Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Friends, I am still high from Tuesday. We've still got a whole lot of work to do, a lot of things to fix and build and swap around, a few state constitutional amendments to knock down, but it doesn't feel like we're going to have to go it alone anymore. We try so hard to make the world worth living in and safe for other people, because we honestly want to leave behind a better place than we've inherited (although my worms probably wish I would not take out my enthusiasm on their taxed digestive systems). But for so long it's felt like we've been trying to make paper snowflakes with safety scissors, and all of a sudden someone has walked up and said, hey, I've got the keys to a place where there are real tools. Let's make something beautiful together.

On Tuesday I stood there in a room packed full of friends and acquaintances and strangers, full of people I have laughed with and volunteered with and with people I might never see again, and every single one of those people was laughing or shouting or crying or hugging or kissing or everything at once. One giant joyful organism. We wandered from street party to bar to dance party and eventually, it was time to go home. My cab driver was elated, and I was elated, and the streets were blocked and people were laughing and hugging and dancing still, and our eyes met in the rearview mirror. My cabbie--who will be a citizen in six months, and thrilled to be joining this America--and I shrugged at each other and hopped out of the cab and melted back into the throng, which welcomed us with open arms and open beers.
Nothing else would have made any sense.

Later, in the earliest hours of the morning, the street party broke up and the revelers grabbed brooms and trash bags and cleaned up the party before daybreak. Always trying to make things better, and finally believing that we can.