Making Nice, and Not So Nice...

I attended the 80th birthday party of a family friend on Friday night. It was a lavish birthday dinner, held in a private dining room in an Italian restaurant in North Dallas, where a couple dozen friends and family, some of whom had flown in for the event, roasted and toasted the honoree.

I was seated at a table with two women about my age. I’m 57, and M, directly to my left, and B, directly to M’s left, both appeared to be in their late 50's or early 60's. We introduced ourselves and made small talk over bread and salad, M and B explaining that they were lifelong friends, now neighbors, who had come to the party together, yada yada yada. But when the pastas and salmon and tenderloin were delivered and passed around the table, M and B began to talk about politics.

“Oh, I don’t care who runs, as long as it’s not that one with the name,” M said.

B said emphatically, “I agree!”

“Who’s that?” I asked, guessing I already knew the answer.

“Oh, what’s his name...Obama!” said M.

“I like Obama,” I said, buttering some bread, “but I gather you don’t. What’s your objection?”

Both women looked horrified.

“Do you know his middle name is Hussein?” M asked.

“So?” I said. “What do I care if his middle name is Hussein?”

“He’s a MUSLIM!” M exclaimed, staring hard to see what effect this pronouncement might have on me.

I laughed.

“In fact, I believe he’s a Baptist,” I said (I was wrong, according to Wikipedia, Obama’s a member of the United Church of Christ, a protestant Christian denomination). “But even if he’s not...well, my firstborn is on the FBI’s list of international terrorists, because she happens to have the same name as one of the 325,000 people on that list, and every time she flies anywhere, she has to allow extra time at the airport because she receives extra scrutiny because of that...”

“What are you talking about? That has nothing to do with what we’re talking about,” M snapped.

“My point is, Obama’s middle name being Hussein doesn’t make him a Muslim,” I said, “but even if he were a Muslim...so what?”

“He IS a Muslim,” M said, “And do you know what they believe?”

“No, tell me,” I said, and I admit I was eager to hear her answer.

“Welllllll...they believe their people will all be together in the hereafter!” she exclaimed.

I looked at her, truly perplexed. “Isn’t that what most religions believe?” I asked.

“He’s a MUSLIM!” M said again, and B nodded.

“But what’s so bad about that?” I asked. “What are you worried will happen if Obama is elected?”

“I’m worried he’ll have this whole country on our knees at 4:00 PM every day, or whatever it is they do!” M exclaimed.

Uh-huh. That would be really, really bad, as opposed to, say, a college kid shooting and killing 33 of his classmates and professors...

“Well,” I said brightly, “He’s got my vote!”

M abruptly stood up and left the table, hurrying from the room. Maybe she needed to use the restroom, or maybe she became so upset by our conversation that she had to leave. I tend to think it was the latter, and while I’m normally a “smooth the feathers” sort of person, in this case, if my saying I’ll vote for Obama upset her that much, after she introduced the topic of politics...well, that’s her problem.

Eventually, she returned to the table.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, all smiles now, making nice.

“Oh, I don’t”, I said, and I smiled back and made nice myself, as I helped myself to some more pasta.