On a warm weekend afternoon at an outdoor café, my friend Randi divided up her stack of stamped postcards and passed half to me across the table. We chatted and caught up on each other’s lives as we wrote the identical message over and over to strangers in South Carolina: “We do our best for our families no matter our color, age, or gender, but some politicians divide us to block access to affordable health care, good schools, and clean water. Let’s join together and vote in the November 3 election.” I signed my first name on my stack, and Randi signed hers, under the narrative provided to us by the two sponsoring organizations, Indivisible and Postcards2SwingStates. The only variations were the salutations—Ashton, Tiffany, Cindy, Marco, others—and the individual addresses copied from a list of Democratic voters.

I had brought along my own ballot in the car to deliver afterward. After I parked outside the café, I hesitated about leaving my ballot unattended on the car seat with a momentary concern about it being taken. I realized that having participated in elections for decades, I have never been more attached to my ballot. When Randi and I finished up, she graciously offered to mail my postcards along with hers. I had become attached to these potential votes as well, and kept the cards to mail myself.

I headed to turn in my ballot at the county Civic Center that houses the local courts and other government offices. I followed the signs in the large complex pointing to the location of the ballot drop-off. Alone in the empty parking lot, I walked up to the official box and stopped before pulling the handle. I reflected on what I was holding, more than a piece of paper and a sealed envelope. It held the weight of all the people across the world who have risked their lives, and sometimes lost them, for the right to cast their vote.

In my own country, it was only 100 years ago that women who were white first obtained the right to vote. I thought about how the Voting Rights Act protected the ballots of Black Americans only in 1965. Indigenous Americans’ voting rights were secured by the last holdout state only in 1962, and they still face legal obstacles. In my own lifetime. Now those in power are trying to take the ability to vote away.

It wasn’t until after I dropped my ballot into the chute that I noticed the cardboard sign across the paved walkway, adjacent to the building’s big glass doors. Curious, I walked over to look. It was a makeshift memorial for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Two battery operated candles had been placed on either side. A jar had previously served as an improvised vase with water, its bottom containing brightly colored marbles. With this public entrance long closed due to the pandemic, the jar was completely dry and held the desiccated remains of what had been flowers.

Teary-eyed, the action I needed to take became clear. I drove the 16 miles home to fill up a water bottle, bought a colorful bouquet, and returned to the Civic Center just before dusk. My license plate was no doubt appearing on a security camera, with someone watching me pouring the water into the jar and placing the fresh flowers. I removed the disintegrating remnants of the previous offering and placed them at the base of some ornamental shrubs nearby, to decompose and replenish the soil.

Amidst the behind-the-scenes maneuvering to undermine democracy, patriotism isn’t hateful bluster while waving a flag. Patriotism is thousands of people across the country writing more than 15 million postcards to voters they’ll never meet. It’s the anonymous individual who showed up with cardboard, candles, and a jar, and made a lifelong promise to a heroic American to stand up for justice for all.

On Earth Day this year, 50,000 other sane people and I walked down Market Street in the March for Science in San Francisco. Until recently, I would not have thought I’d have to defend that most basic of nonpartisan concepts—science. You know, the field that brought us handwashing.

Alone, it’s easy to despair and feel powerless in these challenging times. But that wasn’t possible when I was surrounded by so many committed people of all ages with their creative signs and costumes.

While the purpose was serious, our collective mood was upbeat. This is why I attend peaceful protests—to recharge for the slog that is social change. I will continue to show up.

Me and the other heretics.

When I read the news about the president’s executive order targeting Muslim immigrants from the Middle East and heard about the protest at San Francisco International Airport, I knew how I was going to spend my Sunday. Somewhere hidden in that airport were unfortunate travelers in custody, separated from their families based solely on their ethnicity and country of origin. My friend Saret and I headed down early to help out the couple dozen committed souls who spent the night there after some of the thousands there the day before had headed home.

I made my simple sign, writing in black marker on a piece of paper in between chants of “No bans, no wall, sanctuary for all” and “Tell me what democracy looks like, this is what democracy looks like.” Just a simple message in big enough letters to read from a distance: “Let them in.”
When Saret had to leave for work, I connected with a number of new friends who were good company throughout the day.

As people came and went they left their signs behind to be picked up by others.

Attorneys arrived and offered their services, forming a spontaneous team. Some set themselves up in a coffee shop as their legal headquarters. Others walked around prominently to direct people to the headquarters, and asked around to find people who could translate their signs into Farsi and Arabic for arriving travelers. At one attorney’s request, our crowd chanted our support: “Let the lawyers in, let the families out.”

As the hours passed, more and more people arrived at the airport. We sang and chanted while some American travelers happened upon our protest and cheered for us.

Droves of supporters had started dropping off food the previous day for people staying overnight, and there continued to be lots of food available on tables along the sidewalk outside the terminal.

