October's No King Day Protest

The news cycle is overwhelming. If you ask me why am I protesting on the best of days I couldn't articulate WHY. I just know I have to. I made a small two-sided sign that said: ALL PEOPLE ARE CREATED EQUAL and WE THE PEOPLE. 

In June on a rainy day in New Jersey, the No Kings protests were organized nationally. At the time the numbers varied from a couple of million to up to 13.14 million people marched. the consensus is there were FIVE MILLION participants. The rule of thumb is if 3.5% of the population protests, real change takes place. With a population of 342 million people, that number is 12 million.

Since then I have participated in other, smaller protests. Those did not unite behind a singular message. It is easy to march against one man taking all of the power. That is the reason our nation was formed.

Fast forward only a few months, but with a lifetime
of crises, another No Kings Day protest was organized. Early numbers are saying over EIGHT MILLION people turned out in over 2,700 protests in the United States. The protests spread internationally to Canada, Switzerland, Denmark, Australia, and places in-between.

On a perfect fall day, I went with my lifelong friend Sylvia and her son and daughter to a small protest in Hopewell, NJ. It was their first protest, but not likely their last. Locally there were also protests taking place in Trenton, Princeton (5,000), and Lambertville (2,800). Hopewell had between 1,000 and 1,500 people lined up on Broad Street near Sourlands Cycles. People I have spoken with agree the turnout was much larger this time, in part thanks to the gorgeous weather but also because the news is more dire.

People were encouraged to wear yellow and carry signs. Listening to Heather Cox Richardson's advice, I wore a costume -- in my case a Colonial dress I've had since Ashley and I reenacted together at Rockingham. I found a man kitted out similarly. I was happy with my outfit a woman handing out flags made the comment the MAGA crowd would also like my outfit. Suddenly I felt less charming. 

Words matter.

We lined up both sides of the road. Cars honked in support. Some going up and down the street again and again. Some waving signs. Some recording (usually the passenger, but also the driver). The police went up and down the street shouting at us to stay out of the street (I'll assume they were only try to keep us safe). Sometimes they went too fast through the crowd.

I only saw one "middle finger salute," one MAGA hat drive by us, and a few groans from drivers. No real trouble. Others drove by silently, either in disagreement or out of an abundance of caution, or because they didn't realize the crowd thrives on car honks to keep us engaged.

I was surprised to not recognize anyone. If Sylvia hadn't been with me, I would have walked up and down the sides looking more than once for friends. Later I saw pictures from people I know who were also there. It is nice being with like-minded people since the news is constantly pitting us against each other.

Overall, it felt safe. Suburban. Images I've seen of crowds in New York and other cities look uncomfortable.

An older woman compliment my friend's children (well, young adults) on coming out. She said she has been at this a LONG time and it is great seeing younger people. Eyeballing the event, ages seemed to range from toddler to people in their 80s and 90s. The crowd was mostly white, which fits the demographics of the town. Heather Cox Richardson emphasizes us older white people need to get out there to protect the people afraid of being swept into ICE raids.

I'm hearing while 22 MAGAs were arrested for trying to rile up protesters, not a single protester was arrested, nor were there indications of violence. The atmosphere at many events were like block parties with singing, dancing, and costumes. Change will happen.

My Facebook feed has been lighting up with pictures other friends took at their protests. 

I feel a little sad for people not protesting. We will get to the other side of this. I'll share stories of protesting with future generations. They'll either make up stories, or change the topic. Unless they engage AI services, they won't have photo proof they, too, were fighting for a better future.

Some pictures from the event:

Trenton Revolutionary Mile

I met Tom in July on my first Trenton Walking Club stroll through Trenton's Downtown district. Back then he announced he was creating a 1.55-mile run/walk event on October 16th called the Revolutionary Miler. I marked the date on my calendar, and joined their email list. I also started running with Tom and the Trenton Fit group on some Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Tom's plan was ambitious. He wanted 30 people to stand holding yellow umbrellas and signs identifying Trenton landmarks. At the last minute Debbi signed up to hold an umbrella, but where she was supposed to stand was not clear (okay, it was clear in Tom's head, but did not get conveyed clearly to Debbi). She was a good sport.

Bib pick up started at 4:30. The race started at 5:30 after a few speeches by local politicians, with runners going first, followed by the walkers. There were 60 runners, ranging from 10 minutes to 45 minutes. The price for runners and walkers was the same. We each received a $10 gift card to be used at a downtown establishment within the year. I don't know how many walkers.

