(NOTE: I took this month’s post title from the wonderful organization of the same name. Founded by Margaret McNamara sixty years ago, Reading Is Fundamental is the very definition of a labor of love. Eager to put books into the hands of every child in underserved communities—free books they could take home and keep—McNamara started buying used titles with her own money while tutoring children in Washington, DC. Her efforts really took off when the Ford Foundation gave her a grant of $150,000. And the good work she began continues today as RIF provides 100 free books, through a reading app called Skybrary, to any child, anywhere in America, who wants them. Thank you, Margaret. Your work has never been more essential than it is today.)

Every year, on the last day of our London trip, we make three stops: Foyles on Charing Cross Road, possibly the most magnificent bookstore in the world—six enormous floors stuffed with books (and that’s not counting the very tasty café where we always pause for lunch and the events auditorium above that). Then, it’s on to the Waterstones flagship store in Piccadilly Circus, said to be the largest bookstore in Europe, before winding down the day at Hatchards, London’s oldest bookshop founded in 1797.  At each of these—every one a bibliophile’s dream—Ed and I both grab a hand basket, arrange a time and meeting place, then diverge to sift through the offerings (some 200,000 titles each at Foyles and Waterstones, and 100,000 titles at Hatchards) and load up our favorite finds. When time’s up, we go to the main counter—where we do a quick check to make sure we’re not buying any duplicates—and arrange to have our purchases shipped to the States. We’re like two kids set free in a candy store. And man, do we stuff ourselves! This year, though, the shipping costs to the States charged by Waterstones and Hatchards—in retaliation for Trump’s tariffs—almost doubled the price of each book, so we had to put our marvelous finds back on the shelves and then order them online from Alibris at home—thanks a lot, Rumpy!

But our disappointment was soon assuaged when we received the Foyles books two days after our return (they ship amazingly fast!). Twenty-four new titles in all! Never mind that our modest three-bedroom home is already bursting at the seams with books, one of the oldest among them Caddie Woodlawn, by Carol Ryrie Brink, the story of a spirited, untamable ten-year-old tomboy running wild with her brothers on the Wisconsin prairies during the Civil War. A book my mom found at the local library tag sale. A treasured tome I had read at least ten times before I was Caddie’s age.

Never mind that our TBR piles will undoubtably last us well into our second century on the planet. As a woman reading to her toddler in the Foyles café remarked when we told her of our annual book spree, “Why, of course. You don’t wait until you run out of groceries to buy more.”        

Exactly.

Priorities, Priorities!

In our house, reading is fundamental. So what if the sofa’s a tad threadbare. Or the dining room chairs are a bit scuffed up (OK, maybe more than a bit). We must have books! Reading is pleasure, reading is discovery, reading is knowledge. Reading is power! The power to understand the world around you. Its people. The tangled web of their deeds and interactions (good and bad). To grasp in all its complexity the human condition. How we got here. Why things are the way they are. Who is behind this progressive reform or that racist atrocity. Where we may be headed.   

Sadly, though perhaps not surprisingly, the U.S. ranks 36^th in literacy in the world, and even that statistic carries a caveat: Of the 79% of U.S. adults deemed literate, the vast majority of these read at or below a sixth-grade level. And an astonishing one in five adults are functionally illiterate. Their inability to read or write leaves them woefully unable to navigate daily life. Medical forms. Job applications. Legal agreements. Written instructions of any kind. Reading IS fundamental.  

The Gift of a Lifetime

My mom was a woman who had her problems. A talented artist in the era of “No wife of mine is going to work outside the home,” time hung heavy on her hands, so she read to me and read to me and taught me how to write the alphabet. By age four, I was reading on my own. Simple children’s picture books soon gave way to Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White and The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner. By age 7, I was enjoying Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women (with a bit of help from Merriam-Webster). I never received a greater gift than that of literacy. When I have owned nothing else, I’ve always had shelves of books.

And I passed it on to my children, that lovely lifetime gift. A rainy day would find the three of us snuggled together on the sofa, a stack of storybooks on the coffee table, whiling away the afternoon as I read aloud the tales they had chosen. When the Scholastic book orders arrived each month in their classrooms, I could always spot my kids’ books when I arrived to pick them up—the largest pile in both cases. On the day my son left home at age 18 to teach English in China, he took my dogeared copy of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. I was thrilled when I saw it peeking out of his backpack. In recent years, he has set himself a to-be-read list of books that any college literature major would recognize. When he’s home for the holidays, he selects one for us to read (or re-read) and discuss. This past December it was George Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying. Sharing books. Talking books. Exploring the past, present, and the imagined future.Reading IS fundamental.

And yet, reading for pleasure—or knowledge—has taken a precipitous drop in America. Forty-four percent of adults in the U.S. did not read a single book in the past year.

Sound Bites and Earbuds and Screens, Oh My!

Walk down any street. Survey the patrons of any coffee shop, subway car, or other place where people congregate. What do you see? Faces absorbed in screens, eyes glazed over, not the least sign of acknowledgement that those around them exist. Add those little white earbuds and the barrier is complete. Sadly, the future appears to promise only more of the same. The screen time for one-year-old kids now averages 53 minutes a day. By age 3, those screens consume almost three times that amount—a seriously sizeable chunk of the day for a toddler struggling to grasp the workings of the world around them.  And many parents aren’t reading to their kids. We now have a generation of adults who, themselves having grown up on screens, are less inclined to read, and so regard reading as “a subject to learn” rather than a pleasurable or enriching activity.

Their children are adopting the same attitude. Even for those reading at or near grade level, the culture of social media has left its dark mark. Kids today get their info in sound bites and blurbs. They cannot attend to something as “huge” as an entire book. All those pages and pages! Some educators are tossing in the towel and giving kids bits of books. Excerpts. But our world—if we are to save it—demands its citizens be able to grapple with complexity.

Books Tell Us Where We’ve Been and Where We May Be Headed    

If books like John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath have something to say about where we’ve been, George Orwell’s 1984 has sounded the warning of where we may be headed since its publication in 1949. It depicts a future society held in blind obedience to The Party and its leader Big Brother, described in the book by one adherent as “the embodiment of The Party”, suggesting BB is more a myth than a real person—a convenient mechanism to control people through fear. And man, does it work. Citizens are constantly monitored via two-way telescreens, hidden cameras and microphones—never mind the host of civilian informers—as they go about their lives (beneath posters that remind them every minute Big Brother is Watching You). Anyone can be arrested by the Thought Police for even contemplating unapproved ideas. Offending The Party or Big Brother doesn’t end well, I assure you.

