of the series. In fact, it’s taken a far more personal turn, as former Cubs catcher and manager David Ross has opened up about the darkest time in his life—a time long before the champagne showers and championship parades. His story isn’t about wins and losses on the field. It’s about perseverance when the world gives you no reason to keep going. It’s about finding light in the kind of darkness most of us never see.

Imagine being fifteen. A teenager whose life should be shaped by home, by guardians, by someone watching over you. But one day the doors close. The people who were supposed to carry your fears, your dreams, your daily needs vanish. You don’t get explanations or goodbyes. You’re left with a word echoing in your head: abandoned.

That was David Ross’s reality. As a teenager, his adoptive parents left him. No safety net, no stability, no one to sign permission slips or to tuck him in at night. Some nights he stayed at friends’ homes. More nights he stayed awake fighting the ache of emptiness. The isolation wasn’t just outside him, it was inside him, like a dark current pulling at his confidence. When you’re that old, you don’t ask why me. You ask instead, what do I do now.

In the absence of certainty, Ross found something he could control: the crack of a baseball against the wall. The sharp pop. The rebound. The rhythm. The repetition. That sound became his companion and his anchor. It was physical proof that he could make something happen, even if the world wasn’t showing up. That ball, thrown again and again, was both therapy and promise. He threw until his hands bled, until the noise drowned out the doubts. In that ritual he began to rebuild a belief. Maybe he was worth as much as any other kid. Maybe someone would see that. Baseball became more than a game. It became structure, refuge, and a vehicle for proving that he mattered.

David Ross’s climb to success was never linear. He wasn’t the top draft pick, the headline superstar, or the guaranteed starter. He was the grinder, the journeyman catcher, the backup, the veteran voice in the locker room. But his impact was never small. Sometimes the most important contributions are the ones behind the scenes, the ones that hold a team together when the seams threaten to tear. Every trade, every demotion, every cut became echoes from the past. He felt rejections as personal, like someone leaving him again. But this time he had built internal muscles to absorb the shock. Instead of folding, he leaned in. He showed up. He remained steady.

When the Cubs signed him in 2015, many believed it was a ceremonial nod to a veteran’s career winding down. But fate had other ideas. In 2016, in Game 7 of the World Series, in a moment charged with pressure and legacy, Ross stepped up and hit a home run. One swing. In that instant, all the pain, all the lonely nights, all the doubt converged. Every rejection, every lost night, every moment of feeling unwanted had led him there. That swing was more than a run scored. It was proof that broken beginnings don’t necessarily lead to broken endings.

Ross retired, but he didn’t step away. He became a coach, a manager, a mentor. These roles were not just about strategy but about seeing the person behind the uniform. He knew pain. He knew what it was to want someone to believe in you. And so he tried to be that person for others. He spoke openly about therapy, faith, and emotional healing. He said that toughness is not the absence of weakness, but getting up when no one is there while knowing when to ask for help. He talked about vulnerability as part of the journey, not the enemy of strength. He carried forward a mission that no player under his watch should feel unseen, unheard, or abandoned. His legacy isn’t just in statistics or championships. It’s in people who feel valued, included, and held.

We underestimate how much perseverance costs. It isn’t glamorous or always visible. It is the dozens of mornings you drag your heart out of bed, the times you speak your truth when your voice trembles, the nights you keep going when you feel empty. David Ross’s journey didn’t erase the abandonment. It didn’t pretend it never happened. But he showed what happens when you refuse to let it be the final word. You stay. You build. You lean in. You become the person your younger self needed. In doing so, you give others the home you never had.

If today you feel unseen, unmoored, or on shaky ground, remember this. Your story is still being written. Keep the pitch coming. Keep showing up. Keep throwing the ball. Through persistence, your greatest chapters may still be ahead.

Photo: U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Public domain.

There’s a growing myth in America that the people enforcing immigration laws are heroes keeping us safe. But let’s be honest, becoming an ICE agent isn’t about bravery and it isn’t about public service.

It’s about power.

It’s about the kind of authority that doesn’t have to answer to anyone. And in too many cases, it’s about people who couldn’t make it into the military or the police, people who still want the uniform, the gun, the control.

It’s a form of stolen valor dressed up in federal insignia.

When we think of valor, we think of sacrifice. We think of courage in defense of others.

ICE agents are the opposite.

They are often armed with the arrogance of impunity, empowered by administrations that have turned cruelty into policy.

The Trump Administration took that to its fullest expression, transforming ICE from an obscure immigration enforcement body into a weapon of political fear. They have been enabled, even cheered, by members of Congress who have learned that fear wins votes faster than compassion.

The job of ICE, in theory, is law enforcement. But what we’re seeing on the ground, raids on churches, schools, and food distribution lines, isn’t law enforcement.

It’s intimidation.

It’s theater.

And the purpose of that theater is to send a message that there are people in this country who will never belong.

It’s not about who’s undocumented. It’s about who’s unwanted.

