Ithaca College is no longer able to accept disposable utensils marked “compostable” into their compost collection bins.
Can you imagine what would happen if our representatives sat down to vote on whether homosexuals are born with their sexuality or if they choose it? Or what if there was a vote deciding that, despite hard numbers clearly demonstrating women are paid less than men for the same work, this was not actually the case?
Tonight I have filled the hiking backpack I got for Christmas to the brim with all the supplies and equipment I will need for a five day, 53 mile journey from my home in Geneva to my second home in Ithaca. After I finish this blog post I will go to bed and try to get a full night’s rest, because tomorrow, for the first time in a while, I will be rising with the sun to walk.
A police officer emerged and informed her that she could only enter with her attorney and either her father, mother or husband. Laura replied that none of those people were available, and asked for a support person.
“No, the court is closed.”
Not long after, one of our pro bono legal advisers, Sujata Gibson, arrived and engaged with this officer, informing him that barring the public from court was unconstitutional and illegal.
“Sheriff’s orders,” the officer replied. “Take it up with him.”
Before myself and my comrades began lining up in front of Crestwood Midstream’s gates on Route 14 just north of Watkins Glen, I never put much thought into the area jails. I had no clue that there was a jail in Watkins Glen right across the street from the picturesque state park, and I admit to not even knowing that there was a jail in each county. Now I find these various jails to be at an almost constant forefront of my mind.
Me: “Grandpa! Do you want to try some cookie dough?”
Grandpa: “You’re not supposed to eat raw cookie dough.”
Me: “There’s no eggs in it.”
Grandpa: “What’s wrong with eggs?”
Me: “Grandpa, eggs are the reason why you aren’t supposed to eat raw cookie dough.”
My heart was pounding as I brushed the excess sand off the jar, and it wasn’t because I was risking trespass charges. It was because I knew there was a chance I was risking my life. Once I screwed the lid on, I frantically brushed my gloves off on my pant leg, and then did the best I could to shake the stuff off my pants. A little voice in my head told me that trying to decontaminate myself was futile, that if I had been smart I would have come here equipped with a mask. It could already be in my lungs.
I looked around the crowd and saw mostly familiar faces. Our words were not falling on any new ears, let alone any ears belonging to a person who had the authority to create immediate action and change.
I clarified to him that our blockade was not going to let anything in or out.
“Well, I’m going to open the gates, then!” He declared in a tone that said, ‘alright, you asked for it.’ The negotiation phase was over; now, they were using intimidation.
When he opened the gates, the driver climbed into his truck and lurched forward, blaring his horn.
Amidst a swirl of budget cuts and an ever-increasing workload, Mom resigned from her job as a school psychologist at the Watkins Glen School District in 2012. After resigning, she took up a profession she had been doing on and off since she was 18 and in college: bartending.
…as the excitement from Flood Wall Street died down, I saw that day much differently. I now see how tightly the police controlled us, and, subsequently, how watered-down our first amendment right to peaceably assemble was.
While walking along Route 65 out of Maumee and toward Toledo, a pick-up truck operated by a sleeping driver struck me head on. Unlike the unfortunate Peace Marcher in 1986, I can live to tell the tale.