Where do thinking Americans draw the line with sheer idiocy? A lot is being bandied about suggesting respect for other points of view. And sure, it’s a nice thought, even a noble one. But to what degree is blatant stupidity worthy of respect, especially when it seeks you out? At what point does a conscious American have to call it out for what it is?
I recently encountered a fellow American in a crazy-busy store at a bustling and very large inner-city shopping mall. Short on time and impatient with the long wait for customer service to make its second attempt to furnish me with a correct receipt for an item I had just returned, my well put-upon last nerve was jarred into momentary calm by a charming voice from close behind me.
“I guess it’s hard to find good help these days,” a gentle female voice offered in a genteel southern drawl.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I mused back at the pretty fifty-something woman with long, straight blond hair and engaging blue eyes. I hazarded a shrug and a roll of my eyes at her and mused to myself something the likes of “Hmmm. If I were single….”
But I’m not, so I turned back to facing the counter, content to write a swift end to a pleasant chance encounter.
But that was not to be. None of it, as it turned out.
“Well, all I can say is vote,” she offered out of the blue.
With growing alarm, I puzzled over the context of her comment and its relation to the issue of good customer service, and I didn’t think I’d like where it was going. I was right. I had to assume the comment was partly geared to the fact that the two very pleasant but overworked women behind the counter were clearly immigrants.
“Unless you’re not going to vote for Trump,” she piped in. “Then just stay home.”
However strongly I preferred to simply turn away and ignore the comment, I decided it was a conscious American’s must-speak moment. I was, however, at a momentary loss. While I gathered my rattled thoughts, determined to be civil, rational and succinct with my response, she continued.
“Not the person,” she volunteered, “but the administration and the policies.” By that time, I had my now-willing wits about me, but not before she pounced in to deliver yet more.
“Remember how low the gas prices were and how great the economy was?” she practically dry-heaved at my face. “We need a real leader.” My turn had arrived.
“The first dictator you elect will be the last person you’ll ever vote for,” said I with a bit of pride in myself for the impromptu pronouncement, but more, for keeping calm and remaining civil when I had already been tamping down a boil-over – from the customer service issue – before our conversation had even begun.
“You don’t think he’d be a dictator, do you?” she asked, taken aback as if the notion flat-out lacked any semblance of reality or hint of real-world experience that could possibly suggest such a thing.
Having said my piece, I just looked at her, expressionless, declining to continue a pointless point/counterpoint.
She returned to spilling her conveniently readjusted memory. There was never chaos, upheaval, a hare-brained proclamation, daily turnover of staff, a cabinet half-full of interim half-wits, a pleading, whining call to the president of Mexico – much less a full-blown insurrection against our country. No, the four years of her hero had been heaven on earth. And now? All the greatness engendered by her beloved führer has disintegrated, and Obama is running it all, she declared.
I didn’t even turn back around. She wrapped up her exercise in groundless blather, surprised me with a quick squeeze to my right bicep, then walked away. “God bless you,” she drawled in her soft Southern accent.