Walking along Philadelphia’s old cobbled streets, passing Independence Hall. Benjamin Franklin’s old neighborhood. I feel like I should be asking voters to elect Thomas Jefferson or John Adams instead of Hillary Clinton. 
I’m supposed to knock on doors–a long list of dozens of doors. Just as if everyone wasn’t well sick and tired of being nagged to vote. I was just thinking what a waste of time it all was, until I happened to bump into a woman–she wasn’t even on the list–and helped her figure out where her polling place was so she could vote for Clinton.
Most of the people who grudgingly opened their doors were pretty nice–they’d sigh and say through clenched teeth “Yes, we’re all set for voting, thanks.” I did run into one Trump supporter who assured me that Hillary was a “career criminal” and that he hoped she’d make my life miserable if she was elected. Ah, well, you can’t win them all.
On the way back to Clinton headquarters, I started to see groups of people walking past–all wearing Hillary buttons and carrying Clinton signs. More and more flowed past–they were striding purposefully along, people of all ages and all sorts, black, white, Asian, whatever, gay, straight, using wheelchairs and walkers, lots and lots of kids and plenty of old white men. 
Thousands of them, all lining up in a line that stretched for ten blocks, then twenty, then thirty, blocking traffic, jamming Philadelphia’s narrow streets.
All coming together to prove that love trumps hate.
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