Many of these agents operate with a disturbing lack of accountability. They barge into homes without warrants, detain U.S. citizens by mistake, and brutalize people in public, knowing full well there will be no consequences.

They hide behind the claim that they are “just doing their jobs,” as if obedience to cruelty were a virtue. We have heard that excuse before in darker chapters of history.

ICE has become a safe haven for those who want the adrenaline of authority without the discipline of service. It attracts the kind of person who craves control, not justice, who wants to enforce power, not protect life.

And now, with the political green light from above, that mindset has metastasized into something even more dangerous, a culture of sanctioned bullying under the guise of national security.

This kind of movement doesn’t arise in a vacuum. History shows that authoritarian systems often grow by exploiting people’s fears and resentments.

They find recruits among those who feel powerless, ignored, or left behind, and then offer them purpose through the language of nationalism and purity.

They manufacture enemies to blame for complex social problems and build identity around that anger.

When a government teaches people to believe that their worth depends on who they can exclude or control, it is creating the same conditions that have fueled repression across the world.

In every era, demagogues have known how to weaponize fear. They claim to defend the nation while hollowing out its conscience. They speak of security while spreading division. The result is always the same: ordinary people persuaded to act against their own neighbors, convinced they are serving something noble while actually serving power.

This isn’t patriotism. It’s not even policing. It’s performative violence backed by propaganda. And when a government lets fear replace empathy, when cruelty is elevated as strength, what we get isn’t order.

It’s authoritarianism wrapped in a flag.

The people who show real valor aren’t the ones breaking down doors or detaining the vulnerable. They’re the ones standing up against this system. They’re the neighbors who organize food drives even under threat of raids, the churches that open their doors to families seeking safety, the lawyers and volunteers who show up to detention centers every morning because they refuse to let fear win.

Valor isn’t about a badge. It’s about conscience. And in this moment, the bravest thing we can do is to call ICE what it truly is, a machine of state-sanctioned cruelty powered by those who mistake domination for duty.

This week marked National Mental Illness Awareness Week, and I was honored that one of my personal essays was reprinted by the Presbyterian News Service and later shared by newsletters and websites across the country.

Alongside that, my pastor and colleague, the Rev. Kristin Hutson, was interviewed for a separate story highlighting how our congregation has become a spiritual home for many residents of a psychiatric rehabilitation facility across the street. What she described captures the heart of what we try to do: not simply include people with mental illness, but welcome them into full participation in the life of the church so they experience true belonging.

Mental health awareness is not just a matter of compassion; it is a matter of survival. Every day, people across all backgrounds silently struggle with anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, and other mental illnesses. Yet far too many go without treatment because of the deep stigma still attached to seeking help.

For some, cultural or religious beliefs convince them that emotional or psychological pain is a sign of weakness or moral failure. Others—particularly men—are taught from a young age to “tough it out” or “shake it off.”

And then there are those who are told, sometimes by faith leaders (this is where religion can be very toxic), that their suffering is the result of not having enough faith in God.

I have heard those messages firsthand.

I grew up around people who believed that depression and anxiety were spiritual failings rather than medical conditions. They said that if your faith were strong enough, you would be joyful and calm, not anxious or sad. That line of thinking is toxic. It isolates the suffering person, fills them with guilt, and discourages them from seeking the help that could save their life.

In my own culture, mental illness was often something you kept private. This is true for me as a Filipino, or any Asian or Latin American for that matter. You didn’t talk about it.

I’m reminded of a Saturday Night Live sketch called “Protective Mom 2” where Marcello Hernandez’ Cuban character Luis brings home a not-Latina home and introduce her to his Latina mother, played by Pedro Pascal, and aunt played by Puerto Rican hottie Bad Bunny.

In the sketch, Chloe Troast as the girlfriend Casey says, “I love Luis and I feel I’ve been really good for him. Like when he got diagnosed with depression.”

Chaos is triggered when Tia Bad Bunny asked, “What do you mean, depression?”

“Mi hijo does not have depression!” yells Mama Pascal. “He just like the dark! He tried to get it when he was a kid. He said, ‘mama, I’m depressed.’ Then I said, ‘Don’t do that, do something else.’”

Drop dead funny, but in it is a serious issue. Many cultures view mental illness as taboo: mental health problems don’t exist if you don’t talk about it.

You prayed about it, perhaps, or told yourself to think “happy thoughts.”

But faith and positive thinking are not substitutes for treatment. Prayer is powerful, but so are therapy, medication, and supportive community. I have learned that God works through doctors, counselors, and scientists just as surely as through pastors and prayers.

And outside the realm of religion—because not everyone believes in God—there is still much that every one of us can do to increase awareness and compassion around mental health.

One of the most powerful things is to be open about our own experiences with anxiety, depression, or burnout. When we speak honestly, it helps others realize they are not alone.