When our “Dear Leader” was elected the first time in 2016, following Obama, a president who gave us The Affordable Care Act and brokered the deal with Iran that prevented them from further nuclear weapons development—without spending billions or closing the Strait of Hormuz or killing a single soul—well, when that happened, there were enough concerned citizens, enough thoughtful readers still left in America to send sales of Orwell’s 1984 into the stratosphere. The book’s publisher, Signet Classics, reported sales increased nearly 10,000 percent in the days just following Trump’s first inauguration.

But now a decade has passed. The number of Americans who read for pleasure has dropped. As I noted above, more than forty percent of Americans read no books last year. And the number of Americans who read newspapers has also declined—by nearly two-thirds. Even cable TV news shows and websites are feeling the pinch these days. So where are people getting their news? Social media and video networks. TikTok and YouTube. We get our news in snippets and soundbites. Just like our kids.  

As Vibhas Ratanjee noted in his article for Forbes: “Perspective comes from wandering across history, fiction and biography—where ideas collide and recombine into something new. Reading teaches us to hold ambiguity and to wrestle with contradictions.” 

We desperately need a thinking population, a nation of people who can evaluate, compare and contrast, make connections. Who can read!

Only We Can Prevent This

For me, the most terrifying scene of the future world ever conceived came, ironically, not from a book, but from the 1960 film adaptation of H.G. Wells’ post-apocalyptic 1895 novel The Time Machine that I happened to see on an oldies movie channel when I was 12 (don’t worry, I ran right out to the library, checked out the book and later bought a copy—I wanted to know the whole story).  

In the scene that broke my heart, and still brings tears every time I watch the film, the main character, the Time Traveller, witnessing the sorry state of the far future, asks the Eloi if they have any books. Yes, they assure him. They have books. But as it turns out, the single shelf of books they show him crumbles to dust at his touch. Long neglected. Now gone. Forever.  

There are plenty of greedy, soulless people out there counting on your ignorance to make their deadly dreams come true. Don’t let them get away with it. Read. Read. Read.  

READING IS FUNDAMENTAL!

[This post first ran several years ago. I am reposting it now because: 1) Yours truly is taking some much-needed vacation time to recharge and, well, just plain be happy. You remember happy, right? 2) We must never forget our history–the cruel injustices visited upon innocent Americans because they were the “wrong” color, the “lesser” gender, or had the “wrong” sexual orientation. Yes, the arc of the moral universe is indeed long, but it’s up to all of us–all good, honest, caring people–to bend that arc toward justice. I’ll see you next month. Take care.]

When I was three years old, my mom sent me to a nursery school run by a former teacher in her home. As I had no siblings (yet) and all the kids in my neighborhood were teens and pre-teens, my mom thought the preschool would help me to overcome my shyness. The problem was, the other 7-8 kids were a year older, which doesn’t sound like much, but that one year difference feels mighty big when you’re a measly three. They mostly ignored me, but I was used to playing on my own, so not unduly stressed about the situation.

One of my favorite toys was a miniature wooden train set. I had one like it at home, but this set had twice the track. And I loved the accessories that went with it—the little painted wooden houses, the bridges, the cars of red, blue and green. I could make a whole story in a world of my choosing inside my head. Just like I did at home. If I could get my hands on it. A highly popular toy, it was usually monopolized by the boys.

But one morning, I saw my chance. The train set was wide open! I knelt on the floor and quietly went about the business of linking cars together from engine to caboose. I was almost there when a hand swooped down and snatched the blue car from my grasp.

“You can’t play with this!”

Startled, I looked up to see John R. towering above me, a menacing, satisfied sneer on his face as he placed a firm foot on a section of track.

The shock of that moment. I have never forgotten it. Outwardly, I ventured no response. I didn’t punch or slap him, didn’t yell or try to wrestle the stolen car from his grip. I didn’t even call for the teacher. But in the moments after he grabbed that train car, I burned with indignation. Who was he to take that car from me! I had every right to play with the train set and he had no right to stop me!  

I never told the teacher, or my parents, but for the remainder of that year, I sat behind an armchair in the living room and watched the other kids play. Then I went home and copied the games/activities I had seen them enjoying. My mother discovered this from talking to the teacher, but neither of them knew why. Only I did, and I never revealed the reason. 

Of course, many other injustices would happen to me over the years, perhaps the most egregious being the failing grade I received in a graduate seminar because I strenuously ignored the professor’s blatant attempts to seduce me during our requisite weekly one-on-one sessions. As payback, he “rescheduled” my final project presentation on the day it was due, leaving only a note in my department mailbox that same morning to say our meeting had been moved up from 9:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m., knowing I would not get the note until I was on my way to see him. When I found the message at 8:45, I rushed to his office, project in hand, to find him standing in the doorway, ready for the scene he’d set up. “You’re late!” He shouted. “I’m failing you!”

Seeking redress for this outrage, I went to see the ombudswoman. While admitting it was a not an uncommon complaint about this instructor, she let me know that “many just go along with it, until the semester ends,” then added, “He does publish more than anyone else on the faculty.” My faculty advisor ruled that he couldn’t fail me while refusing to accept my project, and got the course expunged from my record (the money was not refunded). But it tagged me in the department as someone who “doesn’t go along to get along.” The kiss of death.

And yet, the seizing of the little wooden train car remains the most vivid of all these affronts. It was my first real, solid end-to-end memory, and it both shaped who I would become and revealed to me who I was. Those who were bigger, those with more power, more money, more cruelty in their so-called hearts—bullying others they believed weaker, inferior; grabbing what wasn’t theirs; cutting a trail of misery everywhere they went—I would take them on in whatever way I could. Justice, not only for myself but for all others who suffered unfair treatment. It was my first solid core value. It has guided me through my life.

The year following the train-set incident, a friend from my new preschool at the local YWCA slept over. As we lay in the dark that night, we talked briefly about racial prejudice. I have no memory of what touched off the topic, maybe stories about the “color bar” in the South—Whites Only signs everywhere—I’d seen on the nightly news, a program that always accompanied our family dinners. I said it was terrible how mean white people were to colored people (we were still a few years shy of Stokely Carmichael and his term black power). Maureen considered this. “I don’t really care for the Negro much,” she said, “but I do love the Indians. It makes me sad that they are treated so badly.”

