I’m travelling back from Kansas to Chicago today after a weekend with in-laws and squirrelly cousins.
Each of my three mornings here I have snuck off to the Braums ice cream joint down the street for my morning coffee. It’s a nice short walk, and I enjoy sitting in here listening to men in overalls talk about basketball. I’m confident none of them are typing blog posts on their phones in their booth.
Sedans need not apply to the Braums parking lot. Every vehicle here is a truck.
What it takes to participate in this local ritual is obvious enough. It is a ritual for men with trucks who can compare Roy Williams to Bill Self with some authority.
This is not where I live, and these are not my people. I feel as different from them sitting here as I would in London. Furthermore, I fear my different-ness is showing itself and they are starting to notice me. My intention to vote for Hillary Clinton is giving off vibes, perhaps?
Last night my 10 year old nephew declared it “beautiful” that his iPhone-using Republican father could PayPal money to his Democrat uncle who totes an Android device. “Beautiful,” he said.
Maybe the distance is shorter than it feels on Monday morning at Braums and its parking lot full of muddy trucks.