Written on Tuesday, November 5, 2024.

Today is one of those Big Days. One of those dates that’s been stamped out in my future in bright red ink: Tuesday, November 5th. US Election day. And any red stamp day like that comes with a lot of anticipation, preparation, and consideration (to put it mildly). Who will be elected US President?

And nestled within this question, I hear the many implied questions: What does this election reveal about us? About who we are? About who I am? About who my neighbor is?

I don’t know what election results will be. And I don’t know what public discourse will say about who we are…about who I am…about who my neighbor is. So instead of spinning out in an identity politics-fueled identity crisis, I decided to think about the things I do know.

I know that tomorrow when I go on my usual walk, my non-English speaking neighbor and I will greet each other with stuttering words and genuine smiles.

I know that on that walk, I’m likely to hear or see a pileated woodpecker near the light pole that I kick before I turn around and head back home.

I know that on Thursday morning as soon as the garbage truck leaves our street that my neighbor up the hill will be the first to take in his bins. And then he will haul his across-the-street neighbor’s bins from the curb up to her garage door where they will wait for her to put them away when she gets back from dropping her nieces off at school. She cares for her husband who has a physical disability, so her neighbor tries to save her a little labor.

I know that my neighbor with the big truck will have something glib to say about politics because he likes to see if he can get my goat. I also know that he’ll ask after my daughter to see if she’s doing alright in school and whether she’s still playing her…what’s that thing called again? A vee-oh-luh?

I know that my next-door neighbor will have her friends over to park their cars all over the place and jam on guitars and sing and laugh.

I know that I probably won’t talk to my next-door neighbor on the other side for months on end, but I also know that she lent me her ice machine when I had knee surgery and that her granddaughters like to play circus.

I know that at the top of the hill, my neighbors’ dog will bark at my dog and that it will sound like some sort of canine-turkey mix. And I know that they bought cookie dough from my daughter for a school fundraiser.

I know that the neighbor who gruffly declined to buy cookie dough from my daughter for a school fundraiser also gave out full-sized chocolate bars to trick-or-treaters.

I know that another neighbor is sifting through her mother’s things after she passed a year or so ago. And I know I have her mother’s banana bread recipe written in her mother’s hand in baking my files now.

I know that I picked up persimmons from the yard of a neighbor a few streets over. I know it’s ok because I asked their permission two autumns ago and they said, “Take as many as you want! Anytime!”

I know that I’ll feed the persimmon pulp to the composting worms that live in my garage. I know that I’ll put that compost in my garden next spring. Fingers crossed that I’m organized enough to get seeds to plant by then. 

I know how most of my neighbors have voted. I know because they told me in curbside conversations, sometimes with one of us hanging out the window of one of our cars. I know I didn’t vote the same way as some, perhaps most, of them.

I know that I have ideological differences with each of them about *something*. But I also know that last fall when I talked about not mowing our leaves to preserve pollinator populations, the leaf litter in the empty lot everyone uses for a compost pile was no longer shredded.

Today, I know that tomorrow is coming no matter what. I know that there will be consequences to real peoples’ lives no matter what. And I know that there will be varying opinions about the difference between inconvenience and injustice. Not just tomorrow.

But today I know that on my street there exists a multi-lingual, multi-cultural community made up of people from different generations, ethnicities, countries of origin, and immigrant roots. I know that we represent a spectrum of sexualities, gender identities, relationship statuses and household make-ups, of religions, of education levels, of work arenas, of lived experience. And like any neighborhood, I know for a fact that we represent a variety of approaches to lawn care and maintenance. (Everyone is very nice about my hippie ways.)

I know that ‘us’ and ‘them’ rhetoric sometimes trips us up as we talk to each other, but I also know that we always walk away from a chat knowing each other a little better. And I think that the fact that we all live on this same street in the middle of the US in the middle of Missouri is something in and of itself.

I know that there’s much to fear. I feel it in my bones, in my chest. I don’t know much about tomorrow.

But I know that I’m hoping to bake cinnamon rolls this weekend, so I pulled the starter out of the freezer on Monday. (And I know that my neighbor who moved a couple of years ago gave me the original starter in the middle of our street in March of 2020, just as the pandemic shut-downs began.)

I know that I’ll feed the starter some sugar, flour, and milk. And I know that I’ll ask my daughter to squish and knead it its plastic bag for me so she’ll stay in the kitchen to talk with me a little longer about her day.

I know that if I make a large enough batch that I’ll share with my neighbors…except for the one who’s gluten-free.

I know that cinnamon rolls won’t change what happens tomorrow. But I know that change can happen.

I know that change can happen slowly and change can happen quickly.

And I know I want to be a part of that change. However slow. However quick.

And I know none of this is as simple as it sounds.

I know that it’ll take knocking on more doors in years and elections to come. But I also know that those doors open more readily when you know the person on the other side.

So tomorrow? Feed the starter. Walk the dog. Meet the neighbors.

And prove love whenever possible.

– Chelsey D. Hillyer, Guest Blogger, Building Bridges Word by Word

Chelsey D. Hillyer (they/she) is a writer and non-violence practitioner who lives in central Missouri, USA with their spouse and daughter. To learn more about Chelsey, visit www.amateurefforts.com. Or click here to receive her SoulWork Newsletter where this piece first appeared, click here.