I’ve been called an Electoral College junkie, and honestly, it fits. It’s been a passion of mine to help us all understand the power of our vote, or lack thereof, when it comes to how presidents are elected. While that work continues, I’m now turning the camera toward a different kind of power, because the hate flooding our country right now is exhausting and overwhelming.

I mean. Damn.

Let’s take it back like it’s ‘88 and take a Break...for Love!

I’m excited to share that I’m in the late stages of production on A Raw Love Story, a hybrid documentary that explores the life of Raw (she/they), a non-binary, gender-fluid artist, as they navigate gender-affirming surgery while raising a teenage son, Diago, with their life partner, Issa. And though it’s a deeply personal story for Raw, it also tells a story that too few see on screen: a queer family thriving. Not one that’s tragic or tokenized. One that’s thriving. Joyfully. Poetically. Radiantly.

Trans and non-binary lives are under attack. Against a backdrop of alarming statistics: 81% of transgender adults in the U.S. have thought about suicide, 42% have attempted it, and 56% have engaged in non-suicidal self-injury. This story dares to imagine another way.

Many people still don’t understand what “non-binary” means. We’ve been taught to see gender as a binary, i.e., male or female, with nothing in between. However, in this paradigm, gender exists on a spectrum. And Raw describes themselves as living right in the middle of that spectrum. This film gives language, embodiment, and humanity to something many have never had a chance to understand. And when people understand, they can begin to accept. And when they accept, they can love.

Before I ever picked up a camera, I was a poet and spoken word artist. One of my favorite poets is Audre Lorde. And I carry her words with me in this work:

"Each time you love, love as deeply as if it were forever. In our work and in our living, we must recognize that difference is a reason for celebration and growth, rather than a reason for destruction."

That quote lives at the soul of this project.

One of the reasons I wanted to make this film about Raw is that I saw something familiar in them. They live their life the same way I strive to live mine: with magic realism as a North Star, as a lens, a way of expanding reality toward poetry, myth, and meaning.

But let’s be clear. Life hasn’t been easy for Raw. Far from it. They’ve faced abandonment, transphobia, loss, and violence. The kind of darkness that could easily harden a person. I recognized a shared philosophy between Raw and me…

When my younger brother died at fourteen, I was twenty. He had been playing with a gun he thought was empty. It wasn’t. In an instant, everything split open. That unfathomable loss became the catalyst for my own creative awakening. Until then, I had no idea I had a creative bone in my body. Then I picked up a pen, and soon after, a bass guitar. Through poetry and music, I found a way to survive and, eventually, a way to make meaning out of what felt impossible to carry.

Raw, too, has mastered the alchemy of turning pain into beauty. How to take your most painful, broken moments and transform them into the most generous, radiant thing you have to offer the world. As Raw lives life, they create legend. They craft their life like a work of art. Watching them move through the world is like watching someone weave spirit into the everyday. And I knew I had to capture it.

Fate, or perhaps divine timing, brought Raw into my life through a collaborator on my last film, One Person, One Vote?. My composer, the incomparable Mark Batson, a 5x Grammy Award–winning music producer—whom I met back in the 90s in the NYC music scene, and with whom I would eventually work and play music all around the world, touring with the artist Kelis—introduced me to Raw. It’s wild how this rigorous, political documentary about the Electoral College led me right back to my musical roots. Sometimes, the work leads you exactly where your spirit needs to go.

And Raw? They are a force of nature. A published book author, a music artist, a devoted parent, and now a grad student at Howard University and founder of a nonprofit called The Happy Pappy Foundation that provides free backpacks, school supplies, and fresh haircuts to LGBTQIA+ youth to help them start the school year feeling proud and seen. Raw lives their values out loud, turning care into action and love into legacy. Documenting their journey has been a gift.

As I’ve traveled across the country with One Person, One Vote?, I’ve shared that the film was, in its own way, a love letter to this country, an invitation to engage in civic self-reflection, instead of cynicism. To dialogue instead of demonize. To exchange hate for the greater ideals this country claims to believe in—chief among them, the right to have dominion over our own thoughts, beliefs, bodies, and faith. We are not North Korea, where you must choose from 17 state-approved haircuts (at least not yet). America, at its best, is a place where difference isn’t a threat but a promise: the promise of freedom. That promise needs protection. That promise needs us to be active and engaged.

My director’s statement articulating why I have chosen to make A Raw Love Story is simple:

Love is love is love is love.
We should be able to love who we love.
When we’re ready to love.
Period.

Love can be elusive. And terrifying. And risky.
But when two souls find it, it deserves to be celebrated.

It should be seen.
Its beauty beheld.

This film is an act of love.
A love letter to love.
In all its purest forms.

A love for the ages…

I’m excited to bring the team back together with animation by Pierre Bennu and musical score by Mark Batson. If this story resonates with you—even just a little—I’d love your support. As funding for independent films continues to shrink exponentially, especially for documentaries that center these kinds of voices, the philanthropic sector has become our primary path to survival. Check us out on the A Raw Love Story website.

Thank you for walking with me on this Substack journey!

More soon.

From my heart to yours,
Maximina

There are moments when history makes a cataclysmic shift because someone made the heart-wrenching decision to say something out loud.

At nearly 96 years old, Dolores Huerta—one of the architects of the modern labor movement—has publicly shared reflections on her experiences within the movement she helped build alongside Cesar Chavez.

In a recent investigation by The New York Times, multiple women came forward with accounts of abuse, including allegations involving minors, placing her revelations within a larger and deeply alarming pattern. And almost immediately, the conversation fractured. Not around her. Around him.

He can’t defend himself. Why now? It was a different time.

These responses aren’t new. They reflect a long-standing cultural reflex: when a woman speaks, we often look past her to the man, his reputation, his contributions.

Many are conflicted about protecting legacy rather than expanding truth. We know Dolores Huerta as the co-founder of the United Farm Workers. We know her voice: “Sí, se puede.”

But what we often forget, or were never taught, is how many women built these movements while navigating environments that did not fully protect them. Women who organized. Negotiated. Led. And endured in the face of stark imbalances relating to gender and power.

American media storytelling loves a singular hero. It’s cleaner. Easier. Marketable. But movements are messy. They are built by coalitions, contradictions, and people who are capable of both incredible courage and real harm.

Holding that complexity is uncomfortable, but if we fall into the trap of flattening history into hero worship, we risk erasing people, and those people are often women who carried this burden, this weight.

Yes, it was a different time. And that context matters. But context is not absolution. Saying “it was a different time” should deepen our insight of that time without silencing the people who lived through it.

We should be asking: What did it cost women to participate in these movements? What did they have to navigate just to lead?

There’s a reason these stories surface decades later. Because silence has rarely seemed like a choice for so many women. What’s different now is not the harm; it’s the post-#MeToo world we live in and the possibility of being heard.

When the accounts include individuals who were minors, the conversation moves beyond the already difficult terrain of gender and power into something that demands we set aside our discomfort entirely.

These are serious questions of child abuse that can not be ignored. To progress as a society, when we talk about “context,” we also have to be honest about what that context enabled and who it failed to protect: young women and girls.

To acknowledge harm is not to erase legacy but to become aware of the fuller story — one that recognizes the hidden heroism of women facing a struggle on two fronts at once.

We can honor the contributions of Cesar Chavez to labor rights. And we can listen to what Dolores Huerta has shared about her experience. Both can exist. Two things can be true at the same time. In fact, they must. Because if we only preserve the parts of history that make us comfortable, we curate mythology and fail at protecting history at all.