Another is to learn what mental health resources exist in our communities—free clinics, crisis lines, therapy groups, and support organizations—and share them widely. Knowing where to find help and being able to point someone in the right direction, can save a life.

Breaking the silence around mental illness is one of the most important ministries the church can undertake—and one of the most important acts of humanity anyone of us outside religion can do.

When we welcome people with mental health challenges as full and equal participants, when we talk about depression and hope in the same breath, when we affirm that seeking therapy is not weakness but courage, we chip away at centuries of stigma.

There is sacredness in healing—whether it comes through prayer, medicine, community, or all three. And there is grace in admitting that we need help.

Awareness is the first step toward that grace, and it begins when we start talking about it—openly, honestly, and without shame.

In the quiet of Bailick Park in Midleton, County Cork, nine tall steel feathers rise toward the night sky. Lit from below, they glow with color, their slender forms bending inward as though forming a bowl. This sculpture, called Kindred Spirits, stands as a gift of remembrance and gratitude from the Irish people to the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma. It tells a story that crosses oceans and centuries, one born out of shared hardship and the unlikely compassion that can grow from suffering.

The story begins in Ireland during the Great Famine of the 1840s. Potato blight destroyed the crops that most of the rural poor depended on for food. Between 1845 and 1852, more than a million Irish people died and another million fled the country. The crisis was worsened by British colonial rule, which continued to export food from Ireland even as people starved. In 1847, remembered as “Black ’47,” the world learned of the terrible suffering. Donations trickled in from across the globe. Among them came a small but astonishing contribution from across the Atlantic, from the Choctaw Nation.

Just sixteen years earlier, the Choctaw had endured their own devastation. The United States government had forced them to march thousands of miles from their ancestral homelands in Mississippi to what is now Oklahoma, in a brutal episode known as the Trail of Tears. Thousands of Choctaw men, women, and children died from starvation, disease, and exposure during the journey. Even after resettling, they lived in poverty and displacement. Yet when they learned of the famine in Ireland, the Choctaw gathered what little they could—$170—to send to the Irish relief effort. It was not a large amount, but its meaning was profound. Having suffered the cruelty of empire themselves, the Choctaw recognized another people’s pain and chose to help.

That act of generosity was remembered in Ireland long after the famine ended. More than 150 years later, the people of County Cork sought to honor the Choctaw with a lasting tribute. The result was Kindred Spirits, designed by Irish sculptor Alex Pentek and installed in 2017. The monument’s nine stainless steel feathers, each six meters tall, curve together to form a circle. Their shape suggests both fragility and strength, evoking a bowl of food offered in friendship. Pentek said he wanted the work to reflect courage and humanity. The sculpture’s openness invites viewers to step inside and look upward, as if standing within a shared space of gratitude.

The symbolism runs deep. The feathers represent the Choctaw, whose culture reveres the eagle as a sacred being that carries prayers to the Creator. The bowl-like form recalls the famine, when hunger defined life and death. But more than that, the monument itself stands as a quiet protest against the forces that caused such tragedies. Both the Irish and the Choctaw suffered under colonial systems that displaced and impoverished them. Their connection, though separated by distance, reveals how empire’s victims can find solidarity through compassion. The Choctaw gift, though small in material terms, was a defiant statement of moral agency. It said that those who know pain can still choose generosity. In doing so, the Choctaw subverted the logic of empire that sought to erase their humanity.

For the Irish, building Kindred Spirits was a way to express gratitude while also acknowledging shared history. The monument’s beauty does not erase the suffering of the famine or the injustices of colonial rule, but it transforms memory into a gesture of peace. When Choctaw leaders traveled to Ireland for the unveiling, they were welcomed as kin. In turn, the Choctaw later created a companion monument in Oklahoma called Eternal Heart, continuing the exchange of remembrance. These acts remind us that history is not fixed. It can be reshaped through empathy and acknowledgment.

The title Kindred Spirits captures the heart of this relationship. It speaks to the recognition that across continents and centuries, the Irish and the Choctaw share a bond born not of power or wealth but of mutual understanding. Both peoples endured injustice and loss, yet each found a way to respond to suffering with compassion rather than bitterness. In a world still shaped by colonial wounds, their story offers a model of how solidarity can transcend history.

To stand before Kindred Spirits is to feel that connection. The feathers shimmer with changing light, and within the circle they form, there is a sense of stillness. It is an invitation to remember the past but also to imagine a future where generosity defines our humanity. The monument is more than art. It is a conversation across time, a promise kept between two nations once silenced by empire. It reminds us that even in the darkest times, kindness can travel farther than oppression, and that shared suffering can become shared hope.

Debbie Brockman taken down by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol. Photo: Screenshot of video from X (formerly Twitter).

I’m broadcasting this as ICE vehicles are patrolling my neighborhood at the moment with helicopters buzzing the lakefront condos all morning. It is surreal to be doing this with people who are against the words I’m sharing literally outside my door and windows.