Right away I spotted Debbi and Mike, then pastors Jeff and Karen. I saw Caroline and Breshen from Passage Theater (I signed up to be on team Passage). I also saw Micah and Jason from Trenton Fit, and of course, Tom. The weather was stunning -- in the 50s and sunny with a crisp blue sky. He truly lucked out in that regard.

We started on Warren. Went past Mill Hill Park, turning away from Passage Theater, up one block to return on E. State Street. Back on Warren we went up to the Battle Monument and came down the other side. We made a similar detour on the other side forming the shape of a sword. As the crowd was light, I returned to this picture often to make sure I was going in the right direction. I used it mostly after the race when I did the course in reverse to try to find the last participants. I'll suggest to Tom that next year he include a cyclist to keep an eye on the runners and walkers.

I slowed my pace and ran with Mayor Reed. When he complained about being out of shape, I invited him to join us on a Tuesday or Thursday evening run.

The crowds were the best I have seen in races. When I left the path to check on Debbi, they pointed me back in the right direction. They laughed when the wind took off my hat. They dispelled the rumor that Trenton is a scary place. 

Businesses stayed open later than usual in order to drum up some business.

Towards the end of the event I started talking to a man from Virginia. He is a furloughed federal worker who used to live in Trenton. We reminisced about the Trenton Half Marathon. He asked me if I remembered it, and I unzipped my jacket to show I was wearing my race shirt from 2017. Yes, I do miss that race. 

I felt in my element. I parked by the War Memorial and strolled to the start. After living in Mercer County for nearly 40 years, Trenton is finally starting to feel like home thanks to the Trenton Walking Club and Trenton Fit.

Dear New York...

About a decade ago Heidi turned me onto Humans of New York. She bought the book of that title and had it on a table in her home. I started following the organization on Facebook. The group featured a photograph of an ordinary person, with a small story about them. I've since learned the photographer/author is named Brandon Stanton.

Brandon has expanded his project to include "humans" from 40 other cities (and growing). For a while he featured individuals in an in-depth series that unfolded on Facebook much as the serial novels of the turn of the last century ... an enticing bite at a time until the full story unfurled. 

This month he unveiled his most ambitious project yet: a two-week public art display at New York City's Grand Central Station. Originally intending to use proceeds from his book "Humans of New York," he ended up using most of his savings to pay for the space and to compensate for their loss of advertising revenue. He took over the train station. He bought the rights to fill every inch of Grand Central Station with art. There is not an ad to be found. Using a grand piano and people affiliated with Julliard, he filled the main concourse with music.

The exhibition only runs from October 6-19.

I read in an article this is the largest public art exhibit since The Gates by Christo and Jeanne-Claude, the saffron-colored banners that flooded Central Park in 2005. I have long regretted not going into NYC to see them in person, and was thrilled with The Shed had an exhibit earlier this year reminiscing about it.

Don and I go into New York on a fairly regular basis, especially now that we are not working full time. As we stood on Fifth Avenue waiting to cross 45th Avenue Don looked at me and said how glad he is that we go into the City as we do. It is something his father used to do, and something Don envisioned being part of his retirement. Last night the weather was perfect -- it was still in the 60s after dark and the rain from the weekend evaporated. It was so perfect we ended up walking to the PATH station at the World Trade Center rather than taking the one at 33rd Street like we normally do.

It was odd, yet soothing, to not see ANY ads. In place of advertisements there were pictures from his book, also called Dear New York.

Standing in the Main Concourse with the PA reminding us to be aware of our surroundings and not become a statistic, his images and quotes were projected on 50-foot walls and columns along with quotes making the experience immersive. I felt as if I was part of the story. Often the person would be projected on one column, a snippet of the person's story would appear on one or two columns, then turning around, another column might show an eye on a column on the wall behind us. Making it that much more personal, inviting us into their stories. Into their lives.

We stood reading their stories for about 45 minutes. At the twenty minute mark we asked the guide at the Information Booth if he knew how long the loop was. He said, "it is ten-minutes long." We knew that wasn't right since we had already been there twice as long. The stories were engaging, so we stayed and watched. I did a quick google search, but did not find the answer.

Through the tunnel, in Vanderbilt Hall is the second main part of the exhibit. To the left was a two-part exhibit. On the inside were panels representing photographs by 11 different professional artists. The one that moved me the most was work by Sara Bennett who photographed formerly incarcerated women in their bedrooms. Their panels identify the women, how long their prison term was to be, how long they served, and how long they have been out. Some are living in apartments. Others have a place in a homeless shelter. All are proud of the lives they are rebuilding. There is a description that says they all served time for heinous crimes, including homicide. It continues to say the United States has the longest prison sentences in the world. When I've heard about prison populations the focus is often on Black men. It was jarring to learn the problem exists for white women, too.

