Two Jewish moderate Democrats walked into a bar. . . .
It's bad for business in patches of north suburban Chicago when Yom Kippur falls on a weekend. My friend and I were surprised to even find a place open when we decided to unwind with a quick nightcap after stuffing ourselves at a "Break Fast." Soon, it was just us and the bartender, schmoozing away while the tabletops got wiped down and the chairs gradually went upside down around us.
It's a relatively new venue for me, this bar a few suburbs away from where I live, in my cozy bubble where most people seem to think the way I do and, if they don't, they try not to advertise it. My cozy bubble where I am not the only idiot who falls asleep to the soothing voices of MSNBC hosts who, like me, still struggle to understand how our country was hijacked last November. We are from both sides of the political spectrum here, with many of us overlapping somewhere toward the middle, but I believe with all my heart that my despair has little to do with political ideology.
My first time in this new place, I felt instantly at home. I liked my drink -- more because of the bartender's enthusiasm about it than the quality of the drink itself, although it was both tasty and potent. The bartender regaled me with magic tricks -- cards, coins, inexplicable sleights of hand. By the time I left, I was exchanging more than a few hugs with relative strangers. By my second visit, I felt like family. Hugs when I walked in, more magic tricks, another pleasing drink. More illusions of oneness, my bubble-borne delusions still intact.
The details aren't important, but suffice it to say I knew things were not going to go well when the bartender told me he was about to stop watching football. It all went south from there, as I listened, polite and mute. I heard about all the patriots who had died for the flag. I heard about how Obama did nothing for blacks (because, apparently, he was elected to be President of the Blacks -- POTB). I heard about the horror of open borders, the hardship of rising health care premiums. I remained polite and silent, assuming it would be pointless to launch into a discussion of all the gray areas: the complicated morass between "open" and "closed" borders, the daunting responsibility of representing everybody in a vast and diverse country, the difference between silent protest and disrespecting the flag, my willingness to absorb certain costs, if it means others will benefit from my country's wealth and freedoms as much as I do. The dangers of viewing the world as Muslims and the rest of us, or any brand of "us and them."
Yes, I support the right to protest. No, I don't think the best way to do it is to take advantage of the very public platform bestowed upon you by virtue of your employment, especially if your socks depict the dedicated people who protect you, personally, as pigs. Yes, I always stand for the flag and the national anthem in public, and my eyes always well up. No, I don't stand when I'm home on my couch, eating Doritos, but I still love America and everything she stands for. Yes, I think 45 has, once again, brilliantly reframed the issue so that even more folks than just the ones in his loyal base are missing the point, and I hope football teams continue to come up with intelligent compromises, the way they did in Baltimore yesterday, to help disentangle the issues and stand (or kneel) for unambiguous messages.
Two Jewish moderate Democrats in an empty bar on the heels of Yom Kippur. Close on the heels of much repenting and reflecting and resolving, on my part, to do better. The bartender was taken aback when I finally confessed that my centrality leaned a bit to the left. Was our new friendship just an illusion? I hope not. We hugged, awkwardly, but I am determined to go back, maybe find my voice and have a more measured conversation about all this muck. Maybe recapture the magic.
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