I’ve asked one of my humans to write this letter for me, as writing is a challenge–me being an SUV and all. After what happened in the Oval Office on December 4, my humans wanted me to tell you they’ll “never buy another Ford!” But I just wanted to ask you, CEO Jim Farley…
“The Somalians should be out of here. They have destroyed our country.”
Or this:
“Most of those people” — meaning the Somali immigrants — “have destroyed Minnesota” and made it a “hellhole.”
Or this, about a woman who moved all the way to America from across the sea, got so much education and respect that she was elected by other Americans to represent them in their Congress:
Congresswoman Ilhan Omar “shouldn’t be allowed to be a congresswoman…and she should be thrown the hell out of our country.”
Omar “should not be — and her friends shouldn’t be allowed — frankly, they shouldn’t even be allowed to be congresspeople, okay? They shouldn’t even be allowed to be congresspeople because they don’t represent the interests of our country.”
You were right there, CEO Jim Farley of Ford Motor Company, MY company. My humans saw your picture. You are #14–not real visible in this shot, but don’t worry: it’s you.You were all nodding and laughing as the President said horrible, dangerous things about his fellow American humans. Things that could get them attacked–maybe even run into by SUVs like me. You should know that, Mr. Jim Farley.
(Picture ID’s by “Carlg1000” on BlueSky, as shared by Helen Kennedy on BlueSky)
You should have spoken up, Mr. Jim Farley. Said SOMETHING. You’re not an elected official. You’re a guy who makes cars. But you you just laughed and nodded away.
So you agree with the President, Mr. Jim Farley, CEO of Ford? You think Somali immigrants are “garbage”?
Do you have the guts to admit that to all the people who drive Fords like me?
Or do you just hope Ford drivers like my humans don’t notice?
[Note from Ol’ Blue’s human, Gretchen: Please share this photo as widely as possible. And if you have any connection to any of the other humans shown here cheerfully standing by for the President’s evil, racist rant–if they are your representative!–PLEASE call them on it. Literally.]
[As Joyce Vance says, “We’re all in this together.”]
This was my birthday present to myself, fresh from my Virginia-canvassing-and-family trip, and amped up–only a week later–by democracy’s powerful showing in the November 4 elections.
Notice I didn’t say Democrats (though they did well, and I’m glad). Nine months in to this presidency, people on all sides of politics–including no politics at all!–are starting to coalesce around the basic idea that things should work. And democracy, as Churchill famously said in 1947, is “the worst form of Government…except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…” [ellipses added for emphasis]
In other words, for things to work (fairness, food, airplanes–that sorta thing), we need democracy. And when you look at election results more focused on immediate outcome than on party, here are some promising signs:
Maine anti-mail voting measure loses
Progressive DAs in Philly and NYC win
Colorado funds free school meals and SNAP support with taxes on the rich
Detroit elects first woman mayor
Cincinnati rejects JD Vance’s brother after endorsement
GOP Redistricting in Kansas failed
Charlotte approves transit tax
Maine passes gun control
Turnout in blue district US House election in Texas higher than 2024 Pres (thanks to Common Power for this compilation)
See what I mean? I have a lot of company in thinking, the IDEA of democracy is having a moment right now. And for democracy to work, we need all hands on deck.
“Wait a minute,” I can hear you saying. “I loathe phone-banking, and I’m donating all I can to things like food banks and my church. And now you want me to do take on ‘democracy’ too? I am SO not that person.”
Au contraire. I maintain that if you are looking out for vulnerable people; if you are protecting green spaces or animals; if you are reading to kids, or making art to share, or donating to organizations that multiply those values, you ARE a democracy standard-bearer.
I mean–don’t forget (or underestimate!) voting! Do all you can to keep your loved ones from feeling that voting’s not worth it. Point them to this book if they need a little inspiration…
I’m giving this book to everyone who’ll take it!
