D. None of the above

'Come From Away' on tour

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

You know those thought bubbles artists draw in cartoons, where the reader can see what each character is thinking even as the person might be saying something like, “Bless your heart”?

I tried to imagine possessing that real-life talent when I recently attended the show, “Come from Away.”

The musical, which debuted close to seven years ago, offers a retelling of the story of people diverted on their planes on 9/11 to the small town of Gander on the island of Newfoundland in Canada.

The local folks, with their indigenous
accents, offer support for the sudden influx of thousands of people from all over the world who are stuck in a place where they can’t get to their clothes, pets or toothbrushes.

The world changed dramatically on that day, as people on those redirected planes gained an almost immediate perspective on the inconvenience of their experience compared to the tragedy other families endured.

The people from Gander were incredibly hospitable and heroic, stepping outside their own needs to welcome and support the collection of people trapped with them for an indeterminate period of time.

While I don’t want to spoil the story — and please stop reading if you’d like to experience the show without any specific expectations — the musical also addressed one of the crueler elements that arose in the aftermath of that awful day: Some Americans developed a fear of Muslims.

One of the Muslim men stuck in Gander immediately drew suspicion from his fellow passengers. What, they wanted to know, was he doing and was he a threat to them?

In the days, weeks and months that followed those despicable attacks, many Americans developed an unfounded fear of all Muslims, just as people became distrustful of Japanese-Americans after the 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor.

One of the reasons I wished I had a thought bubble as I watched the show was to see and appreciate what the other members of the audience recalled in their own lives.

Indeed, for me, the toughest part of the beginning of the show was immersing myself in the story. While I recognized that I was hearing about the experiences of people in a faraway place, I kept recalling the day when my then 3-month-old daughter seemed to sense our panic, fear and sadness, refusing to sleep or even allow us to put her down.

I also thought about the friends and professional contacts who got up, went to work and never returned to their families that day.

And now, several days after attending the show, I see that President Donald Trump (R) has decided to attack two of his favorite Democratic targets by retweeting images of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer of New York as Muslims, standing in front of an Iranian flag.

The suggestion, perhaps, is that they must be terrorists or be standing with the cruel regime in Iran if they don’t immediately support a president whose explanation for his own recent actions in Iran seems to change by the day.

Moving away from his world view, however, I feel as if we’re still fighting an irrational battle where one group — Muslims — is considered dangerous to “our way of life.” Do we really believe that any one religion could be eager to destroy us? Can we casually allow anti-Muslim fears to return?

Surely, we must have learned something in the last 18 years? The enemy doesn’t wear one set of clothing or practice one religion. We don’t have to wait for tragedy or for extraordinary circumstances to rise to the moment, the way the residents of Gander did.

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Amid the delightful sensory experiences of a recent warm-weather vacation, my wife and I enjoyed an unexpected gift: The words other people chose to share on their T-shirts.

The messages weren’t limited to any one age group, as the young and old took time to find phrases they shared with strangers who were enjoying time in warmer weather.

A boy, aged about 12, stood in a line with a white T-shirt with a message in all-capital letters: “Help I’m on a family vacay.” To round out the picture, he had a dour and distracted look as he was clearly waiting for other members of his family to catch up to him in line.

Another boy about the same age strutted around with a colorful shirt that suggested: “You need me on your team.” In a culture where sports plays such a prominent role in the identity of children and parents who drive children they imagine might one day be making six, seven, eight or nine figure salaries on fields all over the country, that shirt was consistent with the belief in the American Sports Dream.

Numerous adults and young adults offered a connection to their favorite sports teams. For one football fan, though, merely sharing the Philadelphia Eagles emblem was insufficient. Near his beloved Eagles logo, he urged his team to “Beat Dallas.” This year, that was especially fitting as the Eagles overtook the Cowboys in the last few weeks of the year to win the NFC East title.

I’m not sure if this coupling was deliberate, but a woman’s T-shirt suggested that readers “Follow your soul,” while her companion wore a Nashville Predators shirt, indicating, at least in the moment, that her friend’s soul may track the hockey team from Tennessee.

A young girl, walking next to her father, wore a shirt that suggested that she’d “Rather Be a Mermaid.” Given how desperately Ariel, the Little Mermaid of Disney fame, sang about wanting to escape the ocean, I couldn’t help thinking about the line from the song “Under the Sea,” where the crab Sebastian admonishes her — King Triton’s youngest daughter — that “the seaweed is always greener in somebody else’s lake.”

