You want to know how your town feels about politics? Try standing on a street corner, holding a sign.
I'm standing in a group on the edge of a busy street. There are a dozen of us, and I'm holding the 'V' sign in VOTE, hanging on a cord around my neck. We're holding flags and waving at the cars as they go by. My feet are cold. My arms are tired.
As car after car go by, the drivers show us how they feel.
Some stare studiously ahead, even when the light turns and they're only ten feet away.
Many of them give us a friendly nod, or smile and wave. Some honk, or give us a thumbs up.
Then there are others who - well, they let their opinions be known.
They frown or shake their heads as they go by. Some of them roll down their windows and shout slogans, or give us the finger, or yell, "F--- you!" They slow down to shout it and then gun their engines and speed away, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust.
Across the road, a guy opens the window above his restaurant and drapes a banner that says "Make Liberals Cry Again". He tapes it carefully in place and stares out at us. We ignore him and keep on waving at cars.
It's getting colder. The wind is picking up. The cord on my sign pulls loose, and it nearly blows away. My fingers are numb, and I can hardly get the knot retied.
Another truck roars by. This one has both a Trump flag and a Confederate flag attached to the cab, fluttering behind him. The driver in his red hat slows down, rolls his window down to give us the standard one-finger sign, guns the motor and roars off.
I start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, we should stand a little further back from the edge. One of those guys might just decide to mow us down.
The light changes. Another truck pulls to a stop. This time, the guy in it looks down right at me. He smiles, staring me in the eye, and then he slowly raises his hand and makes a fist. Suddenly I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the winter wind.
That look in his eye was hate. Pure, cold hate.
I think, but I'm your neighbor! Why do you hate me? You don't even know me!
But he didn't see me, I know. He saw my sign, and I was just some flat cardboard cut-out of his political enemy. We're not real people to him - we're just the symbol of everything he hates and fears.
I take a shaky breath and think, well, am I any different?
I look at all those young, white guys in their trucks with their flags fluttering and their fists held high, and up from some dark cellar in my head, names start to creep out: Ignorant. Redneck. Racist. Heartless. I think, WE'RE not the problem here. YOU are.
The man at the window across the road is still standing there, staring at us. He looks tired. Suddenly I think, I wish we could talk. I don't understand him, and he probably doesn't understand me, either. But all we do is look at each other across this divide and think, "What is wrong with you?" and shake our heads.
I wish I could put down my sign and walk across the road, and we could sit down and chat for a while. Sip our coffee and tell each other our names. Ask about each other's kids. Look at pictures of each other's pets. And maybe, if we get comfortable enough, open up enough to tell each other about our worries and fears.
I can just see us, listening and nodding, finally understanding and seeing each other as people, not just banners and yard signs.
You know, no matter what happens in these next weeks and months, the real work, I think, is going to have to happen on our own streets. If we want to heal the country we love, we've got to do it right here, one conversation at a time.
It's about time to pack up. We start to stack up the signs. I look back one more time to the window across the street. He's still watching us. I wave - and he hesitates.
And then he waves back.
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