Honest to god, those were her exact words. I can’t recall what came after that, but I do know that I was: 1) startled and unhappy that my friend didn’t “care for” Black people, and 2) surprised to learn that Native Americans (a term we did not have at the time) were also the victims of prejudice. I had only seen the “happy” portrayals of these indigenous folks sharing that wonderful first Thanksgiving with the “kindly” pilgrims.     

This not-fairness thing was almost bigger and wider than it was possible to grasp. Almost. But I would come, bit by bit, to understand the enormity of injustice out there.

The Only Child in School That Day: The Courage of Ruby Bridges

In kindergarten, I witnessed a rarity on the nightly news—a story about a little girl just a year older than me. Her name was Ruby Bridges and she lived in a city familiar to me only through a postcard my parents had of the place they’d honeymooned—New Orleans.

Though the Supreme Court had ruled segregated schools unconstitutional in Brown v. Board of Education in May 1954—shortly before Ruby Bridges was born—the backlash, especially in the South, was fierce. Fierce enough that six-and-a-half years later, Ruby was the first Black child in New Orleans to attempt to integrate a “white school.” She was accompanied by a cadre of U.S. Marshals to protect her from the white crowds who heckled and threatened her every step of the way, right up to the schoolhouse door, many of them parents! People with children of their own, who would never for one minute tolerate their kids being treated that way.

As children, we rely on adults to keep some kind of order. To be fair or, if failing that, at least not malicious. But that day, I learned how brutal injustice could be. Later, I would discover that all the teachers at William Frantz Elementary School had stayed home that day—to register their hostility to desegregation. All but one—Barbara Henry, a white teacher who had recently moved to New Orleans from Boston. She alone volunteered to teach Ruby. In fact, Ruby would be Henry’s only student that year. The school literally kept all the white students hidden from Ruby’s view. She was not allowed to go to the cafeteria or the playground at recess, and U.S. Marshals accompanied her to the restroom. They also continued to walk Ruby to school as the angry crowds remained for months, hurling racial epithets and death threats at the six-year-old.

But Ruby Bridges, with Barbara Henry’s support, did not give up. Eventually the protests stopped and many of the white parents let their kids return to the school. In her second year, Ruby was taught in a classroom with other students, she ate in the cafeteria, went out to the playground, and—surprise!—life went on.

Four Little Girls on A Sunday Morning: The 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing

I had just started third grade when a white man planted a box of explosives under the steps of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church—a Black church and a hub of civil rights activities—in Birmingham, Alabama on a Sunday morning. The explosives went off during the morning services, killing four young girls who were attending Sunday school and injuring many others. In the violence that erupted afterwards between police and furious members of the Black community, two more Black children were killed. Outrageously, it would be fourteen years before Ku Klux Klan leader, Robert Chambliss, was convicted of murder for the church bombing. His partners-in-crime, Bobby Frank Cherry and Thomas Blanton would not be convicted for another twenty-four years!

In third grade, too, I would encounter the word empathy and immediately grasp its meaning: The ability to emotionally understand what other people feel, see things from their point of view, and imagine oneself in their place. Thirty-two years later, I would buy my children Christopher Paul Curtis’s wonderful book, The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963, the story of a Black family who travels south to visit Grandma in Birmingham, Alabama and arrives there just in time for the church bombing. It was Curtis’s first novel and it catapulted him to national prominence, winning both the Coretta Scott King Honor Book Award and the Newbery Honor Book Award. Today, sadly, The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963 ranks high on many banned books lists.

Bloody Sunday: All They Wanted Was Their Civil Rights

I would be just shy of my 10^th birthday when the world witnessed another horrifying injustice. What would come to be called “Bloody Sunday” took place on March 7, 1965, as some 600 civil rights activists began the 54-mile march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama to demand of Governor Wallace that their full rights as American citizens, enumerated in the Civil Rights Act of 1964, be recognized and respected. As with Brown v. Board of Education a decade earlier, large swaths of the South had simply chosen to ignore the new law.

Led by Hosea Williams from the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Amelia Boynton Robinson, a local civil rights activist, and John Lewis of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the marchers passed through Selma without incident, but as they crested the Edmund Pettis Bridge (named for a Confederate general), they got a good look at what awaited them. A throng of Alabama state troopers, billy clubs in hand, blocked the road at the bottom of the bridge, backed by county sheriff deputies, and a crowd of locals waving Confederate flags, rooting for a bloodbath.

The marchers continued cautiously, but as they neared the troopers, they were ordered to disperse or there would be serious consequences. Williams offered to talk. No dice. When the marchers did not move, the troopers rushed in, beating them mercilessly and choking them with tear gas. Lewis was knocked down repeatedly (he suffered a skull fracture that day) and Robinson was severely battered. Seventeen marchers were hospitalized and 50 more required treatment for injuries. 

Film of the brutal attack was rushed to the networks. An outraged nation reacted swiftly, organizing sit-ins and demonstrations. Their cries for justice did not go unheeded. A federal court intervened and, at last, protected by National Guard troops, the marchers made it to Montgomery, with Martin Luther King at the helm (he had been in Washington, DC, conferring with President Johnson on Bloody Sunday, intending to join the march the next day).  

In August, the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was passed by Congress and signed into law, 94 years after the Fifteenth Amendment had granted Black people the right to vote. The arc of the moral universe is, indeed, long, but Bloody Sunday made me understand that it is up to us to see that it bends toward justice.

They Were Dancing and Laughing, and the State Said You Can’t Do That: Stonewall 1969         

I was about to enter high school when the Stonewall Uprising occurred. The Stonewall Inn, a popular Greenwich Village gay bar in an era when same-sex relations were outlawed in every state but Illinois, was a target of frequent police raids. Part of New York’s campaign to rid the city of “sexual deviants.” But on June 28, 1969, the police got more than they bargained for. As they entered the bar in the early morning hours, their attempts to harass and arrest patrons met with unflagging resistance. That resistance spilled into the streets. As word spread, hundreds, then thousands joined the protest. Over the next six days, the clash between riot police and LGBTQ+ people and their allies would rage unabated. But when the tear gas finally cleared, what would become known as the Gay Pride movement had come into being.

