I generally try to avoid conversations with leftids. I mean, what’s the point? You might as well be talking to the bird bath. I have no gift for it.
So this morning, walking home from the auto shop, I was hailed by an old black man on his porch, whom I hadn’t seen outdoors for months. “I’m glad to see you!” I said.
And somehow that opened up the floodgates.
Donald Trump is an agent of the devil. He is Putin’s servant. And a racist who hates women. And everyone who voted for him is a racist, too. And a hater. You’re all haters. (“I don’t hear a lot of love coming out of you,” I said; but he didn’t hear me.) He hates haters. And if you’re against abortion, you’re against “women’s health” and against women.
This went on and on. I guess it’s my penance for the day. Not really a conversation, because he never paused to let me get a word in. I thought he was my friend, at least sort of. He would say he is. And I call him “old” because he always makes a point of stating his age, which currently is 89. He and I have a lot of memories in common, pertaining to our home town. It would be nice to talk about those.
I suppose I could’ve just walked away while he was talking. He might not even have noticed. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just had to wait until the opportunity presented itself.
*Sigh* If the possibility of mutually rewarding dialogue truly has passed away, what’s left? The strongest and most ferocious side wins? Is that how we’re going to live?
But that’s better than surrender.