Deliver the Vote

   

 

    A cold wind was blowing this morning, and I knew I needed to bundle up to spend an hour outside protesting, so I was digging into the bottoms of bins, dredging up things I hadn’t worn in a year, when a message came from A., a client we are trying to save from eviction because she was so deeply depressed that she did not recertify for her housing.  I can’t imagine what would have happened with a housing court case on a Saturday but it turned out to be a whole different issue.  A was contacting me from her mother’s house, where they had just returned from the hospital.  Her mother, a 50 year old with a pile of psych diagnoses and crack addiction, was demanding another of her opiod pain meds even though it was way too soon.  Afraid of an overdose, A refused and then her mother attacked her and attempted to strangle her to try to get the pills.  Afraid of her mother’s reaction if she called the police in front of her, she asked me to do it, so I did.

By then I was behind schedule, but I made it to Farley, the main post office, just a few min late.  It was a much bigger crowd than I expected, at least a thousand people crowding the wide steps.  People were chanting and singing various protest songs, including the tongue twister verse of “No one is getting left behind”, where it’s easy to mix up the “together” and “never” and wind up with a totally different meaning.

There was another event later on at Washington Square, but I needed to get back to Brooklyn.  Trying to switch to the D at West 4^th, the arrival time stayed stuck at 9 minutes as other trains came and went.  Later it turned out the delays were because someone had been shot at a station on 53^rd St.

A skinny man in a blue sweatshirt came up to me, apparently having noticed the “Defend Democracy” sign under my arm.  “Why aren’t you protesting the electoral college?” he asked.  “They are a problem,” I agreed.  “Several recent elections would have been different without them.”  My agreement seemed to encourage him,  because he started rambling on about various things I could barely follow – his lawsuit against the City, how he hated the term “American Indian” although it was his own heritage, several not-funny racial jokes.  It was a relief when he gave up on the D and got on the next F.

By the time I  had to switch trains in downtown Brooklyn, my foot, still swollen from having my laptop slip through my hands and land on it edge down, was starting to throb. so I was waiting for the elevator at Jay St.  A man, clearly so privileged that he was really outraged about the subway’s weekend rerouting shenanigans, was telling the officers leaning against the tile wall that he had had to get off the F twice because it kept announcing that it was skipping 4^th Ave.  One of the officers made several attempts at explaining, in a heavy Indian accent, that he had to go to 7^th and then get the train back towards Manhattan to get to 4^th.  Even more aggravated, the man began shouting at the officer that he was already an hour late.  Just as the elevator arrived, I turned and said, “The R train goes to 4^th ave.”  “Is that up here?” he asked, gesturing to the stairs. When I said yes, he went zooming up, leaving me to get on the elevator where an older black woman met my eyes – she had been watching the whole thing and she just shook her head.