Fuck it

See that? Everyone in the world can see and hear (and judge) my use of the “f word.” Same thing holds for all the content I create here in my Final Year of Teaching chronicle. Oh my, what will happen when my students and colleagues read my blogs? The truth will out?

I will use codenames and other devices out of sheer respect, of course. But will I let this notion of public writing infringe on my truth? then why write blogs at all? Logic people, Reason, people. So yes, I will not always say the “right thing” to keep in “good standing” whatever the fuck that means today. I’m hoping this year is my last one (of course, if I suffer a financial disaster of sorts I might be staying on ….augh…nothing in stone, now or ever, yes? ) Will I censor my blog according to the appropriateness? Perhaps, but I pray I call myself out on that very thing. I’m trying to keep track of a career from the inside out. (See website name, okay?) I plan to tell the truth.

So yes, today, August 14, was excruciating–listening for hours upon hours to folks’ drone on and on. It’s not that they are boring (they are) or that what they have to say is completely dull (quite the opposite) but most of them are NOT good speakers, their material is cliche and flat. They would defend themselves, rightly so, “We’re not performers like you, LePell, we’re just sharing our truths, not flailing and dancing all over the room.” Guilty as charged. Okay…

What’s so hard is the passivity of it all. I know we can “chat” in zoom room and if we’re really sharp, maybe we can write or read online while folks are talking. We can certainly “disappear” easily enough. That’s rude, but necessary sometimes.

It was grueling. No chance to join in the conversation.

I’d Never Do This To My Students…talk at them for hours. I barely talk for 5 minutes before getting another voice in the room.

It was so hard to be so passive, especially when the subject was so fiery–we spent ample time on BLM and Police Brutality. I scribbled down delicious new words and phrases: “Intentionality. Holding space. Village consciousness. Transformative Justice. (yum), allies, othering (I love that one), heteronormativing …(.yes, it’s a verb now too), deepening my ally self, an old fav, paradigm shift. Restorative Justice. Re-imaging the imagination. Lots of videos and speakers, more charts, more stats, more people to hear from. BUT…I just sit at my little desk, trying not to get a back ache. I can’t do “passive.”

I’m sorry, I just can’t do it well. I get up, walk in circles, do some yoga, look at the clock again and again. I eat way way too much, nibbling to fill myself up, because I am so quiet when I want to speak so much. Okay…big fucking deal LePell…”feelin’ a little shushed?” “Welcome to my world,” they might say. Okay, I hear you…big violin.

I applaud the community at my college for so fully adopting the use of THEY as a pronoun. THEY are doin’ great. My ears still pring with disturbance (I make up words) because for 55 years I’ve been trying to master grammar…only to fuck with it when I feel like it…indeed, draw the fucking vase before you try to do Pollickism (That’s a good one, ya think?)

Anyway, by the time the last meeting was underway, I inevitably leak a little built up energy in the form of a comment on yet another new…what do you call it, “program?” something about student pathways, some other whitewash academic speak for rushing our students through, get them in, get them out… blah blah blah, that is not going to make for compelling words. I grow all snarky and pissed off. Duh, I’ve been sitting in silence for hours! of course, I am cast as the sharp and shrill fury of the room. Okay, I’ll take it. I have to. Today. It’s a part I play, knowingly, consciously. But I don’t want to be holed into one role, so I’ll change my tone and maybe my costume another time.

I try to be nice. I do. I really do. It’s no one’s fault. Such warm and well-meaning folks at my college…it’s the Institutionalization…I’ve been IN it…I like to be IN it, and have been IN for nearly 30 years. Most people speak so positively when things get institutionalized, worked in, baked in to the institution. That scares the shit out of me.

So glad the day is over. Students on Monday. The ones who don’t give a shit about what we say in meetings or what agenda items get worked on or what task force is charged with what task. They come back to the classroom…the zoom room now.

I go back to imagining all their wonderful optimism; I inhale it. I get a little tingly. Surely, they will arrive fully equipped to learn, new supplies, new pencils, new hairdos…They are ready and eager…are they not? I have believed this for more than 28 years. I have imagined it each Fall for decades.


Oh yeah. Fuck it. If someone I work with takes the time to read my blog, or my students poke around here…HA! that’d surprise (and delight) me…no one is that curious. I hope they prove me wrong. Sigh.

Hmmm. First day of class in 2 days. Yay. For now.