On my walk today I stopped to make a roadside bouquet. November in Washington State = pretty limited wildflowers. But the low-rent, multicolor assemblage I collected reminded me, there’s so many ways to be a flower!
You can be bright, demure, prickly, robust, delicate, complex or simple–and you can still call it democracy. Just do SOMETHING, keep doing it, and keep talking about it.
As Joyce Vance says, we’re in this together. And as Gretchen Wing says, “For things to work, we need democracy.”
What are some of your ways of participating? Anything new, anything especially challenging or rewarding, or both? Please share as many as you feel like.
Not that Joyce. Nothing against Dubliners or Ulysses; I just don’t think they’ll help get you through another week of our current presidency. I mean Joyce Vance, author of this book that was waiting for me, hot off its October 21st release, when I got home from my canvassing trip this week:
Mine’s autographed! 🙂
To judge a book by its cover, this one looks boring. To me, though, it looks like mental health. I thought I’d take a minute to explain why.
In 2022 and 2024, I canvassed in my home State of North Carolina, where my folks still live. This year Virginia has some important elections, so I went there (visits to sister & niece a bonus).
Part of Team Fredericksburg on the canvass trail
Between doors (we knocked on about 2,000 during the days I participated in Fredericksburg, then Richmond), I split my awe between the lovely big deciduous trees of the east…
O oaks, how do I miss thee!
…and creative Halloween decorations.
(sometimes both!)
But the best part of CP work, to me, isn’t actually the conversations on voters’ doorsteps (though those can be quite moving). It’s the TEAMWORK, the FELLOWSHIP.
especially at a dumpling restaurant at the end of a long day
Which brings me back to Joyce’s book, whose opening line is, “Could I have picked a worse time to write a book about saving democracy?”
My answer is: no, this is EXACTLY the right time. Because now more than ever, we need to know we “have friends everywhere” (as they say on Andor), and we need to get our hands on some how-to.
However, if podcasts are what your life has room for, Joyce is all over that landscape. I first discovered her via Substack, where her Civil Discourse unpacks the week’s latest legal WTF?!! as only a former U.S. Attorney (and current law professor) can. Each post ends with, “We’re all in this together.”
Or you might just as easily find her on the brilliant panel-pod, Sisters in Law…
While I’m only halfway through Vance’s book, I’m happy to report that the final chapter–titled We Are the Cavalry–is chock-full of options for resistance, participation, finding community, pointing yourself towards hope…or, as one heading puts it, “Understand That Protecting Democracy Comes in a Lot of Flavors.” (146)
This is Fredericksburg’s Rappahannock River at sunset. Not a flavor; it just looks like one, eh?
In this moment when the bad guys want us to despair and give up, Vance offers this uplifting reminder:
“Although we may be on our own, we are not all alone. We truly are in this together. We have one another, a community of like-minded people across the country who care about democracy. That may seem to be a slender thread, but it’s how we, like others who have faced similar challenges in the past, are going to get through this.
So, gather your resources and take courage.” (138)
Joyce’s chickens also make appearances on her Substack, so I’ll close with this:
[photo by Joyce Vance]
Do yourself a favor: Read Joyce. [Support her by clicking here to buy her book!] You will feel empowered–because, as she says, we’re all in this together.
“Throwing shade” on someone is bad. So is calling something “shady.”
But in July in Alabama, the shade is where you want to be.
Once my Amazing Mom had finished her track meet and we’d all gone out to brunch (at Waffle House, where else?), the five of us–me, parents, sister, brother-in-law–found ourselves with several hours of free time before their flight back to North Carolina, and nowhere in Huntsville’s 95-degree humidity that we wanted to be.
We’d already gone to see the big rockets. The local botanical garden looked pretty online, but most of its pathways were out in full sun. No thanks.
Then my sister found us Monte Sano State Park–a little mountain just outside downtown Huntsville.
complete with Japanese tea house!