It had been a long road. Before the Stonewall Uprising, the possibility of justice for LGBTQ+ folks looked pretty grim. It wasn’t enough that they weren’t bothering anyone, that they had their own clubs to dance and mingle in. If the attitude toward Black people had been that they could exist as long as they knew their place and kept to it, the official take on gays was they had no right to exist. A Chicago group, The Society for Human Rights, founded in 1924 to advocate for gay rights, enjoyed a brief moment of attention before political pressure shut it down.  

A quarter century later, another gay rights activist, Harry Hay, founded a more enduring organization—the Mattachine Society—to make Americans rethink their bias against and fear of homosexuals (especially gay men). The Los Angeles-based org sprouted chapters across the country, but the times were still less than hospitable. A 1950 Senate report, “Employment of Homosexuals and Other Sex Perverts in Government” equated homosexuality with mental illness, concluding that LGBTQ+ people were “security risks” to the country. President Eisenhower later banned them from working for the government or any of its contractors. A 1952 publication of the American Psychiatric Association declared homosexuality a “sociopathic personality disturbance.”

The Stonewall Uprising radically altered the landscape. A year later, what would come to be called America’s first Gay Pride parades took place in Los Angeles, Chicago and New York where thousands of LGBTQ+ folks and their allies marched, chanting: Say it loud, gay is proud! Today, Gay Pride Parades are annual events in many countries.

In 1973, the American Psychiatric Association finally deleted homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses, and the next year the first openly gay candidate won a seat on the Ann Arbor, Michigan City Council.

I was a sophomore at Michigan State when the university hosted a “Wear Jeans if You’re Gay Day.” Since this was 1975 and all anyone wore was jeans, it meant that only people who were terrified of being thought gay would make the effort to choose some other garment. I’m happy to report that on a campus of over 50,000 people, I saw no one that day wearing other than denim. It was the era of solidarity. And though it would take another forty years for Obergefell v. Hodges to make same-sex marriage legal across the U.S., the tide had turned.

The Shocking Notion That Women Are People, Too: Roe v. Wade and the Women’s Movement

I would be a senior in high school when Roe v. Wade at last made abortion legal for women. Before that ruling, women were forced to carry unwanted pregnancies to term. Though the advent of “the pill” in 1960 had radically changed women’s lives, back-alley abortions still posed significant risks. And women were still expected to be subservient to men. The happy housewife. The docile helpmate. The all-sacrificing mommy. A woman’s sexuality also remained an unseemly and potentially dangerous thing. Women were still the ones on the hot seat when it came to convictions for rape: Had she “asked for it” in her style of dress (male judges could decide her clothing was too provocative), or by her manner (too flirtatious)? I will say right here, no woman asks to be raped, but the prevailing attitude of the male-dominated judicial system kept many rape victims, already severely traumatized, from reporting the crime.   

The women’s movement that arose in the late 1960s imagined a new destiny for their half of the population. Took to the streets to say we demand control over our bodies, our options, our lives. Women would no longer go to college to get their “Mrs. degree”—the term used for women enrolled in higher education where it was assumed they were “husband shopping” for a man with a bright, monied future. Instead, they began running for political office in numbers, increased their presence in the legal system. They worked outside the home, not because economic necessity demanded it but because they wanted to use their talents and intelligence to create a fulfilling life as an independent adult. Roe v. Wade made so much of that possible. It was a momentous victory.

In This Dark Era of Reaction, John Lewis Still Guides Us

And now, so many of our gains for freedom and justice in the past 65 years have been or are being rescinded. In 2013, the Supreme Court kneecapped the Voting Rights Act of 1965 in its Shelby County v. Holder ruling that waived the need for preclearance of new voting or redistricting laws in states and jurisdictions with a history of voting discrimination (as identified in the VRA). Some two dozen states didn’t waste a moment in passing legislation that has restricted Black voters from exercising their rights—changes in voter ID laws and registration  mail-in voting, limited polling places and voting hours in Black neighborhoods.

SCOTUS struck again when it overturned the right to abortion guaranteed by Roe v. Wade in its June 2022 Dobbs decision. Instantly, a raft of reactionary laws were enacted in states across the nation, severely limiting or banning abortion, in some instances even in cases of rape, incest, or endangerment to the mother’s life. To enforce these draconian measures, some states have raised the possibility of legally preventing women from traveling to another state where abortion is legal. So far, thankfully, this proposal has met with a resounding “hands off” from the DOJ who filed a “Statement of Interest” in the matter, proclaiming that: The Constitution protects the right to travel across state lines and engage in conduct that is lawful where it is performed and that states cannot prevent third parties from assisting others in exercising that right. 

Book bans, laws against providing transgender healthcare or teaching Black history, threats to overturn gay marriage—we are living in a dark era of reaction, bordering on fascism. High on injustice and white male supremacy, low on freedom and civil rights.

It’s been 65 years since John R. grabbed that blue car from my hand and told me I couldn’t play with the train set. Sixty-five years of witnessing the wounding injustice to others, of suffering it myself on several occasions, of fighting for a world of true equality, freedom, and justice. Sixty-five years of hope, celebration and, now, deep concern as attacks on our rights mount once again.

In Barbados this past January, talking with our Bajan friend Tyrone, the subject of justice came up and I mentioned the powerful, lifelong effect that moment at age three has had on me. Thinking it was a stressor—emotional baggage that was weighing me down—Tyrone encouraged me to let it go. But as I explained to him, I don’t want to let it go. Far from being a recollection of defeat, it remains a moment of clarification—what I stand for—of identity. It is precious to me. It is me. As the fabulously courageous John Lewis said: When you see something that is not right, not fair, not just, you have to speak up. You have to say something. You have to DO something.

[Note: In 2016, I wrote a post The Kindness of Strangers where I shared stories of strangers who had assisted me at various critical moments—not life-or-death scenarios, fortunately—going out of their way to lend a much-appreciated helping hand. This month’s post includes several new stories in that same vein, but it also contains a tale of strangers stepping up on a larger scale. People banding together to help entire communities of other people who are under attack in this, American democracy’s darkest hour.]   