The first days of the last days

August 13, 2020

8:45 am

15 minutes until it all starts.  I eat a peanut butter and butter half sandwich.   I walk earlier at Crab Cove, because my heart, my lungs, my voice, my love of the water and walking all need an extra boost this morning . I need the water to calm it all away… I am about to attend another zoom meeting here my computer desk. The first meeting of the 2020/2021 academic year. It’s called Convocation, of course.

I sit now with resistance, with trepidation, with a sigh and eye roll…”oh this, this AGAIN.”

But how can I really have that thought, since now everything is so different?


A word about the NOW.  Covid 19 and Black Lives Matter.

I start this academic year,  my last full-time-educator-year, in an upside down and sideways reality.  We are full swing into The Pandemic.  And we are full swing into the social upheaval and forward motion of Black Lives Matter.  We take them both into the very crevices of our curricula, our daily practices, and into the practical reality of teaching 90% of our offerings online. 

School will never be the same. Period. Oh, I believe we’ll be back in classrooms, etc…but the explosion has occurred and from pre-K to dissertation defenses, screens will be in constant use. (that’s another book or 3). My punchline is that the more money you have, the more time you will be able to buy with your instructors. Ouch.

I write from the point of view of “old, before, “ while acknowledging that everything is now “new, after or during,” shall we say.  The big transition…The big transition.

The Pivot.

But I will chronicle it from two perspectives – this pivot for all, and this pivot for me, which would have been happening even IF there were no Covid-19.


27 years ago, in 1993, I come to convocation with heated enthusiasm, still fiery from 3 days of new-faculty orientation.   I wear a flowered, flowing dress and coif my hair just so, don my lipstick….it’s important to look great today. I’m about to meet hundreds of colleagues—I bubble over with ticklish joy, finally landing this kind of gig…not a gig at all, but a place to belong…for years and years, if I can be healthy and strong in my work.  I watch and listen to the Chancellor, the Board members, the college Presidents as well.  I hang on their words…I hang on every word from every presenter…I think,  “this is important information, it pertains to my career!”  I want to soak it all in, I want to participate too…duh…perhaps raise my hand, ask a poignant question, reveal, yes reveal that I am not only present but I am PRESENT. Do you see me? Can you hear me?   I am a force to be reckoned with, in a the best of ways. I am here!  Even the slides about the budget and other stats compel me…I want to ask for clarification about some of the data on the budget reports.  (yep, I did, I tried so hard to understand budget presentations all those years. I made special appointments with the men, they were always men, who seem to have a bead on all these charts, yet still, after countless hours, bootless cries…I never could really take in the whole of our budget world, the great bean counters of FTEF/WSCH/AHB/H73, BLSHT, More and more.  Intentionally byzantinatic .)

Not only did Budget Reports confuse me, but even some slides from the top brass about their strategic plans and accreditation news baffle my eager young self–so many words and phrases I don’t yet know (I never really learned them after 27 years at this place):  The Allocation Model, Hold harmless, state apportionment, categoricals, etc  (even my software is not recognizing these words, whew, so good to know that I’m not alone)

Okay, some presentations escape me, but the rest of it is fine fine fine with me.  I’m introduced; I stand up proud, in my flowing dress, I look around the room,  no need for a mic, I always say, and would say again and again—I’m a theater artist. Ha ha ha…I get some laughs and nods, and that’s all I need.  I am so thrilled to be here, I am thrilled to be among such intellectually stimulating folks, such a community of scholars and socially committed folks.  I believe I have now found “my people,” where I can combine art with social action.  I was home.

Oh, I didn’t say any of that on that first day, but it was, and stayed for a long long long time, still echoing as I write this…it was and it (is, lightly) the truth.  

I was 33 years old. 

I was (I still am) one of the lucky ones. 

August 14, 2020

Another day in front of me…still none of the students; another day of talking heads. Oh how I wish it were the band of that name, and not the real truth of listening to opening speeches about money and planning.  I didn’t really finish that tale above.  I penned a few shortcuts, so obvious, yes? I started out so committed and eager—leaning in—no, jumping into the fire, or slipping into the bedsheets with all this college-wide stuff, district-wide stuff, because I was just IN….I like being IN, so that’s where I went.

Okay,nearly 30 years later I am bored, irritated, frustrated and distrustful of the whole damn thing.