There’s nothing like a mature hardwood forest for real shade, and this one was up a thousand feet or so–easily 10 degrees cooler than town. The park even boasted those wonderful New Deal-era CCC cabins The Mate and I always loved to discover on our Road Trips.
Not pictured: all the birdsong in these woods
We strolled; we lingered. We sweated a LOT less than we would have, anywhere else in Alabama that day…
…some of us stretched our hamstrings…
…thanks to the shade.
Mid-afternoon, well satisfied, I dropped my fam off at the Huntsville airport and continued on an errand of my own. Yes, I could have booked my flight from there, but the connection via Birmingham worked better for me. And Birmingham carries a weight of history that I wanted to feel again.
Except it was Sunday: all museums closed. So I made another plan. I decided to take a 90-minute detour through the small town of Anniston, where I knew the Freedom Riders Memorial would still be accessible, Sunday or no.
Not pictured: the beautiful, green, rolling lushness of the Alabama hills I drove through alone, wishing I could take photos with my eyes.
Also not pictured: the Sisters in Law podcast I was listening to, in honor of Professor Joyce Vance, my favorite legal explainer, who lives and teaches in Birmingham. (Click her name to follow her “Civil Discourse” Substack!)
My first view of Anniston reminded me of the narration in To Kill a Mockingbird: “an old town…a tired old town.”
Hopefully the emptiness was mostly due to it being Sunday…but I wasn’t so sure.
The memorial was tucked into an inconsequential alley, next to what had once been the bus station.
Note my giant rental car parked across the street.
Inside the alley, the exhibit came to life.
Each panel of the bus explained the events leading up to that spring day in 1961. I read them all, but for purposes of brevity, didn’t include the whole background to the event, which you can read about here.
I’ll let the panels speak for themselves, assuming you can expand them on your device.
Did I learn anything new from this exhibit? Only the small fact that the actual firebombing of the bus had occurred a few miles outside of town–after the local cops made the KKK mob let the bus leave, only to abandon driver and passengers to their fate as the KKK followed.
They had already slashed the bus’s tires. They knew it wouldn’t get far.
I still can’t comprehend how no one died that day.
But what I DID get from standing in that (shady) alley: chills. Thinking of the bravery of those young volunteers, Black and white, sitting in that Greyhound as the mob surrounded them. Yes, they were all well trained. Yes, they knew what they were signing up for, what they were up against.
(Photo courtesy Wikimedia)
But who, in the moment, is really ready to die by violence?
I drove off into the Alabama evening, shaken by its past…and by the shade that past still casts on our present.
I needed a walk in the woods.
Such beauty. Such peace. Such irony in these Iron Hills.
I want to thank the foot soldiers of the Movement, and the people who keep their story alive. We’re going to need all your grit in the shady days ahead.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”
I know–Quakely isn’t a word, but it fits the Paul Simon reference better than the actual word, which is Quakerly. Which is what My Sister The School is.
I can’t possibly capture the entire, joyous 3-day anniversary celebration in one blog post, and I won’t try. What I do want to capture, briefly: how true that rag-tag ol’ Quaker school, started 60 years ago by 6 people (two of them my parents) in order to prove to the State of North Carolina that yes, people of all colors and backgrounds could learn and grow together with more happiness and grace than those who were separated by race…
My folks–Peter & Martha Klopfer, in the middle–kicking off a Founders’ Panel with some quiet “settling in”
…that school abides, true to its roots.If you don’t know what I mean by “roots,” take another look at that panel of 4 folks up there. Longtime influential Principal Don Wells (left) and longtime influential teacher Thomas Patterson (right) are dressed as one might expect from panelists, as is my mom. But Dad? He’s dressed for a track workout. Because that’s just who he is. And the school is what it is.
This creek separates Middle School from Upper. And I was overjoyed to see it still hold balls and frisbees, just as it did back in the early 1970s.
