When I was in grade school I enjoyed watching the State of the Union (SOTU).  It was a rare chance to hear the President speak and to see the halls of Congress.  Much of the content and politics went over my head, but when I watched it I felt like I was part of something important.

As a child, the President took on an almost mythological importance.  The President of the United States was literally telling us his plans for our country.  What else could be more important?

The latest SOTU just finished (as I write this).  I had completely forgotten it was on until shortly before it started.  Instead of turning it on, I watched an episode of The Last Kingdom on Netflix with my wife.  Rogue One, age 9 years has already formed very negative impressions of the President.

He has heard about his anti-Muslim policies.  While he doesn’t pay much attention to politics, everyone who has a minority component to their identity knows what it feels like to be targeted.  While I try to counsel respect for the office, I cannot advise respect for this particular individual given my family background.

I caught the tail end of the speech — most of the audience appeared to be asleep.  Given that it was apparently the longest SOTU ever, the dazed looks are not surprising.  This year’s version was delayed as part of a political gambit within a larger gambit, the longest shutdown of our government in its history.

The person delivering the speech is omnipresent on Twitter.  While he doesn’t give many traditional speeches, we hear his voice every day.  There is no mystery, there is no longing for understanding, and there is less cachet.

As an adult who is aware of political discourse, the SOTU mean less than it ever has to me, because it no longer feels important.  It feels particularly unimportant this year, as no matter what is said, it will be hard to take anything of value from the person delivering the speech.  It really doesn’t matter what this President says — while his speeches can provide entertainment, they provide no substance or direction.  We have Twitter for that.

Rather than shape the discourse of our country, such speeches are now only reinforcing the divides.  Hearing him speak does nothing to make me feel included as part of the future of this country.  It does not increase my hope for bipartisanship or greater unity.  It does not make me believe I will feel more connected to a #MAGA hat-wearing person on the street.

So How Do We Make Connections?

Part of the reason I chose to work in pediatrics was during medical school I felt more fulfilled by the interactions with children and parents than with adult patients.  While the pathology and complexity of adult medicine was intriguing, I often just did not like interacting with adults in the healthcare setting.

The primary exception to this was when I had opportunities to sit and talk with older patients who were well enough to have conversations, relay memories, and just talk, regardless of the topic.

There were some exceptions — I had an older patient tell me I had “bedroom eyes” — right before I assisted on her gynecological surgery.  If you’re not familiar with the term, neither was I (click here for a definition).  This same patient also told me she wouldn’t “hold my background against me,” so we definitely built a strong rapport in a short period of time.

That interaction not withstanding, listening to stories from those with longevity and different perspectives can be extraordinarily enjoyable.  My wife’s grandmother, in her 80’s, loves to tell stories from her childhood (including the Depression).  My father, in his 70’s, doesn’t reminisce often, but he has a lot to share when he does (he’s always opinionated, he just doesn’t always share about his childhood).

I don’t interact routinely with senior citizens — outside of the grandparents of patients I care for in the ED, I almost never interact with older individuals outside of my family.  It’s a hole in my social interactions I only recently thought about, after having a conversation with a nonagenarian.

The Chance Encounter

On a random Thursday — the day after I wrote this tweet from a mentally exhausting ED shift —  I ended up with a lot of time to kill at the car repair store.  I came prepared with a book about money, a laptop, and a large diet soda, ready to be productive for work, or at least read a book for the first time in a while.

Instead I spent a good chunk of my time talking with another customer.

I’m not going to use his real name — his name is unique enough that it would not take much effort to find him with other details I may share.

He walked in, hobbling a little, and sat down a few chairs away.  I wasn’t expecting to talk to him, but he turned towards me and began to talk to me about his the oil leak in his car.

Seeing him hobbling in, envisioning grandparents and soft-voiced senior citizens, I was caught off-guard by his first words.

In his first sentence he started cursing, made a crude gesture with his right hand sneered, and began insulting the repair people while talking about how they were going to rip him off.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

In short order I found out he used to play in the NFL — in the 1950’s — and is now 90-years old.  He supports Trump and his policies, including his immigration policies, and thinks it’s a travesty on the part of the Democrats that the State of the Union was delayed.

Oh, his favorite phrase is “you got to be KIDDING me,” but imagine a big sneer when he emphasizes the word “kidding.”

We discussed border walls, climate change, economic dysfunction in our metro area, racism from our Commander-in-Chief, and car repairs.

I didn’t direct this conversation, I mostly followed.  He clearly wanted to talk; given his political leanings, my darker skin and beard likely would not be a normal welcome visage for his thoughts.  Maybe I’m friendlier appearing than I give myself credit for, or more likely, he’s old enough to not care what he says and whom is listening.

Initially it was him just telling me his views and me nodding and listening.  At one point he paused and asked me what I thought.  So I told him.

I told him I think our government is speeding the destruction of the climate.  I said building a wall is a waste of money, even for the stated purpose, but in addition the current immigration policies are partly based on bigotry and misinformation.  I said I think the current President is against Muslims and immigrants of color — he agreed with the first but was more dubious of the second.

I said I didn’t vote for him and I don’t believe he wants to represent me.  As a Muslim and a son of Muslim immigrants, I said my parents and my family have contributed a great deal to this country.

I said immigrants and immigration is the strength of our country, and limiting it will hurt all aspects of our society.

He seemed genuinely surprised to hear some of my responses — he said he hadn’t heard or thought of some of those things before but that maybe I’m right (about some of it).  The sneer dropped and the curse words were at bay while he listened.

We also talked about children — how proud he is of his son building a business, and his grandson for helping with it.  He didn’t care about  climate change personally since he won’t be around to see its effects, but he said I was right to worry about it for my children.

At the end he thanked me for talking with him.

He also gave me the name of his “car guy” — the guy he calls to ask for repair advice before going to the repair store.

He assured me this person gave better service at a better price than the awful repair shop where we sat.  He had used him routinely to save $ when he had the time and didn’t have to rush to a repair store.  He insisted I call him and tell him how I heard about him.

I only ended up reading a few pages in my book.  I never expected this conversation but loved that it happened.  I can’t imagine I really changed the mind of a 90-year old whose life story and perspective is so different than mine, but I was at least led to believe he did value what I said, despite the vast differences between us.

Oh, and I may have gotten a new “car guy” out of it.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

He left me with a joke — I’ve edited the delivery for clarity :

A professor wrote a book on how to have a successful marriage and was giving a lecture to a few hundred people.  His basic premise was that having more sex makes people have better and longer marriages.

He had people stand up in the audience when to see how often they were having sex with their partners.

3x/week?

2x/week?

1x/month?

He went down in frequency, each time with fewer people standing up, each time with them looking more uncomfortable.

This went on until he reached

1x/year?

One man proudly stood up.  He had a huge smile.  The lecturer asked him if he was happy, and he said yes, he was quite happy.

The professor was confused.  Why are you happy if you only have sex once a year?

He grinned larger.

Because today’s the day!