Well, that’s not exactly good storytelling, to summarize the first and last part, but believe me, there’s a whole world between then and now.

Sometimes the administration/administrative team is part of the story.  I had years of engagement with the institution as a whole, and I will work those elements into my reverie.  It’s not a black and white story forme:   administration  versus teachers. Yawn.

In fact, I was part of the Convocation Team for years. I put on plays that provided substance for further exploration. I rallied my A team and we’d perform parody or other such forms…The players at court, killing the king, we hoped. Me and Will, appointed by the queen herself, to write a short play for the courtiers…I did it as a way of being paid to be a writer, and reveal my revolutionary ideas through humor and satire. Me, Will, and Moliere too, all working in court.

Yesterday was grueling and I suspect today will be much of the same. At least now that we’re on our machines, I was able to get dinner completely cooked while the dean of business services spelled out all the beans to count. I had beans to cook and that was enough for me.

First day as a teacher comes Monday.   

My Final Year (of teaching) .

The following blogs make up the chronicle of my last year as a full-time college educator.

A note to all my readers: The following blogs may often be a mess, starting and stopping, fragments, little thoughts, some fully formed story pages, some threads left dangling. I’m not sure how many photos or links I’m going to use, though I know those are sweet little morsels to chew on…Most readers are not so compelled by big blocks of pure text, so I’m giving you this heads up, as it were.

So skip around, read a few words, if you are so moved, come in and out when you feel like it. That’s what I’m doing for now. I cannot promise perfectly regular entries either, but I’m hoping to write weekly, but there’s an intensity and density to the first few days of a school year that I’m trying to capture here.

ALSO: I am starting to poke around for a different platform than WORDPRESS. Thank you ahead of time for reading. But as you know, getting to these blogs requires accounts and or other cumbersome gates to open, so I’m looking for a much simpler, more streamlined way of posting.

I will try to post other blogs as well, but as of today, this will be an ongoing series, made for Netflix, of course. __

August 12, 2020

The school year starts officially tomorrow.  Yes, and…

Yes,  and…

Yes, and …I’m doing it again. 

I imagine the whole thing.  It is a ritual, it is a yearly reverie.

I imagine the first few days.

For 30 years, I prep myself for the start of the school year,  organizing lessons, figuring out which books to assign,  looking at the names on my rosters, blah blah, blah.  I imagine my imminent semester always with the same smelling idealism—oh, they will come, ready to receive,  ready.  “Readiness is all.” (Hamlet)  I don’t Over plan—I am certainly this: A college prof who plans class but leaves plenty of room for play.  It’s a delicious combo for me, one that has seen practice for nearly 30 years.  Give myself structure, don’t just WING things, but don’t BOX myself into a lesson plan that leaves no room for the live reality of a sacred space, the classroom.

The classroom is still a kind of holy place for me…miracles can happen, communion occurs everyday, and perhaps the golden touch of change is possible.  Change for me, change for others…we will commune.  I hope.

I exalt.  I imagine.  I believe.

They will come, ready to learn, ready, open, curious, awake…

I think about what to wear, make up and hair. I think about shoes! 

(I don’t think about shoes anymore, due to the Pandemic. Notes on the Pandemic further on in this blog)

I put lessons together, lightly. Some of these lessons are well-worn, well practiced old shoes, like  old coats and old shoes,  warm, worn, important, and always effective.  Some are brand new, experiments of sorts.   Again, I try to find the sweet spot between playful and organized.  I don’t want the students to think they have an old hippie who’s gonna wing it…I shiver at that image, and yet I hold it dear to my heart as well.  How many great teachers have I had, who just talked and shared their experience and this was enough.   I want that sweet spot, baby…between organized and disorganized, between play and work. 

I’m thinking of all those students I will be meeting in a few days.  I think about my colleagues too, and I want the same relationship with them.   Can we find the sweet spot between structure and playfulness?  It’s more difficult with my colleagues.  Are we too competitive?  Are we measured and worried?   Are we afraid of each other?  Yes, I think we are, a little.  It is, after all, our career world.  I have learned way way too often that revealing something personal is not often a smart choice in the professional shark tank.  We play at being nice.  We’re professional.  Who’s the “we?” here people?  I should just stick to my own experience I know….but I suppose that on the eve of my first few days back to school, I begin to think of myself as part of a larger group…the “We” of community.   