It’s past time to elevate the work women have done in the face of gender inequities that have too often left us unprotected, unrecognized, and unheard. These are the hidden costs of the struggle, and they reveal something essential: history isn’t sacred. But the truth is.

January 6, 2021, was the day I witnessed before my very eyes the first non-peaceful transition of power in our nation’s history. While filming alone for my documentary One Person, One Vote?, I was threatened. I was mugged.

Half of my footage was stolen as I inhaled tear gas and watched Capitol Police protect against rioters surging to breach the Capitol. I witnessed thousands of people calling for martial law, so ready and willing to abandon American democracy in exchange for a dictatorship.

Five years later, the impact of experiencing something of that magnitude is still crystallizing. It keeps me up at night. The fragility of democracy is no longer an abstract idea; it is a truth emblazoned in my mind, born from the stark reality of my surroundings that day.

On this solemn fifth anniversary of January 6, I am becoming increasingly aware of how profoundly that moment changed me. What crescendos is a calling and an urgency I can’t ignore.

As I watch our country and people fall deeper into hate and division, I feel a personal responsibility to transform what I witnessed on January 6—and what I learned while making One Person, One Vote?—into work that leaves fewer people vulnerable to manipulation and disinformation.

Today, much of the polarization tearing at the fabric of American life is entrenched in our presidential politics. And quietly sitting at the root of it is a system most Americans rarely think about outside of election season: the Electoral College.

The Electoral College is like the Olympics. It dominates our attention for a period of time, then fades from view when the election is over. Yet the system quietly skews influence, discourages participation in non-swing states, and heightens vulnerability even when we’re not watching. And the less we understand it, the more dangerous moments of crisis become.

By turning national elections into contests decided by narrow geographic pressure points, the Electoral College reshapes campaigns, erases millions of votes, and creates fertile ground for manipulation and procedural abuse.

It is a system that can make elections appear far closer than they are. One that enabled a coordinated campaign of manipulation in 2020: political operatives placing Kanye West on presidential ballots in key states to siphon votes; fake electors submitting alternative slates; pressure on state officials to “find” votes; members of Congress objecting to duly certified electoral votes from swing states; and an organized effort to coerce an outgoing vice president into refusing to certify the count.

Finally, the Electoral College process provided the venue for thousands to descend on the U.S. Capitol to stop the election, a move that—had it succeeded—would have thrown the country into an unprecedented state of procedural ambiguity with no clear constitutional remedy.

In 2020, one candidate won the presidency by more than seven million votes nationwide. Yet the outcome ultimately hinged on roughly 44,000 votes spread across three states. When elections appear close, politicians resort to the dirtiest forms of politics. And we, as a people, become pawns in that game. Disinformation spreads. Conspiracy theories thrive. We begin believing the “other side” is nothing but evil.

Raw iPhone video I filmed on January 6, 2021, capturing Donald J. Trump’s false claim of election fraud in the battleground state of Pennsylvania. Claims of fraud were not random; they were directed almost exclusively at battleground states. Men perched in the trees were later revealed to be armed.

Through the Electoral College, nationally decisive elections can be transformed into razor-thin contests by a system that elevates a handful of swing states while rendering most others strategically irrelevant. California voters don’t meaningfully shape presidential campaigns. Neither do voters in Alabama, Oklahoma, or New York.

The votes of those states are counted, but they are largely removed from the presidential campaign calculus. As a result, more than 90 percent of presidential campaign spending is concentrated in a small number of states whose priorities, anxieties, and media ecosystems come to dominate national politics.

We saw this in the 2024 election. Because most states, 48 out of 50, award all of their electoral votes to a single winner, presidential campaigns focus almost exclusively on a small number of battleground states.

Being present outside the Capitol that day clarified something headlines largely missed: the manipulation of a system few Americans could clearly explain had unfolded in real time. The strategy was bureaucratic. The violence was shocking. And the vehicle was the machinery of the Electoral College itself.

The Electoral College is a system that is mired in inattention. It operates infrequently, in largely unseen spaces, and is poorly understood. It becomes most visible only when something goes wrong. By then, it’s already too late to learn the rules of the game. We are left reacting to outcomes without the tools to analyze or the language to understand how we got there.

Civic education in America is woefully inadequate. When understanding is absent, confusion takes its place, and confusion quickly hardens into anger. That combination is perilously exploitable.

January 6 showed me in the most shocking way that democracy is not self-executing. It relies on an electorate that understands how power and systems of government work.

If we hope to prevent future crises, civic education cannot be optional. Voting is critically important, but it’s not enough. On this five-year anniversary, I am calling on us—as a country, and as a responsible electorate—to commit to deepening civic literacy in ourselves and in our communities. Not so we all agree, but so we can recognize danger early, understand how American government operates, and prevent confusion from carrying us to the steps of the Capitol again.

Read more and watch a video about my experience on January 6, 2021, here.

Maximina Juson is a filmmaker, civic educator, and founder of Humans Understanding Machinery, a media production company in Los Angeles. Her PBS / Independent Lens documentary One Person, One Vote? examines the untold story of the Electoral College. Juson also serves as Executive Director of Civics Is Sexy, an organization that teaches civics through the arts.

There are once-in-a-lifetime moments…and then there are moments that feel like the culmination of every other moment that made you, colliding all at once.

It was a meeting with an oracle.

Kyle Bowser of the NAACP and I had just wrapped a segment at KJLH—(standing for Kindness, Joy, Love, and Happiness)—promoting The People’s Party on The Tammi Mac Show. We talked about art and civic urgency, even the relevance of the NAACP in 2025. The conversation was real and beautifully raw.

And then, as were about to leave, Kyle beckoned me while pointing down the hallway. I turned a corner, and standing there was someone whose work shaped my childhood, informed my politics, musicianship, and artistry, and someone who gave language to both my joy and my pain.

None other than Stevie Wonder emerged (KJLH is his radio station). Turns out he’d been listening to our on-air conversation. In a state of awe, I greeted him. He took my hand, and with the gentlest of urgings, he guided me, Kyle, Ariana, and J’ai of the NAACP down the hallway into a small conference room.

He invited us all to take a seat and stated, “I’m talking to you, not as Stevie Wonder, but as Steveland Morris.” As he poured into us for the next forty minutes, we not only listened…we received.

It was as if I had swallowed both the red pill and the blue pill. A moment when time stopped as it held the bliss of wonder and the hard truth of reality.

He told us about the time he wrote the song Happy Birthday, not as a party song but as an appeal to the Reagan Administration to establish Martin Luther King Jr. Day as a national holiday.

Coretta Scott King herself wasn’t sure it could be done. But Steveland was. He assured Mrs. King, “I’m knowing and believing that it will. With the people getting on board and supporting it, it will happen…it’s a celebration.”

He then wrote the lyrics and the composition for Happy Birthday. It was an easy sell to get Berry Gordy on board to release it as the last song on the Hotter Than July (1980) album. Building a civic movement through melody, he used civics where it is most powerfully expressed—through art and culture. On August 2, 1983, the bill was passed with veto-proof margins in the House (338-90) and Senate (78-22).

The Oracle said he was at the White House for the signing by President Reagan, but missed it because of a very human and urgent need to use the bathroom!