The morning of the March 28 No Kings protest dawned bright in my little corner of the world, but one step outside proved all that glitters is not warm! It’s rare you’ll catch me quoting AI, but they nailed it here: Given the wind speeds and temperatures, the wind chill factor during this period made it feel noticeably colder than the actual air temperature, likely in the teens to low 20s. It. Was. Frigid! But democracy must be saved, so Ed and I layered up and walked down to the main intersection of town where the crowds already stretched east to west and north to south as far as the eye could see, with more arriving every minute.

As the first 1,000 or so folks to make the scene had taken up spots on the sunny side of the street, the organizers now directed us to line its shady opposite. To be sure, ours was a good spot, right at the heart of the action. And our fellow protestors were a pleasure to chat with. We whipped up the passing cars to honk their support, doing the call-and-response chants that are always a morale booster:

Tell me what democracy looks like! THIS is what democracy looks like!

Hey, hey, ho, ho, Donald Trump has got to GO!

No hate! No fear! Refugees are welcome here!

The people united will never be defeated!

BUT, we were on the shady side of the street and after forty-five minutes, I seriously began to worry about my hands which were now numb. Staying the duration, I feared, might mean frostbite with its risk of permanent nerve damage. So, I handed Ed my sign and went into the candy store right behind us to warm up for a bit. I was talking to the man behind the counter about the extreme cold and trying to flex my fingers when another customer approached me. “Here,” she said, “Use this.” It was a hand warmer, one of those little heat packs you can slip inside a glove. In fact, she had been wearing it in her glove.

I’d heard about these wonder-warmers from a neighbor last October but had never tried one. Well, let me tell you, they are a wonder. In under ten minutes, my hands were completely restored to normal. I returned the pack and thanked the woman profusely. She just nodded, smiled and left. I remained another five minutes, then went back to the curb and finished the last half hour of the rally, so grateful to this stranger, this fellow human being for her awesome kindness. Indeed, the people united will never be defeated.    

Flying into the Unknown

I love to travel, but flying has always been a mixed bag for me. Great when it goes well: the plane leaves on time, your luggage arrives when you do, and they throw in a free G&T or two on the flight. But when it doesn’t go so well…

We like to visit Barbados in the winter. Put away the holiday decorations, ring in the New Year, and get out from under the snow for a bit. The only teensy-weensy, tiny catch is that we usually have to rise at 2:30 in the morning to shower, dress, get to the airport and deal with all that entails. I would like to mention here I am NOT an early riser. I mean I do get up at 8:00 a.m. at home, but it has to be an emergency for me to schedule an appointment before 10:00, so the middle-of-the-night rise-and-shine time to make a Barbados flight is a testament to how much I love the place and its people. 

One of those people, Tyrone, is a cab driver. We happened to get him randomly in the airport queue a year or so before the trip I’m recounting here. We had enjoyed talking to him on the ride to our condo, and so called him that same trip to take us to Harrison’s Cave—an amazing limestone cave system formed over thousands of years that reveals the island’s geological origins. More pleasant getting-to-know-you chat and relaxed laughs on the ride to and from. Which led to Ed texting him our arrival time on this trip: 2:00 p.m. Could he pick us up? Great, Tyrone responded. See you then. If only…

Our nine a.m. flight was canceled. As was an 11:00 a.m. and a 2:30 p.m. flight. The first plane had some sort of mechanical problem, discovered after everyone was boarded, so we had to unload all the carry-on luggage and trot back to the terminal, where the next two flights were also cancelled because the Barbados airport could not handle the jumbo planes of the later flights, and the airline didn’t have any other plane type available at those times.

Through all this, Ed kept Tyrone updated. Finally, at 6:30 that evening, a plane that would work was free! We, the exhausted airport refugees, up since the middle of the night, stranded in the vast (and mind-numbingly boring) wasteland of an airport with nothing to do for twelve…long…hours, stumbled onto the plane.

Ed had sent a final text to Tyrone before we left Boston but we hadn’t yet heard back from him and now we were on airplane mode and there was no reason to expect someone who had been working all day, to drive out to the airport to meet us in the middle of the night.

But he did. Meet us. When we exited the Barbados airport nearly an hour past midnight, the taxi queue was empty, but Tyrone was there. In that moment, he became more than a friendly cabbie. He became a friend. A man with a good heart. A person we could trust.   

Communities Under Siege

What I’ve described above are acts of kindness performed by one person in the aid of another, but as anti-democratic forces increasingly engulf our country, the kindness of strangers has mushroomed to include people banding together to protect and aid whole communities under attack, as happened this past December when Trump and his Gestapo-like henchmen, ICE, surged into Minneapolis and began rounding up immigrants mercilessly. Almost 4,000 immigrants were arrested, more than half of them simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Termed “collateral” arrests, these people were not themselves targets of ICE, but happened to be noted by ICE agents while they were pursuing someone else. Noticed for having the “wrong” skin tone, or a name like Jorge or Lucia.   

While the White House bragged that the people ICE arrested in Minnesota were “dangerous criminal illegal aliens…murderers, rapists, gang members, and terrorists,” a quick fact check of the actual statistics paints a very different picture:

Data from early 2026 shows that 70.8% to 74.2% of people detained by ICE had no criminal convictions. Zip. Nada.

Of the 25% to 30% arrested who have a record, most of their offenses amounted to no more than a traffic violation. So you get ripped from your home, your family and community, carted off to a detention center, and possibly booted out of the country for switching lanes without signaling or having a broken taillight.

And the percentage of those arrested who actually have committed a violent crime? Around five percent. That’s it. That’s what all the suffering comes down to. That’s what Renee Good and Alex Pretti had to die for. That’s why children were ripped from their families and parents were deported, leaving their kids orphans. In this merciless, racist witch hunt, being in the wrong place at the wrong time can totally wreck your life.

Kindness Gets Organized

In Minneapolis, the number of “strangers” prepared to extend kindness mushroomed as ICE’s presence in their city stretched on and on, and their innocent neighbors were rounded up, imprisoned, deported. Neighbors Helping Neighbors, a grassroots organization, was born to both protect and aid immigrants—accompanying them to medical and legal appointments, bringing them groceries, helping them make rent. Founded by a group of friends, the organization quickly blossomed. By January, it had over 500 members, with another 2,000 applicants awaiting vetting.  

Across the country, in Hillsboro, Oregon, a city in the state’s most diverse county, ICE was doing what they do best. Instilling terror. Arresting people randomly. Breaking up families. Ripping apart lives. Fear engulfed the city. School attendance dropped. People were terrified to leave their homes. Terrified to stay in their homes. It was an unsustainable situation. An intolerable stress load. In other words, a moment that cried out for the kindness of strangers.

