Is it Noonan or is it Not ?
by Barry Friedman
Before I delve into America, into its morass and mess, I think back a few weeks. September 7, dear friends, a milestone, for I turned 65, a time when many Americans, thanks to the overreach of past administrations, mosey up to the great American teat and start sucking, most with the belief this teat-- the one on which they suck--is theirs.
I weep at the selfishness. I will not be sucking on any communal teats during my retiring years. I have my own. I, by glorious contrast, will wrap my arms around my 65-year-old-ness and will smile. And they will fulfill me, these teats. I will feel them, mine, and they will feel good. And go to them often when I need sustenance. They will not let down, my muses, my girls. They never have.
Americans are the john, America is the hooker. This election, she will finally say, "Wait, wait, I can be used no more. I am getting dressed now"--dressed economically, socially, geographically, metaphorically. That's what tax reform is about, that's why some say no to homosexuals demanding pizza for their nuptials, that's why some see evil in videos, while others see red wine, that's why fences are being planned, that's why Christ is back in Christmas parades bigger than ever, bigger than Santa, that's why Hispanics are verklempt.
America is pulling up its pants.
And of this Trump, this handsome carny from the Big Apple, this builder of dreams and skyscrapers, he may have stumbled some, Fred's boy, yet he is still irascible, this seducer of exotic women from countries that nearly fell under Soviet control (or from countries close to the countries that nearly fell under that control). Yes, he saved them, took them under his wing, his mane, said to one in particular, "Here, here, young tall princess from high fashion, come with me, be my third wife, be the sultry one, come to Mar-a-Lago and I'll show you Arabian horses and monogrammed ash trays and silk sheets from Mubarak's Egypt and neck ties from Mexico. And I'll show you an American love." And she--this Melania, this goddess with skin and cleavage that does not move or sag--said, "Vzemi me" (Take me), her sexiness many mistaking as pouty indifference. Such class, such devotion, such legs and calves. And he showed her an America other immigrants--the ones who scale fences to Harlingen and sell Chiclets to pharmaceutical reps at trade shows, or wake up from steerage and see the Statue of Liberty and then work in shops that make Bahamian tchotchke in Long Island City , or make their way to Sarasota and man deli counters at Piggly Wiggly--don't see. An America, a clean America, immaculate in thought and purpose, an island with well-mannered legal minorities, a beacon of goodness and light, a shining city on ... well, you know.
The new America has no use for the old America. A dirty America it was, full of subways and diners and men who smoked White Owls. The new America is full of hard-working Amazon employees and social media and Starbucks wannabes.
Who can say which is better, but I do know that were I Mexican, I would say, "America, Si, America gran pajaro," and look at this man from Queens who sees love in country, in himself. Often the same thing, amigo, often the same thing. He is not one to apologize, not one to say "Lo siento mi Vida."
The man is full of himself, full of it.
Legal Latinos appreciate such hubris, for who is more about themselves than those who hate Castro.
And this Clinton ... this Clinton. Smart, but too smart, yet not smart enough. Underestimated, overestimated. It's so, so, so tough for me--even someone who has been following politics as adroitly as I--to figure out where the Democrats go. A socialist Jew from Brooklyn College, a humiliated wife in pantsuits, a grieving verbose Vice President with great teeth-that's your bench? And the GOP is in trouble? America doesn't have time for sympathy or intelligence or history or science or a contextual God. Huckabee, Santorum, Inhofe teach us that. I learned that, too, from Reagan, a man of few words, strong declarative words, inspired words, who said one early evening--his cookies, milk in front of him--"I'm tired. Have a jelly bean, if you want. They're yummy. Night night. Coming, mommy. God bless."
The poetry of that moment has stayed with me and is now my mantra, as I head off to slumber, America on my mind, passion in my heart, Carly on the horizon. It's so tough to know what comes next. Take me away, my dream's chariot, take me to that shining city of bounty, where I may run naked with the souls of other like-minded believers of the American dream who are also naked and passionate and let us frolic and splash and squeal like kids in a fountain.
Give me an answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still read me,
Now that I'm not 64