Don was drawn to the bright pictures of New York City's nightlife. Images shined with glitter and sequins.

Surrounding these panels were photographs taken by six hundred New York City students of someone who inspired them. They originally planned to include only 300 pictures, but were overwhelmed with the response and, using screens that flipped through multiple pictures could show more than originally planned. Each picture had a sign in font much too small to read and appreciate identifying the artist and how the subject inspired them. It was encouraging to see that these pieces of artwork were closely studied by a large crowd. These six hundred pictures could easily fill a book so you could sit and enjoy each story at your leisure. On the walls, surrounded by people pausing on their daily commute, it was overwhelming. I found it hard to concentrate on the images and stories as I needed to be up close to read the descriptions, and take a step back to enjoy the picture, meanwhile making sure I did not bump into people or be pickpocketed.

The Dear New York exhibit was turned into a 474-page book by Brandon Stanton that debuted on October 7th. The book was for sale in the Transportation Museum exhibit in Grand Central Station, at Amazon, IndieBound, and all major booksellers. We were able to borrow it from our library.

Meanwhile, the Transit Museum was hosting an exhibit on 100 years of the New Yorker Magazine, with a focus on transportation cartoons. It was brilliant, and free. This only runs through October. There is a separate exhibit taking place in the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.

My favorite: Missed Connections
of two people reading
the same book in 
different trains

The one on the left is from 1978.
The one on the left is from March 2020.

  

Don and I walked around Ground Central Station trying to figure out what we should do for dinner. As we wandered, we saw in place of ads were giant posters of images we recognized from the walls of the Main Concourse. We also saw pictures we did not see. We crossed under the Grand Concourse and came into it from the other side.

As we walked up the stairs, I realized we never saw nor heard the Julliard pianist. Coming from a different angle, we did. We then walked over to our space on the other side of the information desk -- maybe twenty-five feet away (distances are swallowed up in a room that large), but with the desk and central clock blocking our view, and realized we could not hear the piano. Listening carefully, we did hear applause, but only because we were focused on it. Was someone playing when we were there the first time or not? According to the schedule the piano is not played during rush hour. We arrived at ten of six, so maybe it was silent at that point. The perfect arches in Grand Central Station act as a whispering gallery allowing you to whisper in one corner and having the sound travel up the arch to the other side and be heard perfectly well. The Grand Concourse seems to have the opposite where sound is absorbed.

The next day Lin-Manual Miranda had a turn at the piano. That would have been amazing to hear live!

I'm glad we were able to see this exhibit. I think it will be talked about for years reverently, just as the Gates Central Park exhibit of two decades ago.

What Happens When Your Place is Taken?

This Sunday's lectionary reading was Luke 14:7-24, the one about Jesus telling guests at a wedding about how to choose where you sit, i.e., don't presume you are the most important person and immediately sit in the honored chair because someone more worthy may show up and you'll be asked to move. 

It is a familiar text to many Christians. Probably not as familiar outside this circle.

Our pastor turned the familiar into something unexpected. He tied it to our church's mission to provide "radical hospitality." Paraphrasing, started by asking how many of us sit in the same pew each week. How would we feel if when we showed up someone was sitting in our spot?

I'm always late. I tend to sit on the Trenton side (the shorthand for the pews are the Trenton side, center and the Princeton side, easier than keeping track of left and right since is that facing the front or facing the back?), but it varies based on what is open. In the summer I like sitting next to an open window or near a fan. Or (ideally) both.

He then talked about our place outside of church. In the real world. How do we feel when someone takes over our role.

What are my roles?

When Ashley was in school, my role was to take pictures. This was in the days before most people had cameras on their cell phones. I almost always had a (separate) camera on me. I was willing to take pictures, and (more importantly) willing to share the pictures.

On my dig site, my role is to encourage the other diggers (make sure they stay hydrated, keep their spirits up) and clean up at the end. I come from a distance and never make it early, so my role would never be the one to set up. That's someone else's role.

When my parents entertain the family, it is my role to clean up so there is not as much left for my mom to do after we leave. I make sure the extra table is where it belongs, and that dishes are washed. I make sure dad has dessert.

We fall into these roles without thinking about it. It is part of our DNA.

How would I feel if someone took place? 

When cell phone started to come with cameras, I felt redundant. Not needed.

At the dig site, we feel like a team. We look out for each other. We clean up together.

I often wish my sisters, and the menfolk would chip in with the clean up, but is that how I really feel or do I like hiding behind the sink?

