
My father was a generous and forgiving man, devoted to his family. Although we didn’t always agree, he taught me a lot about many things, and I always admired his decency, his integrity, and his resilience. In 2014, at the age of 85, he passed away after several years of deteriorating health.
If my father were alive today, I’m sure we’d still be having our weekly Sunday morning breakfasts together. The number one topic–after his grandchildren–was usually politics. So here in January 2020, that would undoubtedly mean two lifelong Democrats (I’m now 66 myself) sitting at his kitchen table, debating the relative merits of presidential candidates Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders.
But to first take a step back, I should note that my father never would have believed that Donald Trump could become president of the United States. He would have been stunned even more by the bigotry, brutality, and corruption that characterize this White House and its GOP enablers, from Muslim bans to racist tweets to children in cages at the Mexican border to impeachable offenses. After all, I can’t count the number of times my father would reassuringly tell me, “Roy, remember, most people are basically good and honest.”
Over many years, our breakfast conversations took on a consistent form. First, I’d express dismay or outrage over current events–the torture of US war-on-terror prisoners; the deception-driven invasion of Iraq; the callous treatment of Hurricane Katrina victims; Wall Street’s predatory role in the financial meltdown; the unlawful mass surveillance of Americans, the growing divide between “haves” and “have-nots”; and other lesser injustices. My father, even when feeling much the same way as I did, would then typically ask me whether I’d really given sufficient consideration to all opposing points of view. That would eventually lead to my wondering aloud how those viewpoints could possibly be defended by a reasonable person. And often enough he’d smile and calmly respond, “You’re right.”
That single “You’re right” was a cherished prize. It reassured me that he and I were now seeing the world through similar eyes. In contrast, there was also my father’s triple “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right.” This was almost always said with some combination of frustration and exhaustion, and it had a very different meaning. It meant that, although the contrary evidence I offered was compelling to me, my father’s own position on the matter was still firmly entrenched. Sometimes it meant that relinquishing it would be a source of too much discomfort or pain for him. So that phrase represented closure of a different sort: it told me it was time for a new topic.