Like a number of my fellow “oldies,” I’d worried, in recent years, that CFS was getting too big for its britches. It has sports teams now–with uniforms and everything! And tennis courts. And a performing arts center. At our humble old school?
But throughout my weekend, spending days with decades-old friends and going back to my folks’ farm across the pond every night, I rejoiced in the hanging-in-there-ness of the whole place.
Like Raj, the Last Equine Standing at my folks’ Tierreich Farm…(which will one day go to the school)…
Age 37! And he can still canter!!
…and my dad, who uses the golf cart to get to his walking workout at the new CFS track, but makes his dog get her workout on the way there (just as me & my sisters used to get ours–OK, minus the leash!)…
Good girl. Good boy.
…and Mom, still getting hers by running, at age ALMOST-90!
You’ve outrun me, Mom. I had to give up running for my knees 6 years ago!
Quakers don’t tend to live by tenets, but if they did, #1 would be Simplicity. What you see is what you get. But keep striving for truth, which is constantly revealed. Don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t assume you have it all sewn up because you’ve operated successfully for 60 year. Sit down, be quiet, listen…
These are (mountain) laurels. Don’t rest on them. But do smell them & take their picture!
…and who knows? You might age as gracefully and thoughtfully as my sister the school. That’s what I’m aiming for!
Next up on Wing’s World: New England and New Scotland (Nova Scotia)!Thanks for ridin’ along.
I read the article (by Ava Ronning, reprinted from The Skagit Valley Herald). And I had to go see it for myself.
Overwhelming. And that’s only at first glance.
The museum itself is housed in a breathtaking old dwelling on a hill overlooking the Swinomish Channel. I was so excited about the exhibit I forgot to photograph the museum, so here’s a shot I stole from their website:
Photo by Wendell Hendershott
The dress occupies one small room…and I mean occupies. It fills the space, drawing you in to examine every fold, every flounce.
The border is the only part embroidered by machine, commissioned by the dress’s creator
And that’s before you watch the video in the next room, which unpacks the dress’s stories (in part–there are too many for a 12-minute video). That’s where I learned that the white doves on this panel, sewn by survivors of the Kosovo war, represent their longing for peace.
Notice the contrast with the colorful images from (I think) Rwanda. Two communities of survivors, side by side on the dress: white and color; same medium, same message.
The Red Dress Project began with UK artist Kirstie MacLeod, as the website says, “as a sketch on the back of a napkin in 2009.” Since then, it “has grown into a global collaborative project involving and connecting with thousands of people all over the world.”
Through the video, I learned the story of this small piece from an artisan in Colombia. She started with traditional symbols–hibiscus, toucán–but after being shaken by a bombing in Bogotá, she added this word in English:
She could have written “esperanza,” but she preferred to make her message more universal.
The same word appears in a section from…somewhere else in the world:
The video didn’t say where. But how many places it could be from!
The website tells you right off how many women have been involved in its creation: 380. From 51 countries. If you dig around on the site, you will also learn that the dress weighs 6.8 kilos–that’s just under 15 pounds. (I actually thought it might be heavier–there are beads stitched on there!)
like this bit from India
The website goes on to explain,
Initially the project sought to generate a dialogue of identity through embroidery, uniting people around the world across borders and boundaries. However, over the 14 years it was created, The Red Dress also become a platform for self-expression and an opportunity for, often marginalised, voices to be amplified and heard, initiating vital dialogues on important and frequently uncomfortable issues.
A panel from Chiapas, Mexico. This section of the video was one of the most moving.
The website estimates the number of stitches in the dress from one to 1.5 billion. It reports: “Some of the artisans are rebuilding their lives with the help of embroidery, using their skills or being trained in embroidery to earn a consistent living to support themselves and their communities.”
In other words, these women are paid for their work. From the video, I learned that 50 Bedouin women had been able to achieve financial independence from the embroidery work the Red Dress Project engendered.