Today in the Logan Square neighborhood of Chicago, Debbie Brockman, a video producer for WGN, was slammed to the ground and detained by ICE agents for doing her job. She was filming the apprehension of a person, camera in hand, people shouting “She’s press!” But that didn’t stop them.

Last week, a pepper bomb was shot into a reporter’s vehicle. These aren’t isolated incidents. They are warning signs.

And I say that not as a distant commentator, but as someone who once carried a press badge through these same Chicago streets. I know what it’s like to hold a microphone and a notebook, believing that the public deserves to know what those in power are doing in their name. That belief, that sacred calling, is what makes today’s assault hit so close to home.

Because this isn’t just about one journalist or one bad decision by an ICE agent. It’s an attack on the public’s right to see and to know. The freedom of the press is not a nicety of democracy; it is the heartbeat of it. When that freedom is silenced, the rest of democracy doesn’t fall all at once. It erodes quietly, deliberately, and then completely.

We’ve seen this pattern before.

In New York City, masked federal agents shoved and knocked down journalists covering ICE operations at 26 Federal Plaza.

In Los Angeles, more than two dozen journalists were arrested or assaulted while documenting deportation protests.

Here in Chicago, a CBS news crew says they were struck by a pepper ball while covering an ICE enforcement action.

And now, a federal judge has had to issue a restraining order against the Department of Homeland Security itself, reminding it that the First Amendment still applies.

When a government must be reminded that it cannot target journalists, that is a government on the edge of authoritarianism.

History tells us what happens when this edge is crossed.

When Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law in the Philippines in 1972, one of his first acts was to shut down every independent news outlet. Journalists were arrested in the middle of the night. Printing presses were seized. The government took over the airwaves and called it “stabilizing the nation.” In truth, it was the sound of democracy going silent.

In Haiti, when François “Papa Doc” Duvalier consolidated power, he shut down the free press, exiled or executed journalists, and replaced independent newspapers with state-controlled propaganda sheets.

In Uganda, Idi Amin did the same. Within months of his 1971 coup, he banned newspapers that criticized his rule, detained editors, and forced the press to praise his so-called “economic miracle.”

And in Romania, Nicolae Ceaușescu turned the press into an organ of his cult of personality, where every headline praised him, every silence served him, and every lie kept the people in check.

The same pattern repeats itself across history. When power feels threatened by truth, the first step is to blind the public.

President George W. Bush, on World Press Freedom Day in 2008, said something that remains profoundly relevant:

“Just and open societies protect and rely on the freedom of the press. That freedom is enshrined in the First Amendment … brutal regimes and others who seek to stifle liberty often do so by closing down private newspapers … beating journalists.”

And decades earlier, John F. Kennedy told a gathering of newspaper publishers:

“Without debate, without criticism, no administration and no country can succeed, and no republic can survive.”

Even presidents with opposing philosophies have understood that truth itself is the safeguard of democracy. When the truth-tellers fall, the public falls blind.

Today, a journalist’s body hit the pavement in Logan Square. Tomorrow, it could be another, in another neighborhood, in another city. And each time, we get a little closer to forgetting that a free press is not the enemy of the people. It is the people’s witness.

As a former journalist, I feel this in my bones. When the watchers are targeted, when the eyes of the people are forced shut, democracy begins to die in the dark.

So let’s be clear. This is not just an affront. This is an all-out attack on the First Amendment. And if we ever stop defending those who tell the truth, we will lose the very thing that makes this nation free.

The Reichstag fire aftermath on February 27, 1933. The Chancellor of Germany seized authoritarian control of the nation after declaring a national emergency. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

Many political watchers fear that Donald Trump and his adviser Stephen Miller are waiting for what’s called a “Reichstag Fire moment.” The phrase refers to an event in Germany in 1933 when the Reichstag, the German parliament building, burned down. Adolf Hitler used that fire as an excuse to declare a national emergency, suspend civil liberties, and crush all political opposition. It gave him the full power to rule without limits. When people today warn about a “Reichstag Fire moment,” they are afraid that Trump is waiting for a crisis—or might even create one—to do something similar in the United States.

The fear is not about fire but about a moment of chaos that can be used to justify extraordinary power. It could be a riot, a terrorist attack, or a clash between protesters and armed troops. If such a moment happens, Trump and Miller could claim that the nation is under threat and that normal democratic processes must be suspended to “restore order.” They could use that excuse to arrest opponents, censor the media, or shut down organizations that criticize the administration. Once power is seized that way, it is rarely returned.

Right now, the deployment of National Guard troops in Chicago is setting the stage for that possibility. Federalized under Trump’s control, the Guard has joined ICE and Homeland Security agents on city streets, supposedly to stop “illegal immigration” and “restore law and order.” But this show of force is doing more than policing. It is raising tensions. It is daring protesters, activists, and ordinary residents to respond. If violence breaks out, the administration could point to it as proof that America is in crisis—and then claim that more drastic measures are needed.

