From Silence to Solidarity: Inside Kingwood, Texas’ ICE Out For Good Rally
Voices from Kingwood, Texas, explain why the ICE killing of Rene Good forced a community to speak out.
Inside Kingwood, Texas’ ICE Out For Good Rally
I stood in Kingwood, Texas, listening as neighbors—young and old, longtime residents and first-time activists—spoke not from ideology, but from conscience. What unfolded at the “ICE Out For Good” rally was not performative outrage. It was moral clarity. People gathered almost overnight because silence had become impossible after the killing of Renee Nicole Good, a woman many described as an observer, a bystander, and above all, a human being whose life was taken by state violence.
Summary
The Kingwood rally revealed something powerful and deeply American: ordinary people refusing to normalize brutality carried out in their name. Speakers described fear, disbelief, anger, and sorrow—but also solidarity, resolve, and an unshakable insistence on accountability.
Community members rejected official narratives and relied on eyewitness accounts and video evidence.
Speakers framed the killing as state violence, not a tragic accident.
Many explicitly compared ICE tactics to authoritarian policing.
Participants emphasized cross-racial and cross-generational solidarity.
The rally centered on civic responsibility: vote, organize, and refuse to be silent.
This rally was not about optics. It was about drawing a line. When a community decides that human life matters more than institutional protection, democracy begins to reassert itself.
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The most striking thing about the “ICE Out For Good” rally in Kingwood, Texas, was not the anger, though anger was present. It was the clarity. Speaker after speaker described a moment of rupture, when what they saw on video could no longer be reconciled with what they were being told by authorities. A woman was shot. She posed no threat. And the state immediately began to explain it away.
That disconnect—between lived reality and official narrative—is where resistance often begins.
Several participants spoke about initially disbelieving the reports. They assumed the footage had to be fake. That instinct is telling. Americans are conditioned to believe that such acts belong to history books or foreign dictatorships, not suburban streets. Yet as one speaker put it, “This is the kind of thing we were told would never happen here—and now it is.”
What followed was not chaos but conscience. People organized a rally almost overnight. They came not to riot, but to bear witness. Teachers, parents, business owners, LGBTQ elders, young activists—all spoke of the same realization: unchecked power always escalates. Today, it is migrants. Tomorrow it is observers. Eventually, it is everyone.
A recurring theme throughout the rally was identifiability and accountability. Speakers demanded that armed agents who exercise lethal force must be visible, named, and subject to civilian oversight. Masked officers, unmarked units, and opaque investigations are hallmarks of authoritarian systems, not democratic ones.
Several participants explicitly rejected the idea that outrage should be selective. Some acknowledged their own privilege—white, middle-class, long-time residents—and used it as a reason to speak louder, not quieter. “If they can do this to her,” one speaker noted, “imagine what has already been happening to people without cameras.”
That insight matters. Data from organizations like the ACLU and Human Rights Watch have long shown that immigration enforcement operates with minimal transparency and high rates of abuse. Deaths in custody, denial of medical care, and aggressive tactics have been documented for years. What changed in this case was visibility—and visibility creates accountability pressure.
Another powerful moment came when speakers connected this violence to January 6th. They recalled law enforcement officers pleading “hold the line” as they defended democracy. The contrast was stark. How can the same system justify lethal force against civilians while claiming to protect constitutional order?
The rally did not descend into despair. Many speakers emphasized history’s cycles—and the role of civic engagement in bending those cycles back toward justice. Voting, organizing, and community-building were repeatedly named as acts of resistance. This was not nihilism. It was a democratic determination.
What Kingwood demonstrated is something political elites often miss: people do not radicalize solely because of ideology. They radicalize because reality contradicts the stories they are told. When institutions demand trust while refusing transparency, trust collapses.
The voices at this rally made one thing unmistakably clear. Democracy does not die only through coups or decrees. It erodes when violence becomes normalized, and accountability becomes optional. But it can also be revived—when neighbors stand together and say, collectively, this is not who we are.
Quote from Michael Moore: "Renee Nicole Good was a prize-winning poet from a red state. She was the widow of a veteran. She was also raising her kids to be kind and compassionate. She did missionary work and sang in the church choir." She was unarmed, and had just dropped off her child at school. This cannot stand.
Thank you for this, Egberto. I am no longer physically able to participate in something like this, but I applaud those who can and do. Your reporting is important. I appreciate you and what you do.