As we sat with the Oracle, he also spoke of his lifelong devotion to justice, the urgency of this moment, the kind of leadership that once moved mountains, and how this moment offered an opportunity to reignite that fire today. We have a chance, he said, to nurture and inspire the kind of leadership that Martin Luther King exemplified.

He exuded a calm, an energy, an urgency, and still...a humor...and an optimism. So deeply grounded in the enduring love he holds for his people. It was an otherworldly reminder that civic leadership is not just theoretical or policy-driven. It’s energetic. Spiritual. Imaginative. Visionary. Embodied in what we do every day.

WOOH. What a way for us to set the tone for The People’s Party! A vibrant, inclusive space where art, music, and civic engagement held hands. A space where people with ancestry from every corner of the world gathered with shared purpose.

The films, presentations, performances, and talks were incredible and inspiring. The connections made were genuine, the dialogue was deep, and the sense of purpose was undeniable. One of the most beautiful endorsements came from Elon, a young PA recruited by Streetlights, who said, “I can’t wait for the next People’s Party! We really need this.”

In that moment, I saw joy, excitement, healing, and empowerment in her eyes. I kept thinking back to Steveland in that small room at KJLH…reminding us that civic culture is built not only by policy, but by people—by artists, storytellers, organizers, elders, and anyone willing to gather in the name of something bigger.

The People’s Party is part of that lineage. It’s a commitment to the idea that democracy demands not only struggle and resistance, but also love and devotion.

I walked into KJLH expecting a media appearance. I walked out having sat with Steveland Morris—the original civic artist, the man who turned melody into movement, the elder reminding us that our work is part of a much larger story.

A story in which…

Hope is a practice.
Art is a catalyst.
And when people gather with intention, the future can shift.

Let’s take this one on the road…

That’s the question that sparked The People’s Party—a two-day festival that fuses film, art, and music with the civic and social justice organizations shaping our democracy. Co-presented by the enduring NAACP and my new organization Civics Is Sexy, it’s part celebration, part civics immersion, and all community.

The idea for The People’s Party was born out of my film One Person, One Vote?. While screening the film across the country, at festivals, schools, and grassroots screenings, I saw firsthand how hungry people were to understand our systems of government not through lectures or punditry, but through story, sound, and emotion.

That realization inspired Civics Is Sexy, a cultural movement designed to make civic education a cultural, lived experience. The People’s Party brings that philosophy to life. A civic-education-to-action-pipeline, if you will. It’s a space where artists and audiences meet in real time to explore the issues that define us: voting rights, land loss, gender justice, climate, disinformation, and the stories we tell about who “the people” really are.

But beyond the panels, performances, and screenings, The People’s Party is about building bridges—between generations, between communities, and between perspectives. It’s a refuge from polarization, a space where we peel back the curtain of humanity to see one another more clearly. And it’s all steeped in joy: the joy of culture, of connection, of remembering what’s possible when we come together, as they say nowadays, IRL — in real life.

The festivities will kick off with Rebel Soul Revue: Robeson Meets Hathaway, a transcendent musical performance where resistance meets reverence, and soul meets struggle. Performed by Boise Holmes (who lent his incredible acting and singing talent to One Person, One Vote?) and Chaz Lamar Shepard, the piece imagines a timeless conversation between Paul Robeson—the revolutionary baritone who sang truth to power—and Donny Hathaway, the soulful genius who gave voice to Black love, pain, and liberation.

Comedy also takes the stage, proving that laughter, too, is an act of resistance and release. Yasmin Elhady, the quick-witted lawyer and comedian best known for Muslim Matchmaker, joins Nic Novicki, founder of the Easterseals Disability Film Challenge, for comedy sets that celebrate our shared humanity through humor and heart.

This year’s lineup continues with screenings like One Person, One Vote? and Following Harry. An interactive session on disinformation called F.A.C.T.S. (Finding Accuracy and Clarity in Today’s Social Media). Trial By Jury gives audiences a rare chance to step inside one of democracy’s most hidden spaces—the jury room—and experience what it feels like to deliberate on justice firsthand.

And at the center of it all is a coalition that feels like a United Nations of changemakers—organizations such as the League of Women Voters, The Sierra Club, the Muslim Public Affairs Council, Homeboy Industries, Gold House, The Happy Pappy Foundation, and many others who represent the beautifully diverse machinery of civic life. For one weekend, they take a collective pause from working in their separate silos to stand together in shared purpose—to remind us that we are greater than the sum of our parts.

The buzz has already begun across Los Angeles. Today, I will have the honor of sharing the vision behind The People’s Party on KTLA Morning News and Spectrum News 1, and with our radio family on KJLH 102.3 FM and KBLA Talk 1580 alongside the incredible Kyle Bowser, SVP of the NAACP Hollywood Bureau.

The People’s Party is a space to rebuild trust, reclaim joy, and reimagine civic life as something we do together. A place where we can dialogue instead of demonize. It’s civic engagement as a cultural act.

If you’re in Los Angeles this Saturday and Sunday, November 1-2, join us at the NAACP Hollywood Bureau. Doors open at 11am. Learn more at peoplesparty.la.

Co-published with Civics Is Sexy

I first met Greg Tate on 14th Street, in Union Square Park, New York City, in the summer of 1993, right after a triple bill that echoes strong in my memory. His band Women In Love, with the inimitable Helga Davis, had just shared the stage with Blueprint (featuring Marque Gilmore on Chapman Stick, David Gilmore on guitar, Mikel Banks and Yvonne Heavlow on vocals, and Greg Latty on drums), alongside a young, up-and-coming hip-hop group called The Fugees. I was in my early 20s, barely a year into learning the bass.

Greg was already Greg Tate—a force of brilliance, language, and cultural disruption, founding writer at The Village Voice and a founder of the Black Rock Coalition (BRC). Despite his stature, he never led with that. He made space. He saw people. And I was blessed to be one of those people.

After the gig, I approached Marque to ask him about the unusual, futuristic instrument he had been playing. That was the last moment I remember feeling like a stranger. I had the fortune to just be walking by that day—but it would be a moment that would dramatically change the trajectory of my life. In a heartbeat, I was officially enrolled, adopted, and absorbed. The BRC became my music school and its founding members my new family. The BRC was a radical home for those who played outside the lines. They were a community of world‑class musicians who loved to rock, groove, shred, and bend genres when the industry told them there was no room. It was Black, diasporic, loud, free, and very pro-woman.

For a Filipina-American girl shaped by hip-hop, alternative rock, and rebel music, coming up in a music industry where literally no one playing a bass looked like me, it gave me the permission I desperately needed. Today, I am deeply aware and profoundly honored that this foundation shaped the worldview I carry with me to this day.

The BRC manifesto, written by Tate, lit a fire under me:

“The BRC rejects the demand for Black artists to tailor their music to fit into the creative straitjackets the industry has designed. We are individuals and will accept no less than full respect for our right to be conceptually independent.”

Those words cracked me open and held me together at the same time.

Just a few years later, when Greg and I were living blocks apart on Edgecombe Avenue in Sugar Hill, Harlem, NYC, we’d grab lunch at our local Oaxacan joint. Over enchiladas suizas, we joked and talked while Greg made every meal feel like a masterclass.

At one of those lunches, he invited me to join a new band he was putting together: Moomtez with Alice Smith and Justice X on vocals, Latasha Natasha Diggs spitting spoken word, Greg and Rene Akan on Guitar, Trevor Holder on drums, and me on bass. That band was yet another Tate eruption of sound and freedom. He wrote songs and gave me the grooviest bass lines that felt so natural for me to play, as if I’d written them myself.