Sympathetic managers at San Francisco International Airport issued a formal statement of support: “We appreciate all those who have so passionately expressed their concerns over the President’s Executive Order relating to immigration. We share these concerns deeply, as our highest obligation is to the millions of people from around the world whom we serve. Although Customs and Border Protection services are strictly federal and operate outside the jurisdiction of all U.S. airports, including SFO, we have requested a full briefing from this agency to ensure our customers remain the top priority. We are also making supplies available to travelers affected by this Executive Order, as well as to the members of the public who have so bravely taken a stand against this action by speaking publicly in our facilities.”

Hundreds more people continued to stream in as I headed home. Eventually there would be 1,000. Later in the day the last person detained, a man from Iran, was finally released and united with his worried family.

This is indeed what democracy looks like. To get involved with a national movement with your local neighbors, I hope you’ll join me in connecting with Indivisible. Please spread the word.

It was in July that I made my decision about what I needed to do.

I had already watched the Supreme Court decimate the Voting Rights Act. I’d been appalled at how state after state subsequently passed laws to restrict which Americans could vote. And when the Republican Party named their candidate for president with his hateful rhetoric, I resolved to act.

With no issues in my home state, I’m volunteering for the presidential election in Arizona. I’ll be joining the efforts of the Arizona Advocacy Network’s Election Protection team in the Phoenix area, where the Maricopa County sheriff is nationally infamous for violating civil rights.

I’m going because I’m patriotic.

With so much at stake, I am compelled to counter those who reference American values in the most perverse language possible—citing freedom as a basis for hate and promoting violence against those who don’t meet their standards of whom their fellow Americans should be. I’m reclaiming their adjectives and slogans to promote the best of American values. Liberty for all. Regardless of what we look like, what language we speak, what country we were born in, what religion we believe in or not. And so many other freedoms.

I cannot let the fear-mongering go unchallenged. The America I believe in doesn’t discriminate. My America opens the door for every voter.

On election day, I will be there with my flag lapel on. For liberty and justice for all.

Beneath my external calm, I was shaking. But I had taken the critical step across our societal line of complicity. I landed on the side of using my privilege to make a difference instead of taking advantage of it in silence as I had for many years before that. I doubt that I changed that guy’s mind. But there’s a good chance he would hesitate before saying such poison words to someone else.

I cannot return to a place of silence. The nonviolence trainings I participated in decades ago when I was attending protests against nuclear power and logging of ancient redwoods seem even more relevant in these times of increasing hate and violence. I stand upon my Buddhist practice as another layer of the foundation. With so much at stake, I must keep reaching out to make that human connection for a better world.

How do I look bigotry in the face and see the humanity of the person on the other side, to change our society in my daily interactions without falling into a hateful place myself? This is my ongoing practice.

With that in mind this Independence Day weekend, I took myself to the county fair where volunteers had set up booths for this year’s presidential candidates. I have never met anyone who supports the Republican Party’s scary nominee—I can’t bring myself to type his name on this blog—and I wanted to look in their faces, have a conversation with them, try to understand.

I spent the first part of the day soaking up the upbeat energy of the fair—the determination of the kids in 4-H showing off their dogs’ agility training, the jugglers and music, the artwork and photographs in the galleries, the taste of roasted corn on the cob. Then I made my way to the red, white and blue booth.

So much of understanding is just about listening, so I started there. I listened to the man beside me explain to the volunteers that he believes in the Constitution, and that’s why he is going to vote for the nominee. I believe in the Constitution, too, I thought, which is why I came to the exact opposite conclusion. Someone came by and bought a bumper sticker. And then it was just me and the three women, facing me across their table piled with books, stickers, a clipboard to sign up to help the campaign. They appeared to be about my age or a little older. One of them greeted me.

“I’m here because I’d like to find out why you support the nominee,” I began, as politely as I could. Two of them took turns responding with the catch phrases I’ve been reading for months. “A strong military.” “Securing our borders.” “Keeping us safe.” They then asked me about my opinion.

I started with explaining that when the nominee was asked a question by a reporter with a disability at a press conference, he made fun of the reporter’s disability. All three of them nodded and one softly said, “Yes, that was unfortunate.” Another said, “Well, he doesn’t practice, he just says what he thinks.” Indeed, I thought.

“I’m Jewish,” I said. “And a lot of what he says about Muslims and immigration reminds me of what so many people said about Jews during World War II when they refused to let them into their countries when they were targeted by the Nazis. You could swap the word Jews for Muslims and that’s how it seems today. I think that’s racist.” The reply: “Oh no, it’s not the same. Jews weren’t terrorists.”

And so the conversation went, as they ticked off familiar buzzwords about the Koran and allowing Muslims into the U.S. To keep my center, I visualized the darker-skinned faces of Americans I care about who were born in other countries. That helped me stay calm. I said that the Bible promotes some pretty awful things but that doesn’t mean Christians act on them all, and asked if they’d personally met anyone who is Muslim. They stammered.