This weekend my host sister, Susanne, visited with her family. Let me backtrack, after high school I took a gap year and thanks to the local Rotary club, I lived in Belgium. For half of that time, Susanne lived with my parents. I met her in 1987 for a couple of days before I left for my adventures (I believe I slept on the pull out sofa while she settled into her new room, my old bed, my old life), and I saw her once in Copenhagen when our paths crossed in the same city. This was the first time we spent hours together.

Susanne and her family of five are lovely. Their English is amazing. It is easy to forget it is their second (or third) language. They are well-travelled and know how to be good guests. They all helped out. Often before I had a chance to wash a dish or put something away, her husband, Lars, or she was doing it. I must admit, it was a little jarring.

I felt a little bit like I was being replaced by Jacquie 2.0, a little more professional,
a little happier, definitely blonder, speaks multiple languages fluently, was able to keep working while raising three wonderful children (yes, the Danish social structure helps with that), and seemed to do everything better than me. She even travelled in an all-while outfit that was spotless after 22 hours of planes, trains, and airplanes. It is hard to not feel a little jealous. Thankfully she is also genuinely kind.

My rational mind reminded me I am not being replaced. After a few days in New York, they will return to Denmark. They won't be here at Thanksgiving and Christmas to wash dishes and keep my dad happy.

How will I feel the next time I encounter a Jacquie 2.0? Can we be friends or will we act as rivals? Is there room for another me or will I feel as if I am being replaced?

These are questions that are important to consider as our church family tries to connect with new people.

Three Event Day

I remember being in my twenties and doing so much on a weekend I only shared a portion of my activities with my much older co-workers. Looking back, I realize they were in their forties, or maybe fifties, but when you are 22, they were much closer to my parents' ages. Their children were grown. They had grown up houses (as opposed to our row home). Grown up responsibilities.

They were younger than I am now.

Even the curated version of how I spent my weekend gave the impression I was much busier than they seemed to feel possible. 

In some ways I slowed down to only a couple of activities on a weekend. More than that and I do need time to recharge -- physically and mentally. I don't want to be that busy. I want time to sit down and process life. 

Today is one of those recharging days.

A couple of weeks ago I had three vastly different events to go to. One needed a complete wardrobe change to transform into a different version of me.

The first was a DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) meeting. Since learning we have a DAR relative (Noah Wiswell) who valiantly walked 28 miles from Newtown, MA to the Battle of Lexington at the age of 66 to fight in the war along his sons I've been curious about joining. BTW, adding to the cool factor of Captain Wiswell is that his birthday was the day before mine (270 years earlier).

When my friend Stacy said she was
presenting her research about Lady Sterling a the next DAR meeting in Princeton, I decided to check it out. Her speech was wonderful, and I would love to hear her again. But, sitting in Nassau Hall with minorities quietly white serving us tiny portions of a goat cheese salad or chicken sandwich while wearing white gloves made me cringe. I wore a dress, stockings, pearls, and high heels to dress the part. I didn't realize they had their own parking lot (a rarity in Princeton) so I walked fifteen minutes in the get up. I even had one person cede the sidewalk to me, which gives you a sense of how out of time I looked.

I politely declined the invitation to join.

I dashed home and changed into my usual attire of shorts and tee-shirt and drove to the Lawrenceville School for a symposium about the history of Lewisville Road. The audience was perhaps half white and half black, with a few other minorities represented. I felt at home listening to inspirational messages encouraging us to keep their history alive.

As I type this I see the irony in that the mission of the DAR is to keep the history alive. They are trying to encourage younger women, and women of other ethnicities to join, but they will always be elitist -- must be a woman, and must trace your family tree to someone who fought in the war. For years, we thought we only had people who lived here then, which is already divisive.

The third event required another change. This time because the forecast was calling for cooler temperatures. Don and I went to Burlington County's Arts After Dark event -- a one-night festival with storytelling, art, artisans, and music. I wish it was longer, though I respect it is a lot to organize. This was my second year.

Don and I hung out with Ashley's art teacher, Brittany, and her husband. Then Ashley and Anna joined us, which was a treat.

 

There was no time to cook dinner in the middle of all that, so we ate out at the Flying Pig Tavern in Bordentown - the original location which got its name when they told their friends they would transform their food truck to a restaurant "when pigs fly." They are about to open their fourth location. All are run by family and close friends of the owners. (No advertising dollars were received for that plug, but they would be welcomed.) Had our favorite server, Melanie, whose daughter is about Ashley's age, though they did not go to school together but have friends in common. Small world!

Perfect way to end a busy day.