An older African-American couple borrowed from the movies as the man wore a shirt that suggested he was “Straight Outta Money.” The message probably resonated for others who may have blown through some of their travel and entertainment budget for time in a warm climate.

Advertising a New England town coupled with a local accent, a woman sported a message that read, “Baa Ha Ba, Maine,” offering a connection to the Bar Harbor tourist destination along the coast of Maine that is a short drive to Acadia National Park.

A young boy urged people on his T- shirt to “Be the Change,” an expression that an actor or actress might borrow to spread a specific message after winning a coveted award for performing their craft.

Offering a take on the fine art of putting off responsibilities and chores, a young man wore a shirt that said, “I don’t procrastinate. I delegate to my future self.” After reading so many variations of the theme that the procrastinators club would be meeting some time next week, I enjoyed a refreshing take on the process of setting something aside for a later time.

An older man with white hair and a thick white mustache and beard brought along two noteworthy T-shirts: The first celebrated his 80 years, as part of a beach tour, and the second promised that “Beneath this beard is a handsome man.”

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Daniel Dunaief

They are called rubber chicken dinners for a reason. Much of the time, corporate events masquerading as social gatherings offer little in the way of flavor, taste or entertainment.

This one, however, had so much potential. A group invited my wife and me to attend a football game. The connection came through my wife, who interacts regularly with our hosts and received the invitation months earlier. When we read the invitation, we knew she could invite our son, although we also knew he had two midterms the day after the big game, which meant that I could escort her.

I have, on occasion, demonstrated a surprising nimbleness in jamming my foot into my mouth. Unintentional and harmless though the effort may be, I have worked hard to pull back on (a) sharing too many details, (b) making too many jokes and (c) asking anything about controversial topics.

We walked into a suite, where our host immediately caught my wife’s eye and shook her hand. I’d met him several times and he graciously welcomed me as well, although I realize my decidedly unimpressive place in the world.

My wife had given me a rundown of the people we’d likely meet, even as I tried to look over some of their shoulders to watch the football game occurring past the tray of appetizers, the plate of sliders, the collection of untouched cookies and the bowl of half-eaten popcorn.

A woman whose name had made the list shook my hand and smiled at me. I waited the usual three seconds to see whether she was planning to bolt to chat with someone more interesting, more powerful, taller, better dressed or more well versed in the world of football. After all, she was wearing a football jersey and, while my son can name the rosters of most teams because of his fantasy football acumen, I’m much more limited in this sport.

She, however, kept looking me in the eye, encouraging further conversation. We described the lives of our children. That generally constitutes safe topics, so I was on terra firma.

When I asked where she grew up, she said California until she went to high school on Long Island. I’m not sure why I asked because Long Island is truly a huge place, but I wondered what school she attended.

She told me it was in Setauket and it was called Ward Melville.

Wow, I replied, I went there, too. She said she was on the tennis team and we both remembered the name of the coach who had been there years ago, Vicki Goldfarb. My new acquaintance’s father, as it turns out, was a fighter pilot who had moved to Long Island to work for Grumman when he became an engineer.

It became a remarkably detailed conversation. She lived about a mile away from me for five years, until I graduated a few years ahead of her from Ward Melville.

When she excused herself for a moment, I figured that I might have overplayed the conversation. At that point, I tried to get a closer look at the football game, until my wife and I started talking with our hosts about their family’s skiing adventures.

As we started to leave, I once again found myself chatting with the Ward Melville graduate. She shared a few more compelling stories about her family and her life, including an adventurous trip to Green Bay, where her husband celebrated a landmark birthday in the snow and cold.

This was, decidedly, not a typical rubber chicken event for me and one that I hope continues if we follow up and get together some time in 2020. And, in case you are wondering, I don’t think I committed any social faux pas.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

The Democratic hopefuls for the presidency sure seem angry these days, as the election clock counts down to less than a year. Last week, a man in Iowa had the audacity, the temerity, the unmitigated gall to ask Joe Biden, the front runner, about his son Hunter, who is at the center of this Ukrainian maelstrom.

Biden reacted with anger and righteous indignation, calling the man a “damn liar.”

Good one. Or was it? Is that really the best way to react? Biden then nicknamed him “fat.” Yikes! That seemed cruel and disrespectful.

The man was throwing salt in either self-inflicted or Republican-directed wounds. But, hey, Biden’s son did sit on the board of an energy company in the Ukraine, which creates bad optics. It doesn’t mean he or his son did anything wrong.