Stephen Miller has long spoken about using federal power to “reassert control” over cities he describes as “lawless.” Trump has talked about sending troops to “liberal strongholds” that defy him. Together, they have built a narrative that paints entire cities, especially Chicago, as enemies of the state. That framing is dangerous because it makes it easier to justify violence against fellow Americans. It turns a city full of people—families, workers, immigrants—into a symbol of rebellion that must be crushed.

If a clash occurs, Trump could declare a national emergency. He could use emergency powers to detain journalists, stop protests, or take over local law enforcement. The groundwork for this is already being laid with propaganda that claims Chicago is “out of control” and “run by criminals.” By spreading that message, the administration is trying to make the public believe that the use of overwhelming force would be justified.

That is what people mean when they warn about a “Reichstag Fire moment.” It is not only the act of seizing power but the careful preparation for it—the creating of fear, the labeling of enemies, and the deployment of armed forces to provoke conflict. The presence of National Guard troops in Chicago is not just a show of strength. It is a political signal. It tells the nation that dissent can be met with military force, and it tests how much the public will tolerate.

History shows that democracies often end not with a single violent act, but with citizens slowly becoming used to government control in the name of safety. The fire in Germany did not destroy democracy by itself. The reaction to it did. That is why people are afraid now. They see the same pattern repeating—the building of fear, the demonizing of enemies, the promise of order through force—and they know where that road leads.

This is a companion podcast. Read my original news article at GoPride.com.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

This week, the U.S. Supreme Court heard arguments in a case that could reshape the legal status of conversion therapy bans across the country. The case out of Colorado, Chiles v. Salazar, asks whether a licensed counselor’s attempt to change a young person’s sexual orientation or gender identity is protected speech under the First Amendment—or whether states have a right to stop practices that medical experts have called harmful, discredited, and cruel.

Let’s be clear: conversion therapy is not therapy. It’s psychological harm dressed up as compassion. For decades, LGBTQ people—especially youth—have been subjected to this practice by people who insist that being gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender is something that needs to be cured. Sometimes it looks like religious counseling. Sometimes it’s so-called “talk therapy.” And sometimes, tragically, it has involved physical punishment or aversion tactics. No matter the form, the message is the same: who you are is wrong, and we will try to fix you.

That kind of message can shatter a person’s sense of self. Studies show that LGBTQ people who go through conversion therapy are far more likely to suffer from depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. For youth who are already facing rejection at home or bullying at school, being told by a trusted adult that their identity is broken is devastating. When survivors of these programs tell their stories, there’s a heartbreaking consistency to them: the shame, the loneliness, the feeling of being erased from your own life.

Major medical and mental health organizations have condemned conversion therapy for years. The American Psychological Association, the American Psychiatric Association, the American Academy of Pediatrics—all of them agree it doesn’t work and that it causes real harm. And still, there are people fighting to keep it alive, often in the name of free speech or religious freedom. But the issue isn’t about silencing faith or ideas. It’s about stopping licensed professionals from using their credentials to legitimize cruelty.

To me, the argument that banning conversion therapy violates free speech misses the point. Therapists aren’t just speakers—they’re practitioners of care. We already regulate what doctors can prescribe, what lawyers can advise, what teachers can teach. Words, when used in a professional setting, can heal or they can wound. When those words tell a child that God will love them only if they change, that’s not healing. That’s harm.

What makes this Supreme Court case so dangerous is that it could open the door for conversion therapy to come back in states that worked hard to ban it. Twenty-two states and the District of Columbia currently have laws protecting minors from it. If the Court sides with the counselor in this case, those protections could fall apart, and so could the message that every young person deserves to be accepted as they are.

It’s not hard to imagine the ripple effect. LGBTQ teens who were once protected by law could find themselves back in rooms with adults who tell them they’re sinful or sick. Parents who are struggling to understand their children could be pulled toward “ministries” that promise change. And a generation of kids could grow up with scars they didn’t have to carry.

I think about how many of us spent years trying to unlearn the damage from being told that our existence is a mistake. Conversion therapy takes that pain and formalizes it. It makes rejection a profession. It makes cruelty a credential. And calling it “therapy” doesn’t make it any less violent to the soul.

As the Supreme Court deliberates, the question isn’t just about free speech—it’s about who gets to define care. Do we protect a counselor’s right to say harmful things, or a young person’s right to live without being told their identity is wrong? The Court will issue its decision next year, but for the LGBTQ community, this fight is about more than law. It’s about survival, dignity, and the simple truth that love does not need curing.

Photo: Public domain.

This week marks the anniversary of the Great Chicago Fire of October 8 to 10, 1871, one of the most devastating urban disasters in American history.

The inferno destroyed more than three square miles of the city, left nearly 100,000 people homeless, and killed about 300 residents.

Yet while the city burned, another kind of fire spread even faster—a fire of blame and prejudice. Immigrant communities, especially the Irish, were scapegoated almost immediately.

