Maya says:
We had a loooong morning before departure, wrapping up the bits and bobs of loose ends of lists, and after a quick lunch - and an even quicker downpour - we headed out the driveway of 32 Dodd Street and onto the Garden State Parkway and Route 78W and eventually we crossed the New Jersey state line into Pennsylvania and I think we all took a deep breath and let it out. A few hours later, I got to cross one of my road trip bucket list items off the list: a visit to Roadside America's Miniature Village in Shartlesville. It was one of those only-in-America tourist attractions, but it was exactly the right thing to get us into a certain frame of mind, namely the devotion to all things tiny and exquisite. The man who dreamed up this attraction spent 60 years building it, and was still adding buildings and features when he died in 1963.
Tonight, I'm writing from our very first campsite, at Burnt Cabins Campground and Gristmill, where I actually stayed 4 years ago on my first Type Rider trip. The woman who runs the campground actually recognized me when we drove in, which I couldn't believe. "You're the typewriter lady," she said, as I stood in disbelief that she could have even placed me. "How did you know?" I asked, and she pointed to the car, which is generously decorated in magnetic poetry tiles, and said, "I saw the words."
Tomorrow, we'll cross another state line, and maybe even another item or two off that bucket list.
Amy says:
Black lives matter.
We fumbled through the morning ticking boxes off our long list.
Black lives matter.
As my boys pulled away to take their belongings to their father's house, I shouted, "Be safe." But I meant drive carefully. I meant use your blinkers and keep to the speed limit and wear your seat belt. I meant don't text and drive. I meant be safe until I see you later this summer. I did not have to think about the possibility of them being pulled over and shot for the color of their skin.
Black lives matter.
A storm rumbled in the distance as we packed the last few provisions, then a torrential downpour struck as Travis stood holding the backdoor open for me and said, "You ready?"
Black lives matter.
I am ready. I am white and privileged and cannot possibly know how it feels to be the grieving mother of Philando Castile or Alton Sterling. I was not shot in a nightclub in Orlando a few weeks ago. But I could have been. I know more violence is not the answer. I know killing police officers in retaliation is not the answer. I know I am angry and sad and terrified for our future. I know the only thing I can truly do is listen. And learn. And speak up. And speak out. And vote. And use my voice to teach people how to make tiny books. Our friend Aimee said on Wednesday evening before we left, "Who knew there was a hole in the world that could be filled by making tiny books?"
And maybe it's like the myth of the little Dutch boy who kept poking his fingers in the dam to stop the flood, but I'll keep using my voice, because
tiny matters.