What’s weird now, though, is that Biden seemed to feel the need — or perhaps the test-marketed driven necessity — to attack the man who dared ask the question. That seems to be taking a page out of the book of the incumbent, who uses anger as a regular tool to define his enemies and keep them off balance, while rallying his troops.

So, what happened to Mike Bloomberg? The billionaire was recently asked whether he was trying to buy the election. Out came the righteous indignation, along with a story about how he made his money, all the great work he did as mayor and how he won’t be beholden to any special interests. Grrr!

What about Bernie Sanders? He’s a cult figure among many Democrats, but his demeanor seems to be one of the angry, older white man. He reminds me of the Howard Beale character, played by Peter Finch, in the 1976 movie “Network.” Beale urges people to get up out of their chairs, go to the window and shout, “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” 

Sanders, or the Larry David version of him, could easily be uttering the same line in response to (a) health care costs, (b) the cost of college tuition for people who could otherwise use education to change their lives, (c) climate change or (d) all of the above.

And then there’s the Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. I know she’s not running for president, but she finally lashed out at a reporter — does that also sound familiar — and suggested that her religion kept her from hating people. Her tone, method and message had more than a hint of anger, if not toward the president whom she and the Democrats were impeaching than to the reporter.

The words she spoke, as she pointed her finger, were, “Don’t mess with me.” I was reminded of the line Geraldine Fitzgerald, as Martha Bach, said in the 1981 movie “Arthur,” starring Dudley Moore, “Don’t screw with me, Burt.”

If this past week is a preview of the upcoming primary and general elections, we’ve got about 11 months of Beale slogans and Bachs slaps to the faces.

The wrestling match may once again change its tune for “the Ds” and “the Rs” when we know which D will be facing off against the most likely R.

Maybe the Ds host a party for themselves where they describe the hopes, opportunities and promise of the American Dream for one and all.

Maybe the Rs decide counterpunching has been overplayed, and they start hosting their own party, where they celebrate low taxes, low unemployment, a strong economy and their plans for an even better future.

Primal anger, however, seems more likely as we prepare for a testy election. Wouldn’t it be a welcome relief if at least one of the candidates offered civil, calm, graceful and pleasant replies, even to questions he or she found challenging?

Daniel Dunaief

By Daniel Dunaief

What is it about “The Play That Goes Wrong” that is just so right for so many people, including me?

My wife and I recently went to this farcical show, where my wife informed me that she, the couple attending the performance with us, and just about everyone around us could tell how much I enjoyed the experience. 

In case you haven’t heard about it and can’t figure it out from the title, “The Play That Goes Wrong” is an absurd show where everything goes so wrong — the props, the actors, the staging, the lighting and the music. Indeed, it’s almost challenging to follow the simple murder mystery plot amid gales of laughter, much of it coming from me.

My family has numerous qualities that we have shared from one generation to the next. My late father laughed so hard at the pratfalls and theater-of-the-absurd dialogue of Danny Kaye movies like “The Court Jester” (1955) that I can still picture him gasping for air as he wiped away the tears slaloming down his face, where they joined the muddy sneaker stains, the dirty paw prints and the soda spills on a white carpet that chronicled our active lives.

The current play follows in the footsteps of Kaye, Benny Hill, the Three Stooges and a host of other characters who do anything for a laugh, stepping on rakes that slam into their heads or interacting in nonsensical ways with other actors as a part of a skit. The show makes the sketch comedy of many of today’s late night shows appear pedestrian by comparison. Granted, the plot follows a singular theme and, once completed, can and does create a full length and ridiculous drama.

Now, some people may find the pedestrian antics of the cast too absurd. I agree that the show isn’t for everyone and doesn’t provide life lessons, memorable songs, gritty entertainment or an insightful view of existence.

And yet, it does offer much needed self-parody and perspective on a country thoroughly divided by events in Washington, D.C. The people who run our country seem intent on making their supporters cheer, while their detractors roll their eyes, shake their heads and seek solace from people who share their beliefs.

Fine, but, the actors in a show written by Henry Lewis, Jonathan Sayer and Henry Shields of the Mischief Theatre Company, seem intent on roping as much of the audience as possible into their shenanigans. 

One of the actors, who plays Cecil Haversham, seems delighted by the presence of the audience. He plays to the crowd so often that he shares in their enthusiasm when he does something well or when the crowd appreciates an ongoing joke.