And they stepped up. Some forty people from Hillsboro and its neighboring towns joined together and made it their mission to:

1) Track ICE’s movements and alerting people to their whereabouts each day. Outside the elementary school? At the steps to the courthouse? In a neighborhood on the north side? In the parking lot of a shopping mall?

2) Deliver food and other necessities to people too scared to leave home. Or too broke to buy even the basics. Perhaps the family’s primary breadwinner had been detained or shipped off to god-knows-where.     

In both Minneapolis and Hillsboro, ICE asked, indeed expected “real Americans” to turn in their immigrant neighbors. Those who have no scruples, no heart, imagine everyone else to be the same, but the good people of these cities and many others—Chicago, Denver, New York, among them—have come together to help their neighbors. Alert them to danger. Make sure they are housed, fed, and able to get whatever medical care they need.

But the greatest gift these neighborhood orgs deliver is the assurance: You are not alone. We are with you.

It was the great 20^th century playwright, Tennessee Williams who wrote the famous line “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers” for his heroine Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire. His words speak a truth far beyond any one place or time, beyond any one person or group of people. A truth that has never been more critical in my lifetime than it is today. We must recognize our common humanity and stand by one another. We are ALL depending on each other.

The days are getting longer. The skies are growing bluer. The sun is shining brighter. Time to muck out those dark corners of the mind, vanquish the cobwebs, let in the light. And the joy.

According to the Whirlpool Corporation, “Spring cleaning is an annual deep cleaning tradition that allows you to get a fresh start for the upcoming season.” Who knew that a home appliance company would nail it so precisely, or wax philosophical? Or have a blog?!

 So, let’s get on with it. We’ve got LIVING to do!

Clean Out the Cobwebs   

First, absolve yourself of all guilt regarding the 100 things you meant to do over the winter, the past year, the last decade, but for various reasons haven’t yet gotten around to. They’ll keep, LOL. 

Seriously, though, how many things can you do at a time? One. How many things can you conceive of doing in that time? Zillions. For the sake of your own sanity, know your priorities—the activities and people who matter most to you—then do what you can as best you can. And move on. The greatest time-waster in life is beating yourself up for what you haven’t (yet) accomplished.

Forgive yourself, too, for whatever mistakes you feel you’ve made. Doing X when you should have done Y. Taking Job A when you think you might have been happier in Job B. Failing to look before you leaped. Case in point: I recently ordered a series of theatre tickets for our upcoming jaunt to London. Using a ticket sales site that’s worked well for me over the years, I later discovered I could have gotten a better deal on several plays by going directly to the theatre’s website. The difference for the four plays involved totaled close to $200. Bummer. But now I know, and for the remaining plays I booked, I compared prices and got the best deals. Okay, lesson learned. No need to beat myself over it. Just move on.         

Mend Fences and Make a Fresh Start

Had a falling out with a friend or family member? Now’s the time to mend fences. Yes, you may get rebuffed—ouch—but the chances are good that the other person has been fretting over the rift, too, wanting to make things right but fearing rejection. My guess is your overture will be greeted warmly by a very relieved pal or relative. And if not, then it’s down to that person. You will have done your best.      

If there’s a dear friend you’ve been out of touch with for a while just because life gets soooo crazy-busy, give them a call. Now. Ten to one, they’ll be truly happy to hear from you. A friend you’ve had for 10, 20, 50 years? They are precious. Don’t wait.     

Clear the Decks and Create Space for What You Love   

I don’t know about you, but I get around 2,000 emails a day. Yes, each day. Much of it truly good stuff. Petitions to sign. Letters to my senators and reps, both state and national. Support for environmental concerns, civil rights, healthcare, public education, the rule of law, voting rights, animal welfare (to name but a few) and the groups that champion these essential causes. Like I said, all good things, but I struggled to keep up last year. Reading every message left me scant time for any other kind of reading and squeezed the hours available for working on my current novel. Or house and garden projects. Playing my guitar. Or just goofing off. Daily, I wistfully recalled the peaceful pre-MAGA years of Obama when the emails—and the threats to our democracy—were far, far fewer. When I had time to write, time to relax with friends and family. Time, period.

Solution: Now I deal with about half that load, mostly while watching All in with Chris Hayes, and allow myself to simply mass-dump the rest for that day. I mean, how many times do I need to petition my House and Senate members to get rid of Pete Hegseth? Surely, 3-4 times a week will do.     

If you can’t entirely offload an onerous or time-eating task, at least develop a plan to lighten that load. Make room for what is most important and let joy play a major role in that choice.  

Let Light into the Dark Corners

Anxiety about the present. Fear for the future. It’s a scary time out there. Even the folks who say they don’t want to know, they know (which is why they’re trying so hard to shut out what’s happening).           

Instead of fretting—which changes nothing and raises your blood pressure—turn those worries into action. Sign up to help with voter registration drives. Volunteer to make phone calls and/or write postcards to voters for candidates who champion democracy and civil rights, healthcare and public education. In 2020, I was one of over 40,000 volunteers who donated time and effort to getting Georgia Democrats Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock elected to the U.S. Senate. I wrote 300 postcards to voters telling them how Ossoff and Warnock would strive to make their lives better and asking for their vote. Just three lines per postcard. They both won. It felt GREAT! [With the all-important 2026 midterm elections in mind, I’ve appended a list of links to volunteer ops like this at the end of the post. Check it out.]

Another way to banish the blues? Get up on your feet and into the street! The recent No Kings protest held in over 3,300 locations across the country was the largest single-day action ever in U.S. history. More than 8 million Americans gathered to say NO! to Dictator Don and the fascists. Joining in such demonstrations both conquers fear and changes outcomes. We would never have gotten the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or the Voting Rights Act of 1965 if millions of ordinary Americans had not taken to the streets—again and again—to say ALL of us are human beings, deserving of full rights and freedoms.