One woman asked me who I liked in the election. “I don’t like either of them, actually,” I said, “but I am voting for the other candidate because I find the nominee so frightening.”

We talked a little more. Our conversation was uncomfortable. They drew closer together and I think they might have been a little afraid of what I might say or do. It was time to wrap up. “Well, I see we disagree. Thank you for talking with me.”

I walked away, breathed deeply and set out to locate something uplifting. As a counterpoint, I happened upon the booth for the firefighters, people who risk their lives responding to anyone who needs help without discrimination. I smiled watching them help little kids climb into the fire truck and listened to the children laughing as they placed their tiny hands on the steering wheel.

I came away with a few things from the county fair. A book on local trails, information about where to recycle some old electronics, a framed photograph of a beach that I’m attached to. And a reminder that there is no us vs. them—there is only us. To create an equitable world requires dialogue even with those whose world view I find harmful. Staying silent is staying complicit. On this Independence Day, I recommit myself to freedom for all, being an ally and continuing to speak up.

On Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in 1999, I reflected on this extraordinary man’s courageous life and wrote a letter to the individual who brought his vision to life for me personally—my mother. Here is an excerpt from the letter written 15 years ago.

January 18, 1999

Dear Mom:

Today, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I’m recalling a Detroit evening in 1968. I was 11 years old. I had been out somewhere and don’t remember much about what I’d been doing. It was what happened when I returned home that is still vivid in my memory.

You were crying, a rare thing for me to see as a child. I was immediately concerned, and you told me Martin Luther King, Jr. had just been assassinated. I remember details—you sat in the big brown chair. You wanted me to know what happened. When I asked why he was killed, you told me some people are full of hate.

In those days, I barely noticed we were one of the last white families in our Detroit neighborhood, unlike those who had fled the influx of black families. The skin color of our neighbors and friends was so irrelevant that I was stunned when I became aware of how basic day-to-day living was hard for them in a bigoted world.

This weekend, I honored Martin by attending a speech by Robert Meeropol, a fundraiser for the Rosenberg Fund for Children. This incredible organization provides support for children whose activist parents have been targeted. Of course I have known since I was a kid who Ethel and Julius Rosenberg were, and who their son Robert Meeropol is. You made sure when I was growing up that I knew the truth about this family. You consistently informed me about the real, courageous people populating the political landscape.

Right now I hold a mental photo of you that sad night in 1968, pondering as an 11-year-old that you were moved to tears by the death of a man you’d never met. At age 41, I am now as old as you were then, and I recognize you as the source for my life’s work on behalf of children and the earth.

I could no easier cease working toward a better world than I could stop breathing. I am the daughter of the woman for whom Martin’s death was a personal irreplaceable loss, who boycotted grapes and lettuce on behalf of the union organizing efforts and well-being of distant Latino farmworkers, who always made sure I understood that I’d never be a soloist on this planet.

I appreciate many traits I inherited from you, but value most the intangibles. Compassion. Perseverance in the face of injustice. The ability to still laugh in hard times, to notice when others—human or otherwise—are suffering, to know when I am obligated to act.

Robert Meeropol said in his speech: “Where there is tyranny, there is always resistance.” I am forever committed to the resistance. Unequivocally, I learned this was essential first, and best, from you.

Update: I’m honored that the Rosenberg Fund for Children has shared this post with their community.

Two events are occurring today that motivate me to write this.

First, I read John Boehner’s announcement that he will not allow a vote in the House of Representatives on the Employment Non-Discrimination Act–legislation that would protect people in the queer community–because “the Speaker believes this legislation will increase frivolous litigation and cost American jobs.” Second, tonight is my volunteer shift at the GLBT National Help Center. I talk with people from across the country who call or chat me anonymously for support as they navigate our societal issues around sexual orientation. For many, it is the first time they have found the courage to tell anyone who they are because it is such a huge risk in the context of their lives.

It is precisely because of the threat countless people face that I am motivated to be there for those who reach out. I am grateful that I am employed at a place where I have never once had to ponder risking my livelihood for being the B in LGBT. And I recommit myself to working for that same right for all of us.

My brother in court standing beside the prisoner (photo by a newspaper photographer)

In 1993, a mentally ill man murdered four people. Since his conviction in 1996, he has been on death row.

His legal journey is once again in the news. While many people across the nation are clamoring for his days on this earth to end, 17 years later he is still alive due to the efforts of a group of people committed to commuting his death sentence to life in prison without parole. Two of these people are attorneys on his legal team, my brother and my brother-in-law.

Each day that this prisoner has awakened to take another breath is the direct result of their battling against an entire culture focused on vengeance and sanctioned killing. When I contemplate the world’s heroes, these two are among them. I am honored beyond words to be in their family.

UPDATE:  The prisoner has been given a reprieve by the government.