This intentionally imperfect play isn’t perfectly imperfect, either. Some moments fall flat. The second half of the show, which is shorter than the first, isn’t quite as engaging, entertaining and uproarious.

Knowing the general plot of the story before I attended, I tried to anticipate the wide range of possible intentional stumbles and humorous moments that actors struggling to maneuver through a story might endure. The range of mistakes and blunders exceeded my expectations among numerous welcome and delightful surprises.

A play that delves in the world of funny gaffes takes real work on the part of the writers and the actors. To anyone sick of the political headlines, the conspiracy theories, the name calling, the accusations and counter accusations, this play is a welcome comedic retreat. It’s no wonder it won Best New Comedy at the 2015 Laurence Olivier Awards in London and is now on Broadway.

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Daniel Dunaief

By Daniel Dunaief

Last year at this time, I wrote a column celebrating words. I feel compelled to share another homage this year. This may start a new annual tradition. I hope you enjoy.

Words dart away, just out of reach, like a fish in the ocean, a butterfly in a meadow or a Frisbee lifted overhead by a sudden breeze.

Words emanate from nearby, startling us while we lay in bed, coaxing us to search the house, the closet, the garage for the source of elusive sounds.

Words give strength to our arguments, power to our convictions, and a method to share our hopes, desperation, dreams, fears, needs, wants and cravings.

Individually and collectively, words enable us to invite others to share experiences.

Words form the backbone of a democracy always challenged by new words, concepts, people and ideas.

When we hold an infant, listen to the sound from the air leaving the lungs of a whale surfacing nearby or gaze from the top of a volcano at the rising sun over the horizon, we hope the words we choose to describe what we see, feel and experience bring us back to these magic moments.

Words grow into unmanageable bundles as jargon triggers a metamorphosis that confounds and clutters their meaning, turning them into a sesquipedalian mess — that is the practice of using long-winded, obscure words.

Words tell tales, show emotions and reach out across time from generations long since past, urging us to pay attention and learn lessons from those who came before.

We select rhyming words that sing like chirping birds. 

Words make us laugh, offering a salve to suffering and transportation out of intransigence.

When we can’t understand something, we name it, giving a word to the unknown that allows us to refer to something in the cosmos, in our minds or buried under our fingernails. Ancient Romans used words to construct fantastic stories about the stars, the heavens and the gods, who exhibited a wide range of emotions that seemed remarkably human.

We remember the words from our favorite movies: “May the force be with you” (“Star Wars”) and “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship” (“Casablanca”). And from our favorite presidents, such as John F. Kennedy’s “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country” (1961) or Franklin D. Roosevelt’s “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” (1933).

We carry with us the words that mean the most from our own lives. We don’t need to check them at the airport when we are in group 9, stuff them in an overstuffed backpack when we go to school or keep them from getting waterlogged when the evapotranspiration cycle decides to dump rain, sleet, hail or snow upon us. We remember the person so critical to our existence that he or she “ruined us for all other” men or women.

The words that elevate, inspire and encourage us to do and be our best allow us to stand straighter and taller, enabling us to wear a cryptic smile that those who know us best perceive immediately.

Words give us hope, help us believe in ourselves and allow us to feel connected to someone halfway across the world.

We pause from uttering words during moments of silence, as we pay respect with the unspoken words in our minds.

We are surrounded by paper thin walls of meaningless, angry, spiteful, hateful words. We can combat those messages with words that reflect the best of us and our country. Words fill the toolbox with the parts to build the world as we choose.

As you ponder words that matter at this time of year, I’d like to wish you and your family a Happy Thanksgiving.

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For journalism to be effective in not only covering the events of the day, but also uncovering mistruth and misdeed, it requires access to people and records. 

As local journalists, that usually means sitting in an interview or talking on the phone with our local school district, village and town officials, as well as our local, state and federal representatives and officials. More often, though, we find a certain lack of … well, frankly, the ability to connect with some of them. 

This issue needs to be addressed.

Journalism is financially struggling, locally and nationally. Advertising dollars have plummeted, and staffing is short on people. The Pew Research Center has reported print circulation for weekday papers was down nationally by 8 percent for 2018 over the previous year, and 9 percent for Sunday papers.

So, as newspapers struggle to maintain current standing, access to information from all these local sources is now at a premium. 

Too often, information is withheld, embargoed or stymied. Though it is more rare, some officials resort to tactics of intimidation to prevent the release of information. Some sources are afraid to comment on issues for fear of public retaliation. 