On Foot, Spreading the News

So… so bright out there.    Conditions are ripe, tumescent almost, for me to run a few errands on foot.  ON FOOT.  This is the most beautiful thing about this little house that I am about to vacate, move out of, as soon as next week. Location location location.  I’m tossing it to the wind…but not today.

I’m giving up a lot, as it applies to location.  It’s the right thing to do, but that’s not what this story is about.

Today, I  WALK for 5 minutes to Kaiser pharmacy/ lab/clinic.  It’s also a five minute walk to the bank, the post office, the little shops and restaurants on the main drag, called “Park street.”  I walk 5 more minutes to the fresh produce market, called “Dan’s produce” which houses “Jack’s seafood.”   Starbucks and Peets and florists and ice cream shops too, all spread out for a  delectable moment. This little walk is driven by an “actually important” errand, that of picking up medicine in my current state of affairs – that state of being


In need of some medications. I curse the need for medications…edit out the details, I hide information, I write around the words here… But this is not about that.

Unless everything I write is, which is

A possibility.

No, today, I just went out there.  

I am in the lightest of foot… I theel  it.

(Theel:  combining Feel with Thought, a new word)

I take these meds so that I can function…have a job, get a pay check, contribute to society, stay off the dole, add to a retirement–be part of the  middle class, which really is a miracle of sorts.

But this is not about that. 

I am out on foot, to do more than one thing at a time. My mother: “Women have to learn to do more than one thing at a  time.”

That’s all she told me when it was time to talk about menstruation.  I have long silently seethed at her lack of detail in this regard and yet I have also long appreciated the simple truth of them. So I was combining my errands like we all do?  Does not everyone do this?   But this, again, is not about that, or perhaps it is too.

At the pharmacy,  I wait. Standing still, the first person in the line, a little restless of course.  My feet shift—I have the constant companion nowadays of back pain. (I shift my chair, my posture, my legs even now as I write) I don’t like to stand still, waiting. I don’t want to wait…I don’t wait…often.  I have been known to abort all missions if the wait is more than I can bear. I have all kinds of toys to keep me occupied of course. Music in my ears.  News headlines of stories to absorb, features to read, pictures to scroll through…Of course I have the plethora of observations to record in my perceptual world, but still…my feet shift, I wait to be waited upon.  An older black man is trying to communicate with the only clerk who is helping folks.  He is adorable (is that condescending, to use the word, “adorable?” to describe an older man, an older black man these days?)  He is trying hard to “get what I want, and not something I don’t need at this time.”  He dons a checkered mask that covers his graying whiskers most of the way.  He wears gentle baggy clothes with an element of style too.  He’s wearing a Boler style hat.  He leans into the plexiglass: “I am just processing what you’re saying, but I’m not really processing. I’m just trying to get what I want and not what I don’t need.”   The gal waiting on him is a young Asian woman, working very hard to communicate that something is amiss with the order.  “This was made in January, so I’m trying to see if …fjdskjfaljablahbaldhhlablalhahlahh  “ 

I’m with the man.   What is she talking about?

He is not angry.  She is not angry. They are genuinely trying to figure this thing out.   I’m just waiting, first in line, so of course, I pay attention to them, because I want them to be done so I can be done.  “An older black man.”  “A youngish Asian woman.”

These are my words.  Should I stop right here, right now?  Why do I need to describe their ethnicity?  Is that racist of me?  Am I pointing out, calling something out that is supposed to be NOT IMPORTANT?  Or is it something very important?   Where’s the party line?  What’s the appropriate use of language today? Who controls this narrative?  I am highly conscious about naming their ethnicities.   Fuck the appropriate!

It does not bode well for me if I follow the rules of being appropriate – and appropriation too perhaps.  Of course, the opposite is true as well – part of my problem with institutions is following the rules at all, and when I buck up against the rules, find the limits, and then throw rocks at the walls…I end up defeating myself, no one else at all, because off I go to the other institution, the one that houses people like me, who don’t act appropriately.   This word is so loaded I could take a big detour right now…you ready to ride south for a while?  Down the road of appropriation and appropriate behaviors?  