But my fondest memories with Tate weren’t in the spotlight. During those years on Sugar Hill, we were part of an unruly yet loving family tribe, sharing the best of life’s milestones...like driving down to the Gullah Geechee Islands to bear witness as Greg jumped the broom under an ancient cluster of low-country oak trees.

When I was majoring in writing at The New School in Greenwich Village, having access to Greg was like having my own personal literary sensei with rhythm and rhyme in his counsel. After reading one of my pieces, Greg looked at me and said, “The vibe and the content are there, but you need to learn The Power of the P.” I blinked. “The what?”

“The Power of the Period,” he said, deadpan. It was Greg’s loving assassination of my run-on sentences! (Peeking through the ether: Have I learned it yet, Greg?) LOL.

Over the years, Greg would occasionally laugh and bring up a certain systematic takedown I had engineered during an epic game of Monopoly on Sugar Hill. The players that night? Tamar-Kali, Freedome Bradley-Ballentine, Sharrif Simmons, and jessica Care moore. We were wheeling and dealing, trading properties with lyrical jabs, making and breaking alliances like it was a cipher. Greg sat off to the side, noodling on an acoustic guitar, equal parts amused and bemused. He was far too evolved—too cosmically inclined—for something as capitalistic and cutthroat as Monopoly. “Max,“ he said, marveling at my prowess, “you play like a benevolent oligarch with a grudge.“ He never let me live it down!

Greg had his own special way of encouraging. He’d call me “Max the Mule.” I’d laugh every time, but I knew it was his way of paying a high compliment. Tate-speak for: you get shit done, no matter what the terrain, no matter the weight of the burden. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he’d tack on: “Black don’t crack, but Flip don’t slip.” It was classic Greg. Part praise, part punchline.

After I moved to the West Coast, our ritual shifted. Senegalese lunches. Whenever I was back in New York, we carved out time for thieboudienne, ginger juice, and bissap. By then, we carried enough life behind us to reminisce, to lean into the love, the nostalgia. These were sacred salons.

Our last lunch together is the one that lingers most in my memory. Sitting across from each other, I asked: “Tate, you’ve built your life masterfully talking about everyone else...but when are you going to tell your story?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s time,” flashing that understated, mischievous Tate grin. “And everybody alive to tell the story with me still got their swag.” We planned to make a doc about the Black Rock Coalition, but then, just a few months later, he was gone.

Devastated. Gutted. In mourning. I carried the sharp regret of never getting Greg on camera to tell his own story. But when he left us, the community of artists and intellectuals lit up ablaze in our grief. We gathered, we spoke, we remembered, sharing our infinite stories of Tate. And in that chorus of memory, it became undeniable: it was our turn to canonize the canonizer.

Now, I’m in production on a documentary film called Talk About Tate—because his story needs to be told. Greg always made time for his community, for artists, for the young ones who didn’t yet know they were geniuses. With his words, he documented his culture, and with his presence, he built his community.

And now, it’s the culture’s turn to remember. Those of us who were shaped by him must speak, sing, and play his name into permanence. We’re here to tell Greg’s story from the inside out. It’s our turn to Talk about Tate.

Why Greg Tate Day?

Greg Tate Day — October 19th — is an important way to honor his story, his singular mind, his resonant voice. On that day, I’ll be plucking my axe in public for the first time in a decade on the streets of Harlem, playing with a musical ensemble of Tate’s creation, Burnt Sugar Arkestra Chamber — legendary guitarist Vernon Reid will conduct.

The anchor for the inaugural Greg Tate Day will be a new public artwork by internationally acclaimed artist Brett Cook. A 1997–98 Studio Museum in Harlem Artist-in-Residence alumnus, Cook is creating an imaginative portrait of Greg Tate inspired by his own decades-long practice of making “cultural artifacts” of love and care in and with communities.

Cook’s connection to Harlem runs deep. His seminal 1990s project Expressions of Harlem installed seven large-scale portraits with quotes from neighborhood residents across public sites. For Greg Tate Day, Cook returns to this lineage with Greg Tate Horus in Harlem, a temporary public installation at 134th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue approved by NYC Parks’ Temporary Art Program. A community procession and Burnt Sugar offering is planned for October 19th. Cook’s portrait doesn’t just honor Tate’s image; it places his spirit back into the streets he loved, echoing his legacy into the future.

What Greg wanted more than anything was for his people to waste nothing—not one drop of their talent. He felt the urgency, the mandate, for voices of free expression to put their work into the cultural record. He summoned us to take our shit off the shelf and let it shine. By honoring him, we radiate and honor the best in ourselves. As my brother Freedome puts it:

“Tate spoke about how art can change society, and artists as civic provocateurs. I know Greg is with us and pulling the strings from parts unknown.“

Because that’s the thing. Greg was civics. Not the dry, procedural kind—but the deep, lived spirit kind. The kind that reimagines what it means to be in public, to hold power, to remix reality. Tate reminded us that artists shape society. That we are not marginal—we’re foundational.

So yes—let us canonize the canonizer.

Name the day. Raise the volume. Feed the block. Teach the babies. And let the “furthermucker” fly. Because Greg Tate made space for all of us to be more than what they told us we could be.

And if that’s not civic power, I don’t know what is.

Greg Tate Day isn’t just a remembrance; It’s a call to enshrine his cultural brilliance in public memory. It’s a reminder that civic life doesn’t just live in voting booths or courtrooms. It pulses through art, poetry, music, and that guitar solo that makes you weep and rage at the same time.

There was never anyone like Greg Tate—and there never will be. Tate didn’t just write about culture. He shaped it. Through his signature syntax, cutting analysis, genre-bending artistry, and radical tenderness, he created a wholly new way of seeing, sounding, and saying. To be in conversation with Greg Tate was to be pulled into orbit intellectually, musically, spiritually. And for those of us lucky enough to be raised in the world he helped create, his legacy is not abstract. It’s personal.

CLICK HERE TO ATTEND GREG TATE DAY

Electors in the U.S. Electoral College are generally expected to vote for their state’s winning candidate. However, history has shown that some electors have opinions, and they don’t always align with the voters. These so-called faithless electors go rogue by casting a ballot for someone other than their designated candidate, sometimes as a protest, sometimes as a strategic move, and occasionally just to cause mischief.

Now, you might think, "Isn’t that illegal?" Well, in some places, yes. In others? Not really.

Did you know there are still 13 states that have no laws requiring how electors should vote? These states, collectively totaling 106 electoral votes, include:

1. Arkansas (6 electoral votes)

2. Georgia (16 electoral votes)

3. Idaho (4 electoral votes)

4. Kansas (6 electoral votes)

5. Kentucky (8 electoral votes)

6. Louisiana (8 electoral votes)

7. Missouri (10 electoral votes)

8. New Hampshire (4 electoral votes)

9. New Jersey (14 electoral votes)

10. Pennsylvania (19 electoral votes)

11. Rhode Island (4 electoral votes)

12. South Dakota (3 electoral votes)

13. West Virginia (4 electoral votes)

In the aftermath of the 2016 election, a group called the “Hamilton Electors” (named after—you guessed it—Alexander Hamilton) had a bold idea. In the Federalist Papers #68, Hamilton wrote about electors who select the president:

“…the immediate election should be made by men most capable of analyzing the qualities adapted to the station, and acting under circumstances favorable to deliberation, and to a judicious combination of all the reasons and inducements which were proper to govern their choice. A small number of persons, selected by their fellow-citizens from the general mass, will be most likely to possess the information and discernment requisite to such complicated investigations.”