This one’s from Japan, not Egypt. I didn’t learn its story.
The most heartening part of the video is where creator Macleod explains, “The importance has shifted from the dress as an art piece to the creators of the dress.” One country at a time, she is traveling with the dress to allow each embroiderer to see (and in some cases wear!) the entire dress, in most cases for the first time. Seeing that wonder on the face of the 19 year-old artisan in Mexico choked me up.
Macleod herself stitched the web on the back of the bodice, representing connection.
Speaking of choking up: this image from Ukraine: their national colors expressed in a flower:
May it be so
Only after leaving the exhibit did it occur to me to consider the word “redress”: it means, “to remedy or set right (an undesirable or unfair situation).” As Kirstie Macleod says, in the video, “The voices of the women are just crying out to be heard.”
And in an era of increasing division, borders, walls, aggression and suspicion, this dress is a community object “without prejudice, without boundaries, without borders…”
So many stories to absorb. So much solidarity to learn from.
So, you want to see the dress yourself? Here’s how.
According to the website, after its La Conner visit (La Conner! Not Los Angeles! That still blows me away), the dress will travel back to the UK, and thence to Asia and Australia.
modest little La Conner, and the Swinomish Reservation on the opposite side of the channel
So unless you can go to those places, here’s what I recommend. Go to the website. Watch the video (under “Media”). Then use their really cool Digital Red Dress tool for a DIY tour: https://reddressembroidery.com/DIGITAL-RED-DRESS
If you’re really bold and/or inspired, Ms. Macleod invites you to reach out to her directly: “Kirstie is able to offer events and presentations with/without the Red Dress tailored to your group/community. Please email her for more info on: reddressembroidery@gmail.com”
That wonderful museum in La Conner is also showing a breathtaking exhibit of bird quilts. I was going to append some of those photos to this post, but you know what? The Dress and the birds deserve their own space. So I’ll save the birds for later.
Go see The Red Dress, in whatever medium you can. And then tell me your favorite part about the experience, eh? It’s all about that web.
My Quaker Meeting meets in the best space ever: a goat dairy.
…where, in the spring, after Meeting, you sometimes get to do this
A dairy is a farm, so of course Sunnyfield has barn cats. One of them, Basil, decided to join us this morning in our nice, warm yurt, for an hour of silence. (Or, for Basil: cuddles.)
Let me repeat: Basil is a barn cat. He’s supposed to be out in the barn catching mice, not sitting on nice, warm, indoor Quaker laps.
And Basil knows this. Oh, he knows! Just look how firmly he’s anchored to this lap–even with his tail!
Since when do cats have prehensile tails? (photo by Kirm Taylor)
For the first 10 minutes, as Basil’s contended purring dominated our silence, I found myself meditating on the power of comfort, the lure of bliss.
What, I asked myself, are my own versions of purring? Me slipping into a hot tub. Me lying down on the couch with a fat novel in an empty house. Me fitting an entire chunk of sushi into my mouth.Me on a mountain, contemplating more mountains.
prrrrrrrr….. (photo by Allison Snow)
But 10 minutes in, one of our group, who happens to also co-own that goat dairy, came in and spotted Basil. Quick as a wink, she deported him back to mousing duty, outdoors.
So I spent a good portion of the rest of that quiet hour thinking about it means to choose comfort over cold, hard service. I know myself well enough to know that I need BOTH. Around this time, I probably lean a bit more toward the purring-on-laps parts of my life.
But I also welcome the fresh air of personal, artistic, and political challenge when it comes. I’m not ASKING to be sent out to the barn, understand. But when someone sends me, I’ll get back out there with my tail high.
I came to Pitt County, in eastern North Carolina, to ask questions of folks who hadn’t yet voted.
Specifically: Greenville, where the Tar River meanders, in no hurry to be anywhere
“What are the top issues on your mind and heart, heading into this election? Tell me more about that.”