This is not about that.   But I am taking note – so you can take note too.  I am naming ethnicity today.  And yesterday,  and mostly likely tomorrow too.    It’s a BIG DEAL, okay?  I’ll leave it with weight…

I’m still waiting to get my bottle of pills and waiting for the older black man and the young Asian woman to commune enough for both of them to move on to the next task of their busy lives.    But I get called to another clerk on the other side of the store.   I do not know how their story ends.    I make light jokes with the clerk. He knows me –I’ve been on meds for 35 years, and even though now I get them mailed to me on most occasions,  I have spent many-a- minute making small and large talk with the pharmacy personnel in my little town.  We chuckle because we are both in pain—we both have back aches – ha, ha, ha?   In my little pharmacy in Alameda, California, all the clerks are Asian.  This is just a statement.  That’s not what this is about. 

No one is angry there today. We’re all so grateful the sun is so bright today.

I make my way to the little newsstand, where sinful life casts its shadows.  But the store clerks, the young men, are both chipper and warm as could be.  But I’m there to buy drug paraphernalia. I inquire about the cost of cigarettes, a copy of the Atlantic (they’re out of the latter, but one of them knew what the  Magazine was), and buy an old fashioned cross-word puzzle book.  I’ve been using my phone to play word games at night, but I’m tinkering with the idea of NOT being on that screen at all at bedtime, opting to go back, go back, go back…to a simpler time when I used pencils and paperback DELL books to occupy my busy mind at 11 pm.  I surrender to using the phone for Soduku, a beautiful game I have nearly mastered and with the screen the patterns are more easily detected, more clean… but with crosswords, you have to do more erasure and …

Oh my god, this is not about that.  Certainly not that.  

The boys in the store are chipper—“You saved me a few weeks back, by helping me with my phone case problem.”  He doesn’t remember, I don’t expect him to.  Just being pleasant.  I want tobacco, news about the deep state, maybe something truly dangerous, a sharp little pin made for pierced noses?  It’s the dark side and I love it.   I ask,  “What’s your name?”   “Miles.”  “No way! That’s my son’s name, my oldest!”  Greatest name in the world  (it is, sorry people, I know this to be a fact).  “Oh yeah, thanks.”   “ Spelled M I L E S, right?”  “Only way to spell it right, right?”   I spare him my dissertation about the name “Miles.”  I’ll spare you too, but of course, any time you want to hear about it….(?)    It has to do with class, ethnicity, ambiguity, layers, and identity…just that stuff, nothing of too much import.  I spend a little money at the little store and vow to be a regular.  Ha!  I’m about to move out  of town in a week!  I lied?  Again?  One of the young men working at the little newsstand is dark black, one is pasty white.   Both of them are adorable…I’m finding the men out there today adorable… oh well, I’m either just a mom who finds these males adorable or a patronizing middle aged white woman writer….who is condescending and blind.   Okay, I’ll tke both and more…. Bring it on, I’m up for a fight.

Oh, maybe this is getting to what this is about?   This afternoon,   I make contact with the outside world. Today I am more in contact with the people OUT THERE.  Making chat, reaching out to strangers, trying to be a good neighbor, Mr. Rogers, maybe Paul…I want to spread some good news, I do, some joyful noise.  I’m just being Spinoza, or Jesus…? The weather is glorious.  72 degrees, a light breeze, bright like church.   Surely this is something we all need to be grateful for, right now.  

Another older black man sits outside of Starbucks  He dons a military cap, Navy, but it’s got some embroidered wings that suggest an alliance I do not immediately recognize.   He is proselytizing just like the local rent control petition folks across the street in front of Peets. “Got a minute, mam, looking for your support, got a  minute?”    I had just bought one crookneck yellow squash for 37 cents.  It was sitting in my muslin bag I use for organic veggies, and I wonder if maybe I should give this stranger my squash?

A quick side-bar moment:  What to do when strangers ask you for money on street corners? How many angles you want here? How many hours are you ready to invest?  This is another story altogether…but this is not what this is about.