A group of electors across a few states, who coined themselves “The Hamilton Electors,” including Michael Baca (featured in the video above), a former Marine and high school Government teacher was a Democratic elector in the state of Colorado during the 2016 presidential election cited Hamilton’s Federalist Papers #68, positioning themselves as the last line of defense to protect America from what they deemed as an unfit candidate, then President-Elect Donald J. Trump.

Their goal? To prevent Donald Trump from reaching 270 electoral votes by convincing enough electors to vote for an alternative candidate. The hope was that this would trigger a contingent election, in which the House of Representatives could select a more "acceptable" president.

Even though they didn’t believe electors should have unlimited voting freedom, they saw themselves as following an originalist interpretation of the Constitution. Their goal was to expose what they viewed as a flaw in the Electoral College while blocking a Trump presidency.

Prior to the 2016 U.S. presidential election, the phenomenon of faithless electors —members of the Electoral College who cast their votes contrary to their pledged candidate —had occurred, but it had rarely influenced the election outcome. Historically, there have been 165 instances of faithless electoral votes, often as symbolic gestures or due to unforeseen circumstances surrounding the candidate, such as the death of a nominee. Faithless votes have always been counted in the official electoral count, but these deviations have not altered the final result of a presidential race.

The Legacy of Michael Baca

Are electors just rubber stamps, or do they have the constitutional right to vote their conscience? The Supreme Court ruled that the states have the sole authority to decide how their electors vote.

So, while Michael Baca didn’t change the course of the 2016 election, he did make history. And in the grand tradition of Hamilton himself, he got his name forever tied to an important fight over democracy, thankfully, without dueling pistols.

But we should all be aware that in a tightly contested election, the actions of faithless electors could become more consequential. For instance, if a candidate secures exactly the 270 electoral votes needed for victory, a single faithless elector defecting could reduce their count to 269, resulting in no candidate achieving the required majority of 270. This scenario would trigger a contingent election, where the House of Representatives selects the president, and the Senate chooses the vice president.

The Consequences of Loose Elector Laws

So what if Baca had pulled off his plan? What if enough electors in unregulated states had flipped their votes?

1. Contingent Election Chaos – If no candidate reaches 270 electoral votes, the House of Representatives picks the president (with each state delegation getting just one vote—meaning Wyoming has the same say as California). Meanwhile, the Senate picks the vice president. Imagine a Biden-DeSantis administration. That’s the kind of weirdness this could cause.

2. Elector Bribery or Influence – With no binding laws in some states, what’s stopping a billionaire (or a very persuasive lobbyist) from offering an elector an "incentive" to vote differently? It’s a political loophole with no mechanism to prevent it from happening.

Could Faithless Electors Change a Future Election?

Given the razor-thin margins in recent elections, yes. If an election comes down to just a few electoral votes, and those electors are in states without binding laws, a couple of faithless votes could decide the presidency.

Even though Baca lost his court battle, his case proved that the role of electors isn’t fully settled. One thing’s for sure: if a future election is close enough for faithless electors to matter, expect another political firestorm.

Until then, we wait… and maybe keep an eye on those 13 states that still let electors go rogue.

Welcome! If you find this article interesting, you can help me tremendously by giving it a ❤️.

The results of the 2024 Presidential Election have added yet another fascinating chapter to the story of the Electoral College map. In the aftermath, half the country was popping champagne and planning victory parades, while the other half was Googling "how to move to Canada" and stockpiling canned goods. Nowadays, democracy seems like the ultimate reality show we can't stop watching.

No matter which side of the aisle you happen to sit on, let us remind ourselves that the pendulum will continue to swing.

While researching for my documentary One Person, One Vote? about "the untold story of the Electoral College," I unearthed a mind-numbing mountain of information—most of which never made it close to the editing room.

Luckily, this publication gives me the perfect excuse to share some juicy tidbits and pester you with them with glee–such as how the Electoral College map has transformed over the past century as states have gained, lost, and swapped political identities like teenagers trying on new outfits. To make things more fun, I’ve included campaign videos from the winning candidates—remarkable snapshots of the issues and moments that defined their times.

Let's dig in. Shall we?

Because of the Electoral College, a handful of swing states are the belle of the presidential election ball. Candidates woo them with endless visits, VIP treatment, and showers of campaign dollars. States like Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Arizona have become the equivalent of prom royalty, leaving the rest of the country to snack on stale pretzels in the gym. But can you imagine a time when almost the entire country was in a state of swing?

1928 and 1932 Elections

With the polarized politics of today, it is difficult to conceive of a time when almost the entire country swung from one party to another. The Electoral College map underwent a dramatic transformation between 1928 and 1932. In 1928, Herbert Hoover's landslide victory turned the map solidly Republican. By 1932, however, the Great Depression and massive unemployment had Americans giving Hoover a big "No, Thank you," paving the way for Franklin D. Roosevelt to sweep in with his New Deal and a promise to fix the mess.

Roosevelt would lead the nation, winning an astounding four elections in a row (1932 -1944). After his presidency, Republicans in Congress pushed through the 22^nd Amendment, limiting presidents to two terms.

Subscribe now

The 1952 Election

Dwight Eisenhower, a war hero (with no political baggage) who led Americans to victory in World War II, made political marketing into an art form with his catchy Republican campaign jingle, "I Like Ike.” Eisenhower ended a 20-year run for Democratic presidents in the White House (no party had done that since the end of the Civil War).

States overwhelmingly voted Republican, except for the "Solid South," a group of former slave states that almost always voted for Democrats after the Reconstruction era. This loyalty stemmed from two key factors: Black citizens were disenfranchised and unable to vote, and the white majority blamed Abraham Lincoln’s Republican Party for the Civil War and the abolition of slavery.

But with Eisenhower's military heroics and moderate Republicanism, a few Southern states started reconsidering their loyalties, foreshadowing the shift to the Republican "Red South" we know today.

Share

The 1960 Election

A drama for the ages. It marked a pivotal moment in U.S. politics, as the charismatic John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon went head-to-head in one of the closest elections in history. Kennedy was also the first Roman Catholic to be elected president.

Though Nixon was not convinced he lost the election, he graciously conceded, telling a journalist, “Our country cannot afford the agony of a constitutional crisis.”

Kennedy did manage to regain some of the South that Eisenhower had won, partly thanks to his running mate, Lyndon B. Johnson, of Texas. But real cracks were forming in the Democratic stronghold. Kennedy squeaked by with a razor-thin victory in a few states but won a significant Electoral College victory, 303 to 219.

The 1964 and 1968 Elections

In 1964, Lyndon B. Johnson trounced Republican Barry Goldwater, turning the electoral map into an overwhelming ocean of blue. Johnson's "Great Society" programs and connection to JFK's legacy carried him to a landslide victory, as Goldwater's ultra-conservative platform, including his opposition to the Civil Rights Act of 1964, alienated much of the country.

Johnson snagged 44 states, leaving Goldwater with just six—his home state of Arizona and a cluster of deep South states that were still heavily segregated and where Blacks were almost entirely disfranchised. In these states, his opposition to civil rights found an audience.

