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September 2026: transit

Each month, we break down our topic into four weekly modules. Catch up on previous editions here.​

This week's module: ACT

• ✅ DREAM | imagine a utopian transit system
• ✅ LEARN | learn about effective transportation movements throughout history
• ✅ ACT | actions you can take asap for a more connected world no matter where you live
• 🎯 REFLECT | Art, poetry, and commitments

Estimated reading time: 3 minutes

Here's what we'll learn today Reader

Thank you thank you for those of you who replied to my last week crashout Changeletter. Today's is going to be pretty short as well. Morale is a lot higher, but I am still carving my way out of my overwhelm, especially with our gala in two days (which will be SO EXCITING)!

So, today I'm leaving you with a poem about transit, but as a lil treat for your support, I wanted to share some Nivi lore.

Today's poem is by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's rare that I choose a white dude poem for our Changeletters, but me and Bob Lou go way back.

When I was five years old, my school had a poetry reading contest.

My poem was "The Swing" by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I remember being on stage and reading my poem and thinking I'd done a pretty good job. I was sure that I was going to get some sort of prize.

Because I was five years old, I didn't realize that prizes get announced in descending order. So when I didn't hear myself called for fifth place or fourth place or third place, I was devastated. Like honestly heartbroken. That was my first memory of intense, crushing rejection.

BUT GUESS WHAT???!! HUH GUESS WHAT?

I GOT FIRST FRICKIN PLACE IN THE POETRY CONTEST!! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THERE WERE STILL NUMBERS TO BE ANNOUNCED!

Anyway, shoutout to the homie. He wrote about swings (I love) and about trains (I love). So yeah. RLS for life. He knows how to romanticize the good things in life.

Enjoy.

Your bite-sized action plan Reader

Today, your mission is to read this poem and share it with a friend.

From a Railway Carriage by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

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