“Do you agree that the economy works better when everyone has access to opportunity?”
“Have you heard of Josh Stein? He’s running for governor.”
In four days of canvassing, I had probably 75 doorstep conversations: most short; some dispiriting, more uplifting. But in the process, I came to feel that my home state was actually canvassing me…ringing my doorbell, asking me these questions.
“What does it mean to be from a place?”
“How much of a Southerner are you, really?”
A: enough of a Southerner to recognize cotton; not enough of one to realize how much grows in my home state!
I combined this canvassing trip to NC with visiting my parents and my three high school besties, in Durham—the wealthier, more educated center of the state. But once I said goodbye to my dear ones, I was 100% in the zone with my blue-state teammates from Common Power (if you want to get involved w/ them yourself, now’s the time! Click here) in flat, cotton-fielded Greenville—a place as new to me as it was to my non-Southern team.
Seriously: was all that cotton here all this time? How come I never noticed it while driving to the beach in the 1970s? Answer: I probably didn’t recognize it w/o the white fluffy stuff.
Common Power’s model is to team with local organizations and become their worker bees. Our org was Advance Carolina,
…and our liaison was Ms. Danisha.
…or you can just call her Ms. Powerhouse
We rotated carloads of door-knocking teams each day. Here’s mine from my second day, taking our lunch break:
The guy who offered to take our picture cheerfully told us he didn’t think a woman was able to lead the country. Sigh.
Even though we were talking mostly to registered Democrats, we ran into some bummers. Bummer #1: Donald Trump came to town, to rally at Eastern Carolina U.
His merch tables were all over town.
Those folks sure like their merch!
Bummer #2: young Black men who told us, A) I don’t believe voting matters; B) God’s in charge anyhow, so whatever happens will be His will; C) some combination of A & B (which I personally took to mean, C): I don’t wanna vote for a woman, I just don’t want to say so).
Some neighborhoods were less well-to-do…
But after a day or so, I got good at turning those interactions into real conversations–by pushing back a little, with humor; by asking more questions; by remembering the mantra “Every conversation an invitation.” And every one of those men hung out and talked with me, so open, so friendly…like we were visitin’ on their front steps.
Because of those conversations, I’m 100% sure I “moved the needle” a little with at least one male voter per day. Multiply that by the # of volunteers out there, and there’s our “margin of effort”: the thing that will make the difference in this election.
…while other neighborhoods were much wealthier. I enjoyed the contrast between these houses with those ol’ cotton fields right behind them. Black families live in these homes.
When Team NC packed up and left, I volunteered to stay an extra day and a half to make up for joining late (because of my family/friends visit). And that’s when the tables turned a little.
Advance Carolina sent me even further east, to Bertie County, a place I knew only because I’ve ordered raw peanuts from this place:
There, in the tiny town of Windsor, I was supposed to be a poll watcher, not a canvasser. Only problem: there was nothing to watch.
In fact, I had a good long wait before we even went to the polling place…so I took myself for a walk along their cool swamp boardwalk.
More learning: this is a Tupelo tree! I never knew that’s where the word came from (remember: Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi).
Then, when we finally got to the polls, it was just a bunch of folks sittin’ and visitin’. No scary MAGA pickup trucks circling the block. Locals of both races were greeted, most by name, as they arrived, and thanked for voting as they left.
[not pictured: the polling place; I didn’t care to violate folks’ privacy. But imagine the shade of a nice, big magnolia tree.]
a sentiment most eastern Carolinians would probably agree with, MAGA or not
Me? I was as useful as a fly on the wall. At first I was frustrated. I drove all this way to get WORK done! I could be out there pounding the pavement, chalking up more doors! What a waste of time! Etc.
But as I drove back to Greenville, I considered: those folks were modeling exactly what I had found to be the most effective political work. They were visitin’. Telling stories. Asking how so-and-so was doing. Teasing, laughing. Doing community.