I have already picked up my medicine, popped in to the newsstand “Delauer’s,” made chat with folks, it is glorious day.  I’m just outdoors IN in the day.  So sure, I’m open:  I make eye contact with this stranger: “what’s up? Tell me your story.” He has an old coffee can painted with this organization’s name,  which I quickly learn is a Christian Ministry of sort. They have lost their building, the Pandemic has balhabdlfablfa;fbalhblahblaha hblahhhhahabbahhh , they used to help serve the poor and give faith to balhdalahdlabaldhablahbllahbablah…. I don’t want the story really. I have no ability to know what is true or being embellished or any degree of certainty with him.  This little thought, “I want to be a more generous person,” wafts through my whole being.  What I usually do is become awash with distrust and judgement,  “I don’t believe the story,  I can’t give you what you need or want, I’m sorry for your troubles, please leave. Me. Alone.”   But today, I am Paul,  I am even the good Samaritan.  I just want to open my fat wallet and do the right thing.   This man, too, dons a neatly trimmed, gray beard, has gentle eyes. I just want to make contact with him.  I don’t care if takes my cash and spends it on Benzies.  I have no control over any of that.  I only want to make good – my own privilege of the day. I have the privilege of walking to the pharmacy, the bank, the produce market, etc…I get to pick out fresh Ling Cod for dinner, a yellow crook-neck to match my own.  I carry a wallet fat with small bills, money to burn on sins or acts of goodness.  I have earned this position?  I inherited it?  I own it…. I stand with this stranger on the corner and own it.    I support Christian ministries.  I am a Christian Ministry right now, spreading the good news,  the joyful noise.   It’s a glorious day.  Are we not grateful for this plethora of fresh fruit and veggies,  are we not grateful that we are here, just for this moment at least?   We are not dead. Not yet.   I do not believe I am dead.   I choose to believe this.

So I just give him $5.  It’s not a lot of money, I know.  But I just want to do the right thing by him.   He could be a lyin sack of shit, just bilking money off of folks like me, pressing the right buttons, attacking my sense of safety on many levels.  Maybe guilt-trippin me, maybe just suggesting that because I am a white, middle aged woman who has nice tennis shoes,  I need to do and be and act and put the money where my liberal ballot lies….. blah blah blah…

The young men outside of NOB HILL yesterday had asked me to support their “sports leagues at blahlablahbalhabdhaabdblah….”  and I had made my usual retort, as grabbed a cart from the “sanitized”row of carts,  “Not today, thanks,  good luck with your blahbalhadlaflah”  After that, the young man mocked me by saying in a nasty, teasing voice, “Not Today, blah blah blah”  because he was so tired of hearing that from people.  I get that.  I’d hate to have to raise money outside a Starbucks or Nob Hill.  Ugh. Pure Ugh. But hey….I was trying to pick up some cottage cheese for breakfast and you tease me?  You make fun of me?  Who’s hurting who right now?  I guess I’m still hurting him, and his pals too?  I don’t give up any cash.   His act of meanness worked…later in the day.

Timing is everything.  Listen…pay attention.

So back to Mr. Christian Ministry, where I do penance for a few minutes.  I choose to do it.  I support anyone who is determined to support someone else? Is that logical and right, or stupid?   I don’t know.  This is not about that.  Or maybe it is.

How does ethnicity fit into this story?  I am feeling it.  I am owning it.  Yes, I am an owner of things, and this propels me into a class, that class we all call: Middle Class.   We all shout out its name — join me to do it —  MIDDLE CLASS!  Did you join me?   I am. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and I am on foot, picking up a medication,  going to the newsstand, the fish market,  and passing Starbucks.  
This is about that. 

But that’s never all it’s about.

Spreading the News. 

I want to spread the News.   Just like the rest of them…on CNN/MSNBC/FOX/ETC… I do not want to spread the virus.  I’m totally masked up and keeping safely away from my fellow human beings.  But today I am full.  

I hope.

I hope.  The word on the street is only

My word.   Hope.  Compassion. Connection.

Surrounding me, surround sound. In my head, outside my head.  It’s only a little walk in the afternoon.

A little talk. 

And that is all.   I think…that’s what this is about. I feel it.

Walking III

Invention idea

We really need some kind of body wearable signals, like cars, bikes, etc…for traffic regulation. You going to cross the street suddenly? You moving, leaning to the left for passing? or right? are you going to move to the bike lane? the yards? what? where are you going? which street are you taking? We can’t talk, we’re all masked up. We can’t read each other’s facial expressions much (though I can spot those dodgy eyes, I can…), so we need little lights. “passing on the left.” “quick U turn ahead.” You get it. The transformation of the Morning Walk. (run too). Old fashioned arm signals might work too; do people know those these days? This is about communication people…

It’s time

To transform the world of morning pedestrians…

It’s gettin’ crowded out there..

What next? Where’s the government’s response?

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