Cases of great importance, like that of the ongoing health issues at the Northport Middle School, have bureaucratic hurdles that include using public relations firms as contact people. Something as simple as getting an official’s comments or requesting documents through the Freedom of Information Law can often become problematic. 

It seems to take more work than it has in years before. 

In modern times, the number of public relations professionals only seems to increase, while the number of journalists decline. Bloomberg News wrote this year there are six PR professionals for every one journalist working in the field. This is up from a less than two-to-one ratio just 20 years ago. If you were to check our inboxes, you would likely have to shield your eyes from the blinding number of emails we receive daily from PR firms.

That is not to say we oppose these professionals. They are often a very useful and necessary component of business. And a good PR person can make a reporter’s work a little bit easier. But of course, that’s only when good things are happening. When there are issues, we often find communications professionals actively make getting even simple comments from officials that much harder.

We as journalists often prefer to speak directly to officials when the need arises. That’s what the public expects. We thank the many people who have worked with us on stories, both public officials and spokespersons alike, but we also ask everyone to understand the importance of the press, often regarded as the fourth pillar of democracy, even at the levels closest to the community.

Restricting access to even the smallest bits of information hinders the effectiveness of government by the people. It’s problematic for both the journalist and the municipal body that maintains government operations.

In the great tug of war match between journalists and officials over information, the knot in the rope should always land on the public’s side of the line, and our role is to be the watchdog for the people.

We thank the officials and communication specialists who honor that premise and work diligently to uphold high standards. Our world is a better place when that happens. 

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I have been working out at a gym, where my routine consists mostly of pushing my body as long as I can on a treadmill, bike or elliptical machine until my sweat has soaked through my T-shirt. I play mind games while I’m running, telling myself that I can take a break once I get to 3 miles, or maybe 4 or closer to 5.

Each time I hit a milestone, I think about how much better I’ll feel if I can go just a bit farther, even as I’m taking an inventory of all the barking body parts, which typically includes my knees and back.

What helps get me over the hump lately, though, is the music I listen to as I work out.

I started with a collection of ’80s songs, hoping, perhaps, that the combination of familiar tunes from my youth would make my body remember the energy that defined this younger period.

As I was running, the songs reminded me of the times I danced with friends at Ward Melville High School, played Uno in a friend’s living room or decorated a Christmas tree with another friend who patiently showed a group of us how to thread popcorn and cranberries through a line.

As I was running, a montage of these images played through my head, making me feel as if my legs were turning back the clock. Fortunately, no one at my gym looks closely at me or my facial expressions, so I could indulge in musical — and life — nostalgia without interruption or without questions from people wondering what I was thinking as I reacted to people who have long since gone their separate ways.

For a few days, I switched to my favorite singer, Billy Joel. Hearing the words from “Only The Good Die Young,” “Piano Man,” and “Movin’ Out,” brought me back to the study breaks I took in high school when I stared out the window between my house and the neighbor’s colorful Santa sleigh down the street, hoping that the snow forecast for that evening was sufficient to close school the next day.

I’m planning to see Billy Joel in concert before too long, so I switched to another genre, playing the soundtrack from the original 1975 version of the musical, “A Chorus Line.” While others rarely cite it as one of their favorite musicals, I know it was the song “Nothing,” in which Diana Morales receives nonstop criticism from her teacher Mr. Karp, that brought to life the magic of Broadway for me. 

I always measured every other performance, including of musicals like “West Side Story” that I supported by playing clarinet in the pit orchestra, against the desperate hopes of each of the cast members in a chorus line to “make it” into the show.

Eventually, I needed a pulsating beat, so I shifted to exercise music, which, of course, included songs from “Rocky the Musical,” as well as other inspirational films. Each time the beat got faster, I found another pocket of energy that helped me conquer the next mile, using the beat as a metronome for my legs.

Music, in all its forms, serves many functions, allowing us to connect with the artist, to travel on an acoustic journey, to remember friends, and to exercise feelings and emotions even as we exercise the rest of our bodies.

I coached many sports when my children were younger. If I could do it over again, I would have added contemporary music to mundane practices to spice up the experience in real time and to inspire me on the nostalgia treadmill.

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

You know the face dogs make when they’re taking care of their business? I’m not talking about number one. I’m talking about the big whopper: number two. For many dogs, I imagine that is the equivalent of the human concentration face, as we ponder