What’s your all-fired hurry? the Bertie County folks seemed to be asking (not that they were paying me any attention). What’s with all the checklists & efficiency? Can’t you see this is how we’ve survived all these decades, here of all places?
Photo from the NC/VA border, ca. 1970 (courtesy musicmaker.org)
Ten years ago, after driving across the country to NC, I wrote a song about my complicated relationship with the South. Most of the lyrics are on the dark side:
Gone to Carolina in my mind, but my heart’s gone mute
One look at a poplar tree and I’m thinking of strange fruit.
This red clay was my stompin’ ground—hardly a boast
When every cotton field is haunted by sharecropper ghosts.
Chorus:
Yeah, it’s another song about the South, y’all,
Just trying to sort my feelings out once and for all.
How can someone feel so in and out of place?
That sweet sunny south where I first saw the light,
If she’s my ol’ mama, I’m a teenager in flight.
Do I want to hug her neck…or slap her face?
big cypress dressed in flounces of poison ivy
But now, as I head home to my blue state, filled with new thoughts about my old red—no, purple!—one, this verse feels more appropriate:
The woods are thick with poison ivy and trumpet vine
More tangled up and twisted than this loyalty of mine
For a countryside that’s suffered more hardship per square mile
Than any place I know—sucked up with sweet tea and a smile.
I still doubt Kamala Harris will win North Carolina, even after all the efforts made here. But I do think she will be elected. And if that happens, I’m going to summon all my powers of visitin’ to help get us through the next steps.
This sign’s in Durham, not Pitt County, not Bertie. But we’re getting there!
For the past couple of weeks on this beautiful island where I get to live, I’ve been enjoying the appearance of some rambunctious fellow inhabitants.
Foot included for scale. If this is a Fairy Ring, those must be some hefty fairies!
I would call them visitors, but it’s obvious that these Short-Stemmed Rusula have been here all along…at least in spore form. Underground. Waiting…for some signal inaudible to the rest of us, which must have been given—suddenly, urgently—about three weeks ago.
Come on up, the air’s fine!
I’ve been walking these trails for fourteen years now. Mushroom seasons come and go, but I’ve never seen anything like these: so many, so huge, so close together.
Hahaha, the forest is ours!!
These shroomy monsters come bursting through the crust of the soil full-sized—no cute babies that you get to watch grow or unfurl. And in their thrust, anything on top simply gets lifted: soil, rocks, even good-sized tree trunks.
Like this.
Which, of course, sets my brain along its favorite metaphorical paths.
Next week, I am heading to my home state of North Carolina to join a host of volunteer canvassers already spread out around the country. They—we—knock on doors, talk to folks, try to energize them to vote and help them over any voting obstacles they might face. Sure, we’d prefer them to vote like us, but the real goal is democratic participation, which is…
But my point here is how much CP is suddenly needing to act like the mycelia beneath those mammoth mushrooms: it’s calling for heavy lifting.
You mean like this? Oof.
See, before, when I canvassed in 2022, we knocked on “friendly” doors: registered Democrats. People whose only beef with us, if they had any, would be that they’re tired of being nagged, or maybe we woke up the baby when we knocked.
But these days, given the potential suddenly presented by the 1-2 combo of 1) Trump-fatigue (or outright revulsion) among traditional Republicans (especially women) and 2) the big-tent welcome of the Harris-Walz ticket (hey, they own guns!)…these days, I say, CP is being asked by its on-the-ground state partners to knock on doors of registered Republicans. Even homes with Maga flags out front.
Which means my time in NC might be more challenging than I was expecting. (See previous photo)
The other day I attended a training for folks like me, headed into the field. A handful of volunteers fresh from the white suburbs of Philadelphia and some even-whiter counties in Montana had this to say:
“This is about talking to people. We’re all Americans. We have to start there.”
“Every conversation an invitation.”
“After you knock—listen more than you talk.”