Chicago at the time was an industrial boomtown filled with immigrants from Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, Poland, and Bohemia. They built the city’s railroads, worked in its stockyards, and lived in its most crowded, combustible neighborhoods.

But when the disaster struck, it was easier for frightened residents and city leaders to blame the poor and foreign-born than to admit that lax fire codes, wooden infrastructure, and greed-fueled overbuilding had made catastrophe inevitable.

Within days, newspapers had their villain.

The story spread that the Great Fire began when Catherine O’Leary, an Irish immigrant woman, accidentally set her barn ablaze after her cow kicked over a lantern. She was never charged, and decades later the reporter who invented the story confessed it was fiction.

But the legend stuck because it played perfectly into existing anti-Irish, anti-Catholic, and classist stereotypes. The O’Learys were poor, foreign, and Catholic—easy targets for a city eager to find a single human culprit instead of confronting systemic negligence. Political cartoons mocked Mrs. O’Leary as a careless drunkard; editorials condemned “ignorant immigrants” who “brought ruin upon us.”

Even as the city rebuilt, the social fire smoldered on, fueling housing segregation and employment discrimination that lasted generations.

More than 150 years later, Chicago once again finds itself under siege—not from flames, but from another kind of inferno: xenophobia cloaked as law enforcement.

The Trump Administration has flooded the city with Homeland Security personnel, ICE and CBP agents, and National Guard troops, including soldiers from Illinois and Texas.

The justification is the same kind of fearmongering that lit the spark in 1871—a claim that immigrants, especially the undocumented, are the source of Chicago’s supposed lawlessness.

The President has called for mass roundups and accused the mayor and governor of “protecting criminals,” despite the fact that federal crime data show Chicago doesn’t even rank among the top twenty U.S. cities in violent crime per capita.

Just as Catherine O’Leary became a convenient scapegoat for a fire she didn’t cause, today’s immigrants are being cast as villains for problems they didn’t create. The Administration’s narrative—that Chicago’s safety depends on deporting immigrants—mirrors the same old story of blame: when things feel out of control, accuse those who are easiest to dehumanize.

The people being targeted now are largely families, refugees, and longtime residents, many of them LGBTQ migrants fleeing persecution in countries where their lives were already in danger.

Chicago’s own history should warn us of the damage that comes when fear triumphs over truth. The Great Fire taught the city that real danger often lies not in a single spark, but in the dry kindling of neglect, inequality, and division.

To repeat the mistakes of 1871—to let fear consume compassion and to scapegoat those without power—is to invite another kind of conflagration.

A city rebuilt from ashes once before should know better than to burn its conscience again.

A new escalation in the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown arrived in Chicago today as Texas National Guard troops were deployed to the region and staged at a military training facility in Elwood, Illinois. Their arrival marks a major expansion of federal involvement in Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations in the city, intensifying fears among residents and civil rights groups who say the move threatens fundamental rights.

These Texas troops join 300 Illinois National Guard members whom President Trump previously federalized to support enforcement efforts. Illinois and city leaders filed suit to block further deployment, but a federal judge declined to issue an immediate restraining order.

LGBTQ Chicagoans—particularly queer immigrants, transgender people, and communities of color—are expressing alarm. The presence of out-of-state troops heightens tensions in neighborhoods already anxious about ICE raids and racial profiling. Many remember the 2017 crackdowns, when ICE agents targeted queer-friendly shelters and workspaces in Pilsen, Uptown, and Little Village.

For LGBTQ migrants, the fear runs even deeper. Deportation could mean being sent back to countries where homosexuality and gender nonconformity are punishable by imprisonment, torture, or death. Many of Chicago’s queer asylum seekers fled nations in which living openly as LGBTQ was a risk to their lives—places where police brutality, forced “conversion” practices, and mob violence remain common. For them, the militarization of immigration enforcement in Chicago feels like a cruel reminder that safety can still be taken away.

Emergency protest mobilization

In response to the troop deployment, A Coalition Against the Trump Agenda has called for an emergency protest mobilization on Wednesday, October 8 at 5:30 p.m., gathering at Ida B. Wells Drive and Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago.

The protest, organized under the slogan “No Trump! No Troops!”, aims to unite immigrants, LGBTQ communities, racial justice advocates, and faith leaders in opposition to the militarization of city streets. The Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights (ICIRR) has joined the call, urging supporters to “reject the militarization of our streets, our cities, and our states.”

Social media posts from the Coalition Against the Trump Agenda show photos of demonstrators already gathering downtown, carrying pride flags and handmade signs. Organizers describe the protest as a call to defend civil rights, sanctuary policies, and the dignity of all who live in Chicago—regardless of immigration status.

What’s at stake

Observers report that the Texas troops have been stationed at the U.S. Army Reserve Training Center in Elwood, roughly 50 miles southwest of the city. Federal officials claim the troops are there to assist ICE and protect federal property, though the specifics of their role remain unclear. Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker and Attorney General Kwame Raoul continue to challenge the legality of the deployment, calling it an unconstitutional misuse of federal power.

Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson has criticized the decision as politically motivated and dangerous. The presence of out-of-state military forces, he said, threatens to escalate fear and tension in communities that already face racial profiling and discrimination.

For LGBTQ Chicagoans who are immigrants or refugees, the anxiety is particularly intense. Some fear being targeted for deportation to nations such as Uganda, Nigeria, or Chechnya, where same-sex relationships are criminalized and public identification as LGBTQ can invite mob violence or state persecution. Others have fled Central American countries where queer and trans individuals are hunted by gangs and often murdered with impunity. To be detained by ICE now, with military support behind it, could mean being forced back into mortal danger.

Know your rights — especially now

With ICE operations expanding and troops now stationed nearby, civil liberties organizations are urging everyone to understand their rights.

People have the right to remain silent and do not have to answer questions about where they were born or their immigration status.

They have the right to refuse consent to searches of themselves, their vehicles, or their homes unless officers present a valid judicial warrant.

They have the right to record officials—including ICE agents, law enforcement, or military personnel—in public spaces as long as they do not interfere.

And they have the right to legal counsel. Anyone detained can ask to speak to a lawyer before answering questions or signing documents.

Local organizations such as ICIRR, Centro Romero, and the TransLatin@ Coalition Chicago have activated hotlines and rapid-response teams to provide legal aid, track ICE movements, and assist protesters who may face arrest.

A community that refuses to be silenced

Chicago’s LGBTQ community has long stood at the frontlines of civil rights struggles—from ACT UP demonstrations in the 1980s to Black Lives Matter protests in 2020. Activists say the current moment demands the same courage and solidarity. Faith-based groups, queer resource centers, and neighborhood mutual aid collectives are coordinating sanctuary spaces and safety networks for those fearing detention or deportation.

What comes next

Legal challenges to the federal deployment are ongoing. Illinois and Chicago officials continue to press for judicial limits on the use of troops and the scope of ICE operations. Civil rights advocates warn that the coming days will test the city’s commitment to remain a place of refuge.

For LGBTQ migrants, the stakes could not be higher. To be detained now might mean not only imprisonment but a forced return to a homeland where coming out is a death sentence. Chicago has long called itself a sanctuary city, but as federal power grows and troops take position, that sanctuary feels fragile. The protests on October 8 are more than political expression. For many, they are an act of survival—and a demand to live freely, without fear of erasure or exile.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

There are places on these islands where the wind feels older than memory.

Where the air hums as if it carries the heartbeat of generations.

When I was young, I thought ghost stories were meant to frighten us.

Now I know—they were meant to remind us.

They remind us that the land was never empty. That before the sugar fields, before the canneries, before the barracks where our grandparents slept, there were voices that spoke the first prayers.

To hear the drums of the Night Marchers is to be reminded that history is never buried—it walks.

It walks in rhythm with the sea, in step with the rain, in the silence between heartbeats.

And so I begin here, where story and spirit meet.

In the hush of Hawaii’s night, where the unseen still moves among us, and the living still remember to bow their heads.

The story of the Night Marchers, or Huakaʻi Pō, sits at a haunting crossroads between Hawaii’s spiritual ancestry and the layers of colonization that reshaped the islands. It is one of the few legends that crosses ethnic lines—embraced with reverence by Native Hawaiians, and whispered with awe and respect by generations of Filipino, Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, and other immigrant families who made Hawaii their home.

To talk about the Night Marchers is to talk about the memory of a land that remembers who walked it first.

The Night Marchers are said to be the spirits of ancient Hawaiian warriors, guardians, and chiefs who traverse the islands on sacred paths—often along ridges, through valleys, or between mountain and sea. Their march is accompanied by the sound of conch shells, the beating of drums, and the flickering of torches. The legend says that to look upon them is to invite death unless one lies flat, face to the earth, in humble respect.

For Native Hawaiians, these are not ghosts to fear, but ancestors to honor. Their presence affirms that the spiritual realm is alive, that mana—the sacred power of life and lineage—still courses through the islands.

By the time waves of immigrant laborers arrived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Hawaii had already been colonized—its monarchy overthrown, its land seized, and its language suppressed.

The immigrants came to work the sugarcane and pineapple fields, living in plantation barracks that cut across the ancient footpaths of aliʻi and warriors. They brought with them their own spiritual traditions and stories—Filipino tales of aswang and white ladies, Japanese yūrei, Chinese ancestral spirits, and Portuguese folk saints.

In those dark, humid nights when the wind swept through the canefields and the torches of laborers flickered in the distance, people spoke softly of what they felt. The rustle of grass, the echo of footsteps, or the sound of drums from the mountains—these experiences were not dismissed.

The people of the plantations and the people of the land shared an understanding: some spirits walk because they must, and the land holds their paths. The living coexist with those who came before.

