A CROWD TOGETHER

 

December 2025 View from My Window

A week of horrible news where I am having a hard time finding the joy in the moment. I send emails to my representatives each week and receive back their thoughtful messages. I read and read and read all those bloggers/op eds/columnists who write better than I do about our country and where we find ourselves today. I've signed up to march again on January 20, the anniversary of the 2016 Women's March. I've donated to people whom I feel are working to disrupt what our federal government is doing. I focus on the small things around me, but know I need to do more in this existential struggle we are in.

I look out my window and glimpse the young mother in the building next to me as she comes to the window holding her baby. I think of my time doing the same with our son. I see pink camellias blooming right below her. I hear the noise of workmen pulling up tiles in a unit somewhere above us. I see the last leaf on the Japanese maple, which is tall enough to reach halfway up to the fourth floor where we live. Ordinary things.

On a drive last weekend to friends' home, we listened to Rachel Maddow's newest podcast, Burn Order, about the WWII internment camps set to house Japanese Americans, who were no threat to our country, but an easy target, and heard once again about our cycle of history repeating itself again.

KQED, our local public radio station, asked listeners a question recently: What was a moment you remember when a group of strangers came together with kindness towards others?

I immediately though of moments that were just the opposite: the Hitler rallies, the Trump rallies, sporting events gone wrong. But that is only one side of the ability of humans to come together.

"Two Sides of a Coin" by Martha Slavin

I thought of one day when I was new to Tokyo and getting used to their bus system without being able to read the bus information signs. I boarded a bus from Shibuya to Roppongi, districts close to our home in Minami Azabu. The bus was filled with people and there wasn't much room. I stood on the yellow lines in front of the exit door. When the bus came to my stop, the door wouldn't open. I was confused and looked for a button to push. I then felt a light tap on my shoulder and turned to find the entire group of riders lifting their hands up in unison, directing me to step off the yellow stripes. I patted by forehead with my fingers and moved back. As soon as I did, the yellow stripes became stairs that moved down to the platform. I bowed my head slightly to all those gracious, helpful people and descended the bus, feeling both grateful and embarrassed.

That group of people united for a moment to help a stranger. As I read the news this week, I find hope in the ordinary citizens in the United States who are standing up to power to protect our freedom.

A poster I wrote during the Pandemic that seems even more important today.

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Remember Renee Nicole Macklin Good.