But the South's newfound redness wasn't just a one-off. It was the first hint of the end of the "Solid South." Change was coming, but no one knew how big it would be. The deep South was still mostly solid, but it no longer supported the Democratic Party, which supported civil rights and an end to segregation.

By 1968, the calm of 1964 had been replaced with absolute chaos. The Vietnam War dragged on, protests erupted across the nation, and the Democratic Party's internal drama with intense disagreement over its stance on Vietnam. Former Vice President Richard Nixon promised "law and order" and pitched himself as the candidate of the "silent majority” (a cohort of Conservative voters who keep silent in the public discourse). These phrases are also perceived as “dog whistles.”

Nixon turned much of the West and Midwest red, while Vice President Hubert H. Humphrey, the Democratic candidate, clung to the Northeast and parts of the Midwest. But the real curveball came from George Wallace, the segregationist governor of Alabama, running as a third-party candidate, who won five deep South states, four of which had voted for Goldwater in 1964. Wallace's win in the South made it clear the Democratic Party's decades-long grip on the region was over. The South was now up for grabs. Nixon developed a fear-mongering "Southern Strategy," based mostly on appealing to White segregationists, and laid the groundwork for a Republican surge in the coming decades.

The 1972 and 1976 Elections

From 1972 to 1988, the Republican Party dominated the Electoral College map with decisive victories that turned much of the country into a solid red block for the presidential race (though Democrats controlled most of Congress for this period. Aside from Jimmy Carter's brief four-year break in 1976, the GOP won every presidential election in this period by landslide margins.

Nixon’s tsunami in the 1972 election set the tone for this era, with Richard Nixon crushing Democrat George McGovern in one of the most lopsided victories in U.S. history. Nixon carried 49 states, leaving McGovern with just Massachusetts and the District of Columbia. This made it clear that the Democratic Party needed more than progressive ideals to win over voters.

Subscribe now

In 1976, the electoral map was like a homecoming party for the South. After years of flirting with the GOP, the region returned to its Democratic roots—probably because Governor Jimmy Carter of Georgia, felt like the guy next door (rest in peace, Jimmy). But because of the Watergate scandal reliable Republican States like Ohio, also voted for Carter.

It illustrates how, despite a 1.7 million popular vote lead, the election outcome could have been different if the key state of New York, or almost any two other medium-sized states—vulnerable under the Electoral College system—had shifted sides.

(As for Gerald Ford, pardoning Nixon wasn't a good look).

The 1980 and 1984 Elections

In 1980, Ronald Reagan’s Hollywood charisma and ability to connect with voters fueled his victory over incumbent Jimmy Carter, along with high inflation, high gas prices, and the takeover of the US embassy in Iran. He introduced the now-famous “Let’s Make America Great Again” slogan. The phrase resurfaced in Bill Clinton’s 1992 campaign and was later trademarked by Donald J. Trump.

Reagan’s brand of Republicanism swept the nation, winning 44 states and leaving Carter with only a few splashes of blue, including his home state of Georgia.

His 1984 re-election campaign was a masterclass in political domination, a 49-state landslide, with Mondale winning only his home state of Minnesota (by less than 4,000 votes) and the District of Columbia.

The 1988 Election

In 1988, Vice Presidency George H. W. Bush rode the Reagan wave to defeat Democrat Michael Dukakis. Bush was the first sitting Vice President elected to the Presidency since Martin Van Buren in 1836. The only other sitting Vice Presidents ever elected were John Adams (1796) and Thomas Jefferson (1800). In 1960, Vice President Nixon lost the election, and in 1968, Vice President Humphrey lost.

Bush promised to continue Reagan's successful policies, and voters responded by giving him 40 states. Dukakis's campaign struggled against Bush's sharp race-baiting attack ads (Willie Horton) and his portrayal as an out-of-touch liberal.

1992 and 1996 Elections

The 1992 to 2012 elections ushered in a more competitive era and a Democratic Revival. Bill Clinton, a charming Governor of Arkansas, delivered victories in 1992 and 1996, breaking the Republican hold on the South. When Clinton ran in 1992 there was high unemployment. Bush had promised never to raise taxes when he ran in 1988, but he reversed that policy and lost significant support.

The campaign of businessman H. Ross Perot garnered substantial votes in states like Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, and Montana, likely helping flip those states to Clinton. However, in 1996, without Perot in the race, Clinton lost Colorado and Montana. Despite this, Clinton carried the West Coast, almost the entire Midwest, and the entire Northeast, breaking the Republican stronghold in the Midwest by losing only Indiana. In the South, Clinton consistently lost seven states from the former Confederacy in both elections, but he held onto his home state of Arkansas and his running mate’s home state of Tennessee.

The Electoral College map began to reflect the growing influence of the Sunbelt as states like Florida and Arizona became hotly contested.

The 2000 and 2004 Elections

The 2000 election between George W. Bush and Al Gore became the ultimate case study in the quirks of the Electoral College. Gore won the popular vote by more than half a million, but the presidency hinged on the outcome in Florida, a state with 20 electoral votes.

What followed was a political drama featuring recounts, the hanging chad controversy, and a Supreme Court decision (Bush v. Gore) that effectively awarded Florida—and the presidency—to Bush. The final Electoral College tally: Bush 271, Gore 266 (with one abstention).

The debacle highlighted a key feature of the Electoral College: While millions of votes in reliably red and blue states had little impact on the outcome, Florida's razor-thin margin dominated headlines and determined the next president.

In 2004, the contest between George W. Bush and John Kerry was less chaotic but no less intense. With the nation deeply divided over the ill-advised Iraq War and domestic issues, both candidates poured resources into battleground states like Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Florida.

Ultimately, the election came down to Ohio. With its 20 electoral votes, the Buckeye State became the tipping point, giving Bush a victory with 286 electoral votes to Kerry's 251. Much like Carter's win in 1976, had just one state—Ohio—flipped, Kerry would have won the Electoral College and the presidency despite a 3 million vote deficit in the national popular vote.

The Electoral College cemented its role in making a handful of swing states the focal points of presidential campaigns.

2008 and 2012 Elections

Barack Obama, the charismatic leader with his iconic “Yes We Can” campaign slogan and an army of celebrity endorsements, turned Florida, Ohio, and Iowa blue in back-to-back elections. He also carried Indiana in 2008, a state that had voted Republican in every election since 1940 except the landslide victory of Lyndon B. Johnson. The key to his decisive win was strategically targeting battleground states by mobilizing a diverse coalition of young voters, minority communities, and suburban moderates. He also used the internet to raise small donations from millions of people, whom political fundraisers usually ignored.

Subscribe now

2016 and 2020 Elections

Donald Trump's shocking 2016 victory showcased, once again, the Electoral College's power to override the popular vote. Despite losing the popular vote by nearly three million ballots, Trump secured razor-thin wins in the key battleground regions of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania.

Most analysts agree that Hillary Clinton’s 2016 loss was influenced by multiple factors, including gender bias and her lack of vigorous campaigning in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania—the so-called "Blue Wall" that Democrats had depended on since 1992. In addition besides the three Reagan-Bush victories (1980-1988), no political party had successfully held the White House for more than two consecutive terms since Harry Truman’s election in 1948. These historical and strategic factors challenged Clinton’s path to victory.

In 2020, Joe Biden flipped those same Rust Belt states back to blue and won two key Republican Sunbelt states (Georgia and Arizona), winning the popular vote majority by almost five million and a significant majority in the Electoral College.