Stories from Waipahu to Waialua, from Schofield Barracks to Kaneohe, tell of nights when workers or soldiers froze in place, hearing drums far away, or seeing torchlight wind down an invisible path. Filipino and Japanese workers would whisper prayers of their own while following the Hawaiian practice of lying low in reverence, allowing the march to pass untouched.

Over generations, these shared moments of awe became woven into Hawaii’s collective identity—a common respect for what is unseen, for the presence that moves through the night.

For immigrants living on colonized land, the Night Marchers became a reminder that before sugar, before the American flag, before the English tongue, this was sacred ground. They are Hawaii asserting itself—its history refusing to vanish, even as the modern world paved over temples, fields, and footpaths.

My brother and I have walked along some of the trails where people have said the Night Marchers still travel. These hikes are quiet and meditative, acts of reverence more than adventure. One of these places is Kaena Point, the rugged northwestern tip of Oahu, where the land narrows into sharp cliffs that reach toward the endless Pacific. It is said that from this point, spirits leap into the next world.

Kaena Point is known in Hawaiian tradition as Leina a ka ʻUhane—“the leaping place of souls.” In old belief, it is where the spirits of the dead depart from this world, joining the ancestors across the ocean in Pō, the realm of the afterlife. Standing there, the air feels charged. The sea crashes against the rocks with a rhythm that feels ancient, and the wind seems to speak. It is a place that asks for silence.

When my brother and I stood at Kaena Point, we felt the hum of something beyond description—the same presence our ancestors and elders once spoke of. The stories we heard growing up, passed through the generations of families who worked the plantations and built homes across the island, seemed to come alive. We were not just walking in nature. We were walking a corridor of memory, a living intersection of Hawaiian, Filipino, Chinese, Japanese, and Portuguese heritage, all carried on the same wind.

Today, people still tell of nights when torchlight appears along ridges or when the deep beat of drums rolls through the dark. Yet the Night Marchers are not merely spirits of fear—they are keepers of memory. Their presence reminds us that Hawaii’s land is not only beautiful but conscious, alive with the echoes of those who shaped it long before colonization and immigration transformed it.

The Night Marchers are Hawaii’s conscience. They ask the living to remember: Who walked here before you? What stories lie beneath your feet?

In that way, Hawaii’s ghost stories are not about terror at all. They are about reverence. They are about connection—between the living and the dead, between the colonized and the colonizer, between what was lost and what endures. On those nights when the ocean wind carries a rhythm that feels older than time, one can almost sense the procession passing by still—steady, solemn, and eternal.

For me, as a Filipino raised among the echoes of these islands, the Night Marchers are not only a legend of Hawaii but a mirror of our own story. Our ancestors, too, knew the ache of being uprooted, the struggle of faith carried into foreign fields. The Filipinos who came to Hawaii in the early 1900s brought their prayers, their food, their laughter, and their ghosts. They found themselves on land already wounded by colonization, and yet profoundly sacred—land that insisted on being remembered.

In that shared space, something beautiful happened. Filipino families, like those from Japan, China, and Portugal, came to honor the Hawaiian spirits as kin. In the plantation barracks, stories of the Night Marchers were told with the same reverence as stories of saints and ancestors back home. Over time, these stories became a bridge—linking the memory of the islands before conquest with the hopes of those who had just arrived to toil under its sun.

When I think of the Night Marchers now, I think of my great-grandparents who left Ilocos to work Hawaii’s plantations, and of the Native Hawaiians whose sacred trails they unknowingly crossed. I think of the quiet dignity that both peoples carried, even when the world around them treated them as expendable. The Night Marchers are not just Hawaii’s ghosts—they are the living embodiment of continuity, of the deep human need to honor the past while surviving the present.

So when I stand at Kaena Point, feeling the salt wind sting my face and the sea’s roar drown all words, I sense them all—the Hawaiian warriors, the immigrant laborers, the ancestors who crossed oceans of faith and fear. They walk together now, not in battle but in memory. And in the rhythm of their unseen drums, I hear what the land has always said to those willing to listen: We are still here. We always will be.

Every time I return home and stand at the edge of Kaena Point, I feel that same pull—the wind brushing against my skin like a whisper that says, remember. The horizon stretches beyond what the eyes can hold, but the soul knows what lies there: a crossing, a leaping place, a return.

The Night Marchers do not belong to a single people or a single legend. They are the heartbeat of Hawaii itself—the sound of footsteps that refuse to fade. For those of us who came after, descendants of immigrants who labored under the island sun, we carry those footsteps within us. They are the pulse of the land we now call home.

If you listen long enough, you will hear them too—the steady rhythm rising and falling like a tide. Not haunting, but calling.

Not warning, but remembering.

Not ghosts, but guardians.

And on the nights when the ocean wind moves through the valleys and the torches flicker unseen, I whisper a quiet aloha into the dark—not out of fear, but out of gratitude.

Because Hawaii, even in its silence, still speaks.

And the spirits still march.