“Folks are looking for any excuse to vote for a person whose character they respect.”
They cited example after example of folks who might have appeared “hostile,” based on their yard signs or their vehicles, actually opening up and talking.* Maybe not agreeing to vote for Harris/Walz, but finding common ground on a certain issue with a down-ballot candidate.
*[Sometimes, if a woman answered the door, these volunteers said, she might murmur, “Come back when my husband’s not here.”]
I thought: wow.
That’s a lift I can handle!
I also thought, Not only is this good canvassing advice, this is good human being advice. This is the kind of human I want to be–able to knock on any door and hold a conversation with almost anyone. (Note the “almost”: folks who are outright hateful to your face? Nope. See ya.)
I don’t know where those mushrooms get their power. But I do know that when I head on out there next week, I’ll be using those volunteers’ advice as my own heavy-lifting mojo. Every conversation an invitation.
The other night I woke from a vivid dream about Keith Siegel.
Keith graduated two years ahead of me from Carolina Friends School, in Durham, NC–my sister’s class, 1977. Even at such a tiny school, we didn’t hang out. Except for the occasional fragment of nostalgia, I hadn’t heard his name since then.
Shocked into action by this connection, I immediately wrote the White House and my Senators, begging them to keep the pressure on Israel to negotiate a cease-fire in Gaza that would bring the hostages home AND stop the wholesale slaughter of Palestinian innocents.
Then I forgot about the hostages again, for long stretches. I certainly wasn’t dreaming about them.
Photo from The Atlantic, submitted by Aviva Siegel
Then, a few days ago, my sister (the one in Keith’s CFS class) sent me an article from The Atlantic. THAT’s what inspired the dream.
In “I Survived Hamas Captivity, but I’m Not Yet Free,” Keith’s wife Aviva Siegel writes:
The last time I saw my husband, Keith, was on November 26. He was lying on a filthy mattress on the floor of a darkened room and could barely look at me. We had spent 51 days together as Hamas’s hostages after being violently abducted from our home on October 7. I had been told earlier that day that my name was on the list; I was to be released and sent back home to Israel. Keith was to be left behind.
Keith, Aviva reminds us, “is an American citizen…born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina—also the hometown of James Taylor, his favorite singer.” (I remember him liking Jackson Browne too.) He’s a gentle man, she writes, someone who learned Arabic in order to communicate with Palestinians living across the nearby border. A vegetarian so committed he wouldn’t even eat a morsel of chicken in the little food provided by his captors. A peacemaker.
Yes, I thought. Sounds like a 1970s CFS grad, all right.
As I forced myself to read Aviva’s horrific descriptions of captivity–on a lovely, sunny day, heading to a farmstand to buy some flowers–I felt more and more surreal. “I think about Keith all the time,” Aviva writes,
…but I feel a particular pang whenever I drink water, when I take a shower, when I eat something delicious. As a hostage in Gaza, these are not things I could do. The most frustrating part is that I don’t know anything about Keith’s condition: Is he alone? (I’d love for someone to tell me that he’s not.) Is he sad, or crying? Is he in a tunnel with no oxygen? Is he sick or being tortured? Has he eaten any food at all today? Is he alive?
In my dream the other night, I think Keith was trying to answer his wife’s desperate questions. He was still captive, sad and weary, wearing a white T-shirt, but he was philosophical. Reassuring.
I woke up feeling I wasn’t doing enough. I read Aviva’s article again.
“Keeping the hostage issue at the top of people’s minds,” she writes, “is the only thing I can do.”
I’m asking the United States government not to give up on them. I’m asking Israel’s leaders to bring our hostages home. Don’t abandon them. Don’t let our loved ones be killed.
I wrote the White House again, and my two Senators. I don’t know what else to do, to stop this terrible war. Except not forget, not give up.Maybe we can all try not to give up on peace.
If I dream of Keith again, I want to be able to tell him we’re trying.
Wing's World 