Open the Windows Wide and Bask in the Serenity   

The idea of this post began back in early March. After a spectacularly harsh winter—banks of snow five feet high, roads and walkways that more nearly resembled an ice rink, our democracy dangling by a thread, the threat of world war in the wings—the temperature suddenly shot up to a sunny 60 degrees. The next day, it topped 70! The ice and snow melted.  Oh, what a difference a day can make. I was out for a walk, basking in this welcome reprieve from the dark and cold, when it came to me: I want a saner life. And on the heels of that, the realization: I (and only I) can give that to myself. One cannot change the times one lives in—though we can each take actions to create a better, more humane world—but we can choose what to keep and what to let go of. What we want to spend our hours, our days, and ultimately our lives doing. What will give us the joy and strength to stay the course whatever comes.

Volunteer Opportunities to Turn Out the Vote in 2026

https://turnoutpac.org/postcards/  Progressive turnout project: Postcards to Swing StatesScroll down to Program 2 “Get Out the Vote”  (starts May 26)

https://www.lwv.org/about-us/membership-local-leagues    Our vote is our power. Through our votes, elections make our voices heard. The League protects and empowers millions of voters every year to ensure that our elections are fair, accessible, and representative of all Americans

https://postcardstovoters.org/   Postcards to Voters are friendly, handwritten reminders from volunteers to targeted voters giving Democrats a winning edge in close, key races coast to coast. Sign up and they’ll send you an email with instructions. 

https://www.activateamerica.vote/   Scroll down the page until you see Impact Key Races/Reach Out to Voters for info on postcard writing and phone-banking opportunities.

https://www.fairfight.com/   Scroll down the page and learn about Fair Fight’s work, then click on Become a Volunteer, which takes you to a page where you can choose how you’d like to help elect pro-democracy candidates.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, and all the brave people of Minneapolis who came together day after day in the frigid winter temperatures to defend that most precious of treasures: Our democracy. And to the late, great civil rights activist, the Reverend Jessie Jackson who taught millions of children to say “I am SOMEBODY” and to believe its truth.

Time magazine called it “an exuberant act of resistance.”

Rolling Stone proclaimed “Super Bowl half-time performance draws in 128 million viewers.”

The Hill noted the show’s star had won a Grammy award just the week before and that he was the most-streamed artist on Spotify for 2025.

Unless you’ve been living on some remote, uninhabited island, you probably know who we’re talking about here: Puerto Rican singer-songwriter Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, popularly known as Bad Bunny, this year’s headline star for the NFL Super Bowl halftime show.

While millions were cheering what The Nation called “Bad Bunny’s Stunning Redefinition of ‘America’”—an all-inclusive America, an America stretching from the far north of Canada down to the U.S. and Mexico,  through all the countries of Central and South America to the southern tip of Chile—the dude in the White House was penning one of his endless Truth Social harangues. It is printed here as it appeared in The Hill. I’ve taken the liberty of inserting a few questions and facts in brackets in red where I felt they begged to be asked or noted.

Trump: “The Super Bowl Halftime Show is absolutely terrible, one of the worst, EVER! It makes no sense, is an affront to the Greatness of America, [How?] and doesn’t represent our standards of Success, Creativity, or Excellence [As defined by you?]. Nobody understands a word this guy is saying [And yet he’s the most streamed artist on Spotify], and the dancing is disgusting, especially for young children that are watching from throughout the U.S.A., and all over the World. [Here, I believe he’s referring to the 1.5 seconds where two men, fully-clothed, their lower torsos hidden behind a truck door, appear to be “grinding” on each other—part of a larger wedding dance scene that also briefly included a bridesmaid and groomsman “grinding” on each other. The BBC described the same scene this way: “Family also featured heavily – from a young couple getting married in a crowd full of Latino dancers…” Bad Bunny’s message? Everyone matters. Everyone is included.] This “Show” is just a “slap in the face” to our Country, which is setting new standards and records every single day — including the Best Stock Market and 401(k)s in History! [CNN cautions us to view this “best stock market” in a larger context: “US stocks had a stellar 2025, but global markets stole the show. A major index tracking stocks outside the US, the MSCI All Country World ex-USA, gained 29.2% in 2025, handily outpacing the S&P 500’s gain of 16.39%… The US dollar index, which measures the dollar’s strength against six major currencies, fell by roughly 9.4% in 2025, its worst year since 2017.” Gee, anyone recall who was in the White House then?] There is nothing inspirational about this mess of a Halftime Show and watch, it will get great reviews from the Fake News Media, because they haven’t got a clue of what is going on in the REAL WORLD — And, by the way, the NFL should immediately replace its ridiculous new Kickoff Rule. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! President DONALD J. TRUMP”

Do you think any of that rant might have been influenced by the fact that Bad Bunny denounced the first Trump Admin’s response –or lack of—to Puerto Rico in the wake of 2017’s disastrous Hurricane Maria? Or maybe it was Bad Bunny’s endorsement of Kamala Harris in the 2024 elections? Or perhaps he just hated the central message of Bad Bunny’s show—the world belongs to ALL of us. A message that should have resonated with the grandson of immigrants.

It’s interesting to note here that Turning Point USA, the ultra-right non-profit org co-founded by the late Charlie Kirk, hosted a competing halftime show on its YouTube channel. “The All-American Halftime Show”, as it was billed, featured Trump buddy Kid Rock and had “no agenda other than to celebrate faith, family, and freedom,” according to a TPUSA spokesperson.

Whose faith? Whose family? Whose freedom? “The All-American Halftime Show” was dedicated to Charlie Kirk, a man who was fond of saying the Civil Rights Act of 1964 had been a mistake.

Well, Americans voted with their eyeballs. As The Chicago Tribune headline noted: Bad Bunny nets 135M viewers to Kid Rock’s 6M. And Daily Kos deemed TPUSA’s Kid Rock “All-American” extravaganza “a bummer from start to finish.”

So, who are these “all-Americans” Trump and Turning Point USA are championing? Certainly not the many peoples of all the Americas Bad Bunny was celebrating. Not even all the people of the United States. Not the Black voters the GOP is trying to silence with their gerrymandered maps. Not the LGBTQ+ Americans—TPUSA performer Lee Brice complained of “wokeness” and lamented children learning about trans people in his song “Country Nowadays.” Not the Indigenous peoples who were here long before the first European immigrants arrived. No, the “all-Americans” of the All-American Halftime Show, the only Americans who count in our brave new world are straight, white men and to a lesser extent, white women, as long as they “know their place”, which is to service and support the straight, white, men.