The 2024 Election

In the 2024 United States presidential election, held on November 5, former President Donald Trump defeated incumbent Vice President Kamala Harris. Trump secured 312 electoral votes to Harris's 226. Though the election has been characterized as a landslide, the election was close in the national popular vote. In the end, Trump received 77,303,573 votes (49.9%), Harris garnered 75,019,257 votes (48.4%), Jill Stein yielded 782,528 votes (0.5%), and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. received 756,393 votes (0.5%).

The 2024 election saw a surprising setback for Democrats, with losses in Michigan and Pennsylvania—two Rust Belt states that had been pivotal to their coalition. Trump's success was marked by victories in all seven key swing states, including Arizona, Georgia, Nevada, North Carolina, and Wisconsin.

A shift in voter demographics was also significant. Trump made notable gains among Latinos, and several counties in Florida and Texas flipped Republican. Harris could not improve Biden’s margin with all demographics save college-educated women.

A Peek Into the Proverbial Crystal Ball

The purple frontier is shape-shifting. The emergence of new swing states like Georgia, Arizona, and potentially even Texas signals a more competitive ballot box in what have historically been "safe" Republican states. Some traditionally Republican-leaning areas are becoming more diverse, urbanized, and politically balanced, creating new battlegrounds that could decide future elections.

Ohio and Iowa, once key swing states, may fade into the background as their populations shrink and their politics lean more predictably red. However, the 2024 election saw a surprising setback for Democrats with losses in Michigan and Pennsylvania—two Rust Belt states that had been pivotal to their success.

In an era that leaves you dizzy with information overload, traditional news outlets are losing audiences to pundits and podcasters. The flow of reliable news has fractured, making deciphering fact from spin from fiction difficult. These echo chambers impact how voters perceive issues and, potentially, how electoral maps take shape. Swing states are especially vulnerable to targeted disinformation campaigns designed to suppress votes, sway voters, or energize the fringes.

The strategic use of disinformation amplifies the flaws of the Electoral College, as the effects could mean the electoral map may increasingly reflect not just demographic shifts but the success of fear-mongering and micro-targeted messaging that could sow deeper volatility, breed new battlegrounds and unpredictability among voter outcomes.

Billionaire CEOs are now lining up to use their financial power to shape electoral maps in subtle and overt ways, compromising the power of average voters, reshaping the democratic process and electoral maps into one where wealth wields disproportionate influence and an outsized ability to decide the country's future.

Then there's the National Popular Vote Interstate Compact. Most in this country are unaware of how this legislation is weaving through several states. If enough states join, it could trigger a seismic shift and entirely upend the traditional role of the Electoral College.

If enough states join this compact—representing a majority of the 270 electoral votes needed to win the presidency—participating states have agreed to award their electoral votes to the winner of the national popular vote (instead of the popular vote winner in their state).

The compact has 209 of the 270 electoral votes required to win a presidency. It has 75% of the total number of votes it needs to be enacted.

If the compact can attain the participation of states possessing 61 more electoral votes, the Electoral College map, as we know it, will be blown to smithereens. The "battleground state" phenomenon could fade, and presidential candidates might start showing up in Alabama and California to hold rallies, shake hands, and kiss babies.

If enacted, the compact would almost certainly ignite a legal firestorm, with opponents challenging its constitutionality in federal courts. Opponents might argue that the compact violates the Constitution's Compact Clause, while supporters would counter that state legislatures have the Constitutional authority to decide how they allocate their electoral votes.

How states award their electoral votes has changed throughout history, but today, the “Winner-Take-All” method is the norm in 48 states. Maine and Nebraska’s use of a congressional district-based approach shows that states can and do implement differing systems. The compact would represent yet another evolution in this process.

The U.S. Supreme Court has already signaled a willingness to uphold states’ authority in such matters. In the 2019 case Chiafalo v. Washington, the Court unanimously ruled that states can enforce laws requiring electors to follow the results of their popular vote. This decision indirectly supports that compacts like the National Popular Vote could fall within a state's constitutional authority.

I know. It’s a lot.

One thing's for certain: the debate over the Electoral College will persist. My "Electoral College" Google alert yields results daily for people calling to abolish the system and a few who praise it as a tradition as American as apple pie and Nathan's hot dogs.

Critics will continue to argue that it's outdated and undemocratic. At the same time, defenders will maintain that it protects the interests of smaller states (which it doesn't; we see clear evidence that it favors swing states). Whether through reform or tradition, the system will likely remain a focal point of American elections for years to come.

But if change is to come…change is best made from the people up.

Our responsibility is to be informed, challenge disinformation, and ensure our voices clearly articulate our desires. Only then can we be empowered to shape the evolution of systems like the Electoral College in a way that truly reflects the people's will.

Do you think our country will ever see a time when it is as united as it was at different points in America’s history, and why? Let me know in the comments.

Leave a comment

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for spending so much time with me in an Electoral College map rabbit hole!

Share Maximina Juson: Humans Understanding Machinery

I was filming alone at the Capitol that day for a documentary about the Electoral College. After years of researching the unique system by which America elects its president, I had no idea my journey would deliver me to a moment where history would unfold before my very eyes—the first non-peaceful transfer of power in the United States.

January 6, 2021, marked the final step for the Electoral College. A joint session of the United States Congress convened to count the certified electoral votes delivered from all 50 states. What should have been a routine democratic process became a day of chaos and violence.

Among the crowd, a video circulated that they believed showed a 17-year-old girl being fatally shot. The anger was immediate for what they perceived to be the murder of a child. Later, I learned the individual in the video was not a teenager but a 35-year-old woman named Ashli Babbitt, whose death would become a rallying point for many within the movement.

I was stunned by the numerous calls for martial law echoing through the crowd. It was jarring to witness how many were ready and willing to abandon democracy. Their palpable frustration was evident when the figure they expected to declare it—then-outgoing President Donald J. Trump—failed to appear. Among the chaos, the Christian presence was undeniable, crosses, signs reading “Jesus Saves,” and prayers woven into the chants for political action. Many seemed to believe that their cause was divinely sanctioned and their demands for martial law and the overturning of the election were not just political imperatives but part of a holy mission.

Throughout the day, I was repeatedly asked, “What outlet are you from?” I answered truthfully, explaining that I was an independent filmmaker. That answer was enough—at least until chaos erupted, and I found myself on the steps of the Capitol.

That was when I was mugged, and half my footage was stolen. I was surrounded by an agitated crowd demanding I stop filming, threatening to destroy my camera if I didn’t comply. I tried to reason with them, pointing out that they were infringing on my freedom by trying to silence me. To my surprise, it was members of QAnon who stepped in to defend me. They agreed that I had the right to film and told the others to back off.

Shaken, I stepped aside, trying to gather myself. My camera’s screen flashed “no media card,” confirming the loss of my footage. The QAnon members approached me to see if I was okay. They expressed their disapproval of how I had been treated, asserting, “This is not what today is about.”

As they spoke to me, a protester accused them of being traitors, sparking a physical altercation. The tension escalated rapidly until others intervened, breaking it up before it could spiral out of control.

I was no longer a fly on the wall, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to be harmed on my behalf. I knew it was time to leave.

