Since my son’s mighty struggle with the anxious vagaries of adult autism began, Mother’s Day in our household has become a simple and straightforward affair. Forget a lavish family outing to some expensive bistro. Counterproductive nonsense. What my wife needs and appreciates most is respite, a few uninterrupted hours of solitude to do whatever she wishes. Lord knows she deserves it.
And so this weekend my plan was to provide at least two blocks of quality respite, each several hours long. On Saturday afternoon I took Luke with me to see a buddy of mine over in Maryland. Between a traffic-impinged drive across the beltway, the leisurely visit in his basement recreation area, complete with pool and ping pong, and a stop at our favorite Italian spot in Bethesda on the way home to pick up Sue’s beloved fried zucchini and eggplant parmigiana, four hours of solitary bliss was provided.
Sunday morning I usually take Luke to his hockey practice in Arlington. Since he loves Silver Diner, I decided to include breakfast at its recently opened location right down the way from Kettler Ice Rink, where the “Cool Cats” go through their paces. This itinerary would yield Sue another three hours of quality morning-paper, coffee-enhanced relaxation.
The only potential fly in the ointment was the brunch throngs certain to converge for the occasion. Luckily, despite maximum capacity and a substantial wait for booths and tables throughout a large dining area with its impressively high ceilings, the marble counter directly in front of the kitchen had a couple of stools available to whoever claimed them. With little need to review menu options I quickly ordered Luke’s usual eggs, sausage, bacon and home fries platter, while I got a side of whole wheat toast to have with the two over easy eggs he would not want.
With our order placed and the prompt arrival of Luke’s hot “rosy tea,” we had time on our hands. My son is anything but a conversationalist, so my gaze strayed to the area known in industry parlance as “the pass” where all food servers converge to pick up their orders, delivered by the kitchen and dispatched by the MVP of any high-volume restaurant operation, the expeditor. Without a quality expeditor there exists only state-of-nature chaos where standards suffer. Organization is near non-existent, food sits unattended getting cold, mistakes go unnoticed, and general bedlam ensues as servers fight to claim platters others refuse to yield. It is not hyperbole to say a popular eatery is only as good as its expeditor.
It’s hard to imagine one better than the woman calling the shots during our visit. Small, attractive, perhaps in her late-20s or early-30s, and like almost every other member of the restaurant’s busy staff, Hispanic, she was the poetry of excellence, unquestioned expertise in motion, fully in charge of her domain. Cheerful but authoritative, graceful but bluntly efficient, she was a constant blur of multi-tasking. Any server shying away from running others’ food she promptly enlisted, her stature more than enough to compel cooperation.
No order the proficient kitchen staff produced escaped her focus, any mistake guaranteeing a terse rejoinder in Spanish while she garnished the other plates to be sent out. At that moment it was hard to imagine anyone, anywhere doing their job better. Likely a mother herself, there she was, tirelessly working for one, two, perhaps even three generations of other mothers who dotted the dining room’s tables and booths as their grateful families feted them. I wanted to get her name, but tarried until Luke was ready to go; and when he’s ready, he goes. I’ll call her “Isabelle.”
One thing is as certain as me never again requiring a comb; the shiny, brand new and -judging by its overflow Mother’s Day customer head count – successful Arlington, VA Silver Diner would never have opened its doors if it relied solely on a “White American” workforce. By my count there was all of one caucasian worker during what was sure to be the week’s busiest shift… a stern older waitress, who brought to mind the image of hardscrabble diners past, a solitary Flo among Angelinas and Eduardos. Diversity was not this Silver Diner’s strength; it was its very existence.
Mother’s Day in the US dates back to before the 20th century. There seems nothing more American than able, hard working men and women, without fanfare, doing their best to facilitate a celebration for mothers to enjoy. Conversely, nothing is uglier and more inimical to how this nation brands itself and defines its exceptionalism by than ignoring such qualities to condemn people because they are different and you’ve decided to stamp them with the idiotic excuse they might be “illegal.”
Today America is divided between those who appreciate the former without qualification, and those who embrace the latter because Fox/AM and the first President it got elected disdained such qualities to the point they have become nothing more than components of their hateful intolerance template.
MAGA nihilism is the refusal to accept that the Post-War II world WE were the principle architect of is interdependent and dynamic. Nations who cut themselves off to go it alone only suffer and fall behind. Countries can no longer afford to inhibit heterogeneity if they are to compete effectively. The stone cold fact is that America needs every Isabelle it can get. Any political party whose members’ ambitions rely on the detestable zero-sum lie that her “American dream” comes at the expense of more “genuine” or deserving recipients is an existential threat to which little said or done in confronting it is an overreaction.
As we barrel toward 2024 with a Republican Party consumed by Trumpist bigotry, and with nothing to offer but its creator as the favorite to once again relentlessly incite disunion under its banner, here is an important question to consider: is MAGA xenophobic nihilism the last gasp of a dying generation, whose children will abandon and move past as it goes into the dirt; or is it a lasting legacy of mothers and grandmothers who abided and embraced the hatred of men and passed it on to their offspring? We are all our mother’s children. BC