A View from a Rooftop

I could almost hear my mother saying it, that she had the map of Ireland on her face. On her whole body, really, from the flaming reddish hair on her head to the freckles on her bare legs, so plentiful they almost came together to make her look tan. That we would have been drawn to each other seemed unlikely -- this tall pale beauty with the pixie-ish nose and me, with the map of Minsk or Pinsk or some ill-defined border between Russia and Poland on my face. Hmm, no wonder that's never caught on as an expression. 

Her boyfriend was the leader of the band. I had shown up reluctantly to this rooftop party, as a favor to the drummer. She thought I looked like I needed some wine. I liked her immediately. She's dated lots of Jews, she told me, and has come away with a treasure trove of stories and a working knowledge of basic Yiddish. Better than your average M.O.T., I told her -- and she was stumped. Member of the Tribe, I explained. How odd that she had mastered meshugana (and all of its various conjugations) and never heard "M.O.T."? 

She went immediately to the "tribe" piece. Tribal. Tribalism. A bad word these days, in all of its various conjugations. She raised a good point; I rail against tribalism, and I had just declared myself to be a member. 

I thought about this today, when I read a post from a friend, reacting to all the meshugas with our president and Jews and Israel and the two rabble rousing Congresswomen who have almost made us forget about the lovely and talented A.O.C., at least for a few news cycles. It was an eloquent view from a center lane that has almost entirely disappeared, a cautionary tale, really, about the perils of tribalism when everybody -- EVERYBODY -- is behaving badly. Predictably, the president. Equally predictably, Bibi. And the provocative freshmen. And all the knee jerkers, on the right and on the left, which appears to be where everybody falls, these days. 

Denmark, we have a problem. (Houston seems so yesterday.) I attended a Mayor Pete event yesterday, and I was uplifted and inspired and, dare I say, optimistic. He is bright and articulate and thoughtful and calming. A natural leader, even if he looks like he is twelve. The event was in Bronzeville, deep in the South Side of Chicago, clearly intended to start a conversation with black and brown people. Yet Bronzeville has no doubt never hosted such a large crowd of white folks. If Mayor Pete can't draw out people of color in their own neighborhood, I wonder whether we will ever get out of our own lanes. 

Molly (remember, my new friend, map of Ireland; what else would her name be?), like everybody else on that rooftop, is solidly in my lane, in my tribe, even though she deemed tribe to be a dirty word. In the bubble of Oak Park, or white Chicago, we can't even imagine what life is like in the other bubbles, much less what they are thinking. 

I like Pete, and I truly believe he could wipe the floor with the idiot who has hijacked us and help steer us all out of our lanes, gather us together from the edges. If not Pete, or Joe, somebody needs to do it. The specifics can come later.