It was dark, and the curfew had already begun. I was stranded miles from my car, exhausted and weighed down by my camera equipment. A couple of protestors noticed me struggling and offered to help, striking up a conversation as we walked. When I told them about the harassment and theft I had experienced, they were quick to lay the blame on Antifa, convinced that the group was not only responsible for my ordeal but also for breaching the Capitol earlier that day. They expressed their desire to keep me safe and make sure I got home safely.

All rideshare services were not operating. With no other option, we hitchhiked with a Latino couple, “Stop the Steal” protesters who had driven up from Florida. Wedged in the middle seat of the back row, I listened as they shared the conspiracy theories that convinced them the election had been stolen.

When we arrived at the hotel where they were staying, they were starving and decided to order room service with other family and friends who had also travelled to D.C. for the protest, before dropping me off. I felt a twinge of hesitation—I had no idea what I was walking into—but I agreed, knowing they had already gone above and beyond to protect me.

When we entered the hotel room, my new friend introduced me to the group. “This is Maximina. She’s an independent filmmaker.” I stood there, disheveled, holding a big camera rig and the only one wearing a mask. They regarded me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. I took off my mask and used humor to break the ice.

The TV was tuned to Fox News, and the room buzzed with frustration. They were upset that Trump hadn’t shown up as they had expected him to. They talked about Antifa and a range of conspiracy theories. Some of the family members there hadn’t seen each other in years, and it was a unique kind of reunion.

When I finally returned to my Airbnb, one of the young men who had committed to keeping me safe refused my gratitude. Instead, he urged me to thank Jesus, insisting it was God—not him—who brought me back safely. He called me family, embraced me, and then left.

All this said, there has been a lot of discussion about the violence and the rioters during the events of January 6, but much less about the peaceful aspects of that day. I saw thousands of people who had traveled far and wide, not just to protest for an election that they believed was stolen, but to pray.

That day, religious symbols were conspicuous among the sea of flags and banners. Crosses, Bibles, and signs reading “Jesus is my Savior. Trump is my President” and “Jesus 2020." Protestors' prayers blended the language of faith with calls to overturn the 2020 presidential election results.

Share

For many Christian Nationalists, January 6 represented not just a political mission but a spiritual one. They believed they were defending a divinely ordained nation from what they perceived as fraudulent and immoral forces. This conviction was reinforced by rhetoric that mobilized support for the "Stop the Steal" movement, framing their actions as part of a larger battle between good and evil.

Christian Nationalism is a political ideology that fuses Christian identity with national identity. It holds that America’s founding principles were divinely inspired and views secularism as a betrayal of that intent. Many at the Capitol on January 6 believed their actions were divinely mandated and, therefore, justified.

That day, alongside prayers to overturn the 2020 presidential election, many also fervently prayed for the reversal of Roe v. Wade, the landmark 1973 decision that established a constitutional right to abortion.

In 2022, their prayers were realized when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization. For many, this may have seemed like evidence that “God’s plan” was unfolding, and a motivator in the 2024 election to mobilize their communities and press on with what they saw as “God’s work.”

As the country looks ahead to the next four years, it is essential to consider and prepare for the possible path of the Christian Nationalist movement. We cannot afford to overlook the renewed vigor with which they are likely to pursue deeper influence over the judiciary, legislative policy, and voter mobilization, particularly on issues such as abortion, LGBTQ+ rights, prayer in schools, and initiatives that erode the separation of church and state. Their ultimate goal is to embed their ideology into the very fabric of American governance. For the most extreme among them, authoritarianism, embodied in the figure they regard as the “chosen one,” President-elect Donald J. Trump, is seen as someone who will shape America into a nation where church and state are no longer separate, but one and the same.

But as I said, today is a solemn day. I want to thank those who stood in defense of democracy on this day four years ago. To Mike Pence, who resisted immense pressure to reject the Electoral College votes and send the country into unprecedented chaos; to the members of Congress who, despite facing grave danger, were determined to uphold the results of a free and fair election; to the Capitol staff and law enforcement who now bear the physical and emotional scars from the events of January 6th. And finally, to those who paid the ultimate price that day, your courage and sacrifice will forever be remembered.

Share

Thank you for reading! If you found this article interesting, you can help me tremendously by giving it a ❤️.

To learn more about Christian Nationalism, I recommend these documentary films: God & Country and Bad Faith.

You can also watch my film One Person, One Vote? about the Untold Story of the Electoral College here.

Watch One Person, One Vote?

Greetings and Welcome!

I’m Maximina Juson, a filmmaker, storyteller, and media multi-hyphenate who occasionally turns a random idea into a full-fledged film.

You might know me from my documentary, One Person, One Vote?, which recently premiered on PBS as part of their Independent Lens series, where I did something wild: I made the Electoral College entertaining. Yes, really. Through the stories of four presidential electors, I unpacked how this quirky piece of democracy works—and why it matters more than you might think.

But my love for storytelling goes beyond just films. If you’re wondering how a poet, world-touring bass player, mother of two, user experience architect, game inventor, and filmmaker all fit into one life, the answer is simple: a lot of curiosity and the fearlessness to pick up the phone when a calling calls.

I’ve worn many hats (and a bass guitar!), but the common thread through it all has been my love of connecting with people. Whether I was performing spoken word, rocking a stage, designing seamless user experiences, or capturing stories on film, it always came down to sharing something meaningful—or at least entertaining.

Now, I’m here to share even more stories, experiences, and probably a few moments of chaos from the rambunctious ride that’s been my life so far. I hope you stick around. I promise I’ll keep it interesting!

What’s All This About Now?

I created this space to share my world of storytelling, democracy, and the occasional filmmaking fiasco. Whether you love documentaries or the art of filmmaking, want a behind-the-scenes look at the creative process, or enjoy a good chuckle while learning about complex topics, there’s something for you here.

Here’s what you can expect:

Storytelling for Social Change: I'll share pro tips, fun tricks and an abundance of lessons learned from what it takes to craft compelling narratives to using media to inspire action.

Deep Dives into Democracy: Think civics class, but fun. I’ll break down big ideas, unpack systems like the Electoral College, and ask the kinds of questions that make us think harder about our world—simplified into layman’s terms that are easy to understand and (dare I say) entertaining—got a burning question about democracy? Send it my way!

Adventures of a Media Multi-Hyphenate: What does following your passions mean? I’ll share what it’s like to shapeshift between multiple creative pursuits—from filmmaking to life on the road as a touring bass player to game inventing to parenting—and the unexpected adventures that come with turning wild ideas into reality. Spoiler: It’s equal parts exhilarating, chaotic, and deeply fulfilling.

Behind-the-Lens Insights: What’s it like making a film, including one’s about the Electoral College? Let’s just say it involves lots of late nights, unexpected challenges, and more than one existential crisis.

Personal Stories: The best lessons often come from moments when things don’t go as planned (like that time I tried to film at the U.S. Capitol on January 6th, 2021... but more on that later).

As an independent artist and filmmaker, I wanted a space to connect directly with you—no gatekeepers, no algorithms, no middlemen, just stories and ideas that make the world go round. If you’re curious about storytelling or democracy or just want an excuse to procrastinate with an interesting read, hit that subscribe button. Let’s get this party started.

Here’s to exploring big ideas, laughing through the chaos, and learning together—one post at a time.

Lights out,
Maximina Juson

P.S. If you haven’t seen One Person, One Vote?, check it out on PBS’ Independent Lens. It’s like democracy but with sexy animation and a kickass score (by the incredible Pierre Bennu and Mark Batson).