Like Witte’s neighborhood, Moth Oddities’s volunteer effort has roles—the vintage store isn’t delivering goods directly as organizers fear being tracked by ICE could put others in danger. Instead, they’re coordinating with local schools, churches, and agencies to ensure safe distribution. “I know people who are community drivers,” Witte explained, “and they don’t use their phones. All the drivers have paper maps to avoid surveillance.”
Across town, Queenie & Pearl in southwest Minneapolis has repurposed the orange bus the vintage shop typically uses for their sourcing road trips, partnering with Twin Cities Food Justice to collect and deliver food, diapers, hygiene items, and other essentials to a centralized warehouse where they can be distributed to meet immediate community needs.
“We are finding ways to be the helpers that Mr. Rogers told us to look for when we were children,” Lisa Banwell, owner of Queenie & Pearl wrote to “Pre-Loved.” “We will continue to do so for as long as it takes.”
Courtesy of Lisa Banwell
At Audrey Rose Vintage, Witte has raised close to $2,000 in mutual aid, with most of it already re-distributed. When people reach out about families in need, her response is direct: “‘How much money do you need?’ That’s what mutual aid is supposed to be like,” she says, “No questions asked.”
On January 24, 37-year-old Alex Pretti was shot and killed by a federal agent near 26th Street and Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis. Two nearby resale shops, b. Resale and Bro Bros Closet, have since become community hubs and donation sites near this memorial site. Audrey Rose Vintage continues to raise mutual-aid funds. As of January 26, the Moth Oddities team was still fielding supplies. “We’re working on creating a sustainable system for donations,” Moran said. “With the first rush of donations, we were able to feed families through 16 schools, and countless neighbors.”
This transformation of vintage stores into mutual aid centers reflects the unique role local shops play in neighborhood ecosystems. “We’re intrinsically tied to our immediate neighborhood,” Witte said. “Our own mini-epicenters, we’re all active on social media, talking to our neighbors, talking to people who randomly walk in. So we have a built-in infrastructure, and an ability to tap people into community.”
Recently, Witte’s mother had a friend in Madison whose children moved to Minneapolis—young people who hadn’t experienced the protests in 2020—her mom knew exactly where to send them: “I told them to just go to your shop. You’ll tell them what’s up.”
As she mentally prepares for what will be a long struggle to remove ICE from Minneapolis, Witte reflects out loud. “It sounds so crazy, but I hope we can be an example,” she says. “We’ve been mobilized before.” And as ICE enforcement intensifies and spreads, her message to other communities is straightforward, but urgent: build these networks before you need them.
“Know your neighbor’s phone number, know everyone on your block’s phone number,” she says. “I don’t care if you like them or not, you could depend on them. They could depend on you.”
And remember that in community organizing, sustainability of efforts is critical. There are many valid ways to contribute. “If a neighbor asks for assistance at the kids’ bus stop one day, I’m like, ‘Sure I’ll go stand outside’,” Witte said. “It’s just that basic.”
“This is a marathon,” she adds. “There really is a role for everyone.”


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