What Racism Reveals About the Racist

What does racism tell us about the racist? Historically, it speaks to greed. For hundreds of years, wealthy White European and American investors oversaw the kidnapping of African peoples who were then transported to the Americas to do the heavy work of harvesting the sizeable tobacco, sugarcane, and later—after the invention of the cotton gin—cotton plantations. In the first days, these unfortunate hostages were treated as indentured servants, meaning they had some legal standing and a contract of service after which they might be freed. That lasted but a nanosecond in historical terms. Until the very wealthy human traffickers and plantation owners came up with the scheme of making the people they kidnapped the property of their masters. No more legal rights. No more chance of freedom somewhere far down the road. And all children born of slaves would automatically become the property of those masters.

While the 13^th Amendment to the Constitution in 1865 abolished slavery throughout the United States, it did not end the exploitation of Black and Brown peoples by greedy Americans seeking ever more riches, as Bad Bunny brilliantly displayed in the NFL Halftime Show scene where he performs amidst a crowd of Puerto Rican men and women working the sugarcane fields.  

Spain may have introduced the crop to the island nation and the slave labor that harvested it some 500 years earlier, but it was the United States that seized Puerto Rico in 1898 and it was U.S. corporations who made millions off the labor of the Puerto Rican people. While Puerto Ricans were no longer slaves under U.S. rule—and indeed became U.S. citizens in 1917—the  “free labor” market they shifted to with its low pay and meagre living conditions was often compared to servitude. Even today, the disparity in income is striking—and telling. The per capita income of Puerto Ricans ($17,981) remains far below that of Americans as a whole ($44,673).

I wonder how many Puerto Ricans—U.S. citizens—have ended up in ICE raids and been dumped into prisons. After all, to the White racist, all non-White people look alike. Just last month, LatinoJustice highlighted a statement made by Power 4 Puerto Rico’s director, Erica González Martínez: “ICE’s targeting of Latinos—including Puerto Ricans— for mass deportation is racial profiling. Racial profiling does not make an exception for the U.S. citizenship of Puerto Ricans, a situation all the more alarming under this white supremacist, oligarch takeover. Whether Boricuas [a person from Puerto Rico by birth or descent] are stateside or in our Caribbean country, we must stand united for the rights of our people and those of vulnerable Black and Brown immigrants.” 

Fragile Egos

Another thing racism reveals about the racist is a deep insecurity. A truly secure person has no need to belittle others, to boast about their own “natural” superiority. To lie about the size of their inauguration crowd, for example, if they are a White president, in comparison to that of their predecessor, a Black president. But that’s exactly what Trump did during his first term, beginning on the very first morning of his presidency in 2017 when he became obsessed with the prior day’s inauguration photos, now making the rounds on social media. That great stretch of empty space on The Mall behind those who had come to watch him take his oath of office. A space that had been filled when Barack Obama was inaugurated. Something must be done! After all, his (Trump’s) inauguration crowd had been the largest! Ever! And certainly larger than Obama’s! A government photographer later admitted to investigators that, yes, he had cropped photos of Trump’s inauguration to remove empty space and make the audience look larger.

And who can forget the ceaseless quest for a Nobel Peace Prize for anything—anything—because that same Black president was awarded a Nobel Peace Prize in 2009 for his “extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.”

And then there was the president’s recent racist AI-generated video of Michelle and Barack Obama as apes…

What’s Up Next: Massive Prison Camps

At a time when Medicaid is facing significant cuts and ACA premiums are skyrocketing, the Republican-controlled Congress allocated more than $170 billion in additional funding for the Department of Homeland Security, the bulk of it going to Customs and Border Protection and ICE. Forty-five billion of that has been allocated for detention expansion including eight new detention warehouses that would hold up to 10,000 detainees each.

Currently, the largest ICE detention facility in the country is Fort Bliss, a tent camp on an El Paso military base that holds about 3,000 people on any given day. Fort Bliss (oh, the irony of that name!) began detaining people six months ago and already it’s racked up an alarming number of violent incidents— violence committed by ICE overseers against the detainees. including the death of one detainee after he was choked by an officer. Indeed, violent assaults and sexual abuse by those in authority were reported in interviews with more than 45 detainees. Neglect, too, is a kind of violence. An immigrant from Guatemala, detained at Fort Bliss, died of kidney and liver failure after he was denied medical care at the camp.

Now, imagine this horror on a scale of 80,000 immigrants locked up in ICE’s proposed mega-facilities. And because so many humane and caring Americans can imagine it all too well, we are seeing protests wherever these massive detention centers and the smaller processing centers that serve them are planned. Protests that are achieving results.

We Say NO! 

When news of a proposed ICE detention center in Kansas City, Missouri went public, local residents took to the streets to say NO! In response, their elected officials quickly passed an ordinance to block it. Soon after, development company Platform Ventures announced it was cancelling the sale of its massive warehouse to ICE in that city.

Hundreds of people gathered for a public hearing held by the Hanover County Board of Supervisors to voice their strong disapproval of a proposed ICE facility near Richmond, Virginia. Heeding their citizens, the HC Board of Supervisors pushed back against the DHS plan to convert a local warehouse into an immigration detention processing center. 

When it was discovered that DHS was planning to open a 324,000-square-foot regional detention center for ICE detainees in Merrimack, New Hampshire, protestors lined the streets leading to the town hall. “NO ICE” their signs declared and numerous cars honked their agreement. Their voices were heard. On February 23, MS NOW’s Rachel Maddow announced that DHS abandoned its Merrimack mega-prison after so much kickback from protesters.

Mayors in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma and Salt Lake City, Utah have vowed property owners in their city won’t be selling facilities to ICE after citizens in both locations made their opposition clear.

Across the U.S., the fight has taken on a greater goal: To shut down ICE altogether. Protests, walkouts and economic strikes occurred in more than 300 cities in late January, after the ICE murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti drew enormous crowds. “We’re here to say we want ICE out of all of our communities around the country,” University of Utah student Benji Park declared. To that, I can only add: Amen.

A recent email from the Massachusetts Teachers Association declared: “The more we show up for one another, the greater the power we generate for local and statewide campaigns.” And MS NOW’s Chris Hayes noted in his February 12 edition of All In with Chris Hayes, “The people with the better, more humane vision have the numbers on their side.”

We must never lose sight of that because what our government is doing, the horror ICE is unleashing, is inhumane in the extreme. It is wrong. IT MUST STOP NOW!