We stopped by my place briefly and I printed up more emails which kept pouring in. That night, I began to read the emails to the crowd at gate one and they were stunned that people in Brazil and Russia were aware of what we were doing and were saluting us, thanking us.

“Why would anybody in South America care if a bunch of hillbillies are getting shit on?” a lady asked me. I answered that what we have to deal with most people across the planet are dealing with, some a bit better, some much worse.

I walked toward the next gate and read more emails to those sitting on chairs or standing in between these points and my voice was growing hoarse from shouting and talking. A bald man I recognized from the machinists’ crew handed me a megaphone and I thanked him. Before I arrived at gate five, another fellow asked if I’d like a platform, meaning the bed of his pickup truck, from which to read and I gladly accepted his offer. For hours throughout Tuesday night, we toured the gates and anywhere people were gathered. He stopped the truck and I stood in the back with the megaphone reading, letting people know that there were many, many others watching us and supporting us. Those people on that picket line listened, many of them puzzled, incredulous, or even astonished to learn that anyone gave a damn about our lives, but all of them seemed touched and transformed by that awareness.