Stopping by the local Charlie Kirk vigil

     Kitty and I, we have our routine. She appears with the dawn at my bedside and makes a plaintive noise. This is my signal to stand up, throw on jeans and grab her leash for our amble around the neighborhood.
     About 4 p.m. she's back, a patter of paws on the wide red pine floorboards of my office. She'll sit patiently, waiting, then clear her throat, and we'll hit the pavement again.
     The final walk is always my doing. I'll realize it's after 9 p.m. and summon her from her bed in the living room. We often visit the Northbrook Village Green, where we circle the fountain, ball field, playground and charming gazebo, she exploring smells, me reflecting on the sweetness of our lives. Really, toss in a few wandering peacocks and it could hardly be more idyllic.
     Sunday, just before 7 p.m., Kitty and I broke custom, with an unusual pre-dinner walk over to the park. An editor had mentioned the candlelight vigil for slain MAGA icon Charlie Kirk, and I decided to slide by for a look-see.
     "We'll be back," I told my wife, busy in the kitchen preparing eggplant lasagna.
     Why take the dog? Honestly, I pictured a dozen people shielding candles in homemade foil holders, shooting me hard looks as I padded past. Kitty was my cover — "Hey, I'm not spying, just walking the dog!"
     That was a silly expectation. Nobody in the crowd noticed me.
     As I walked up, they were singing "The Star-Spangled Banner." I took off my hat, placed it over my heart and joined in. We're on the same page, so far. Why not look for commonalities as well as divisions?
     There were, by my estimate, about 300 people, some carrying American flags — several literally wrapped in the flag. Lots of kids.
     Northbrook has plenty of Donald Trump fans because it's an affluent, predominantly white community, and part of the Trump appeal is to well-off white folks chafing under the difficulty of their lives: the insult of hearing snatches of Spanish spoken in public; the pain of their children being exposed to ideas other than their own; the discomfort of worrying whether the person in the third stall might have been born a different gender.
     See, that's why I could never join the MAGA world — because I have no sense of grievance. Just the opposite. I'm grateful. I live in a good place. I have a good job, paid well for doing exactly what I want. Blaming others for my woes feels small, particularly since most of my problems are self-generated — little anxieties that stick in my craw until I can manage to hock them out.
     It gets worse. I care about those who struggle, and accept people different than myself. Alternate ways of thinking and modes of existence are not pressing existential threats to my own. Gay marriages don't wreck my marriage. I don't look at others in a bathroom long enough to suss out their birth gender. Edgy books didn't ruin my kids. Immigrants don't threaten my livelihood. As my pal Lin Brehmer used to say, "It's great to be alive."
     But my essential optimism also makes me a poor fit for the left. While I value knowing the full, uncensored history of this country, I'm still a patriot. I love the flag. I've shot guns with my kids for fun. I never bought the one-strike-and-you're-out cancellation business. I can't understand questioning an Abe Lincoln statue because of something he said on the stump in Jonesboro in 1858. Identity might be a full-time job for many folks, but it's not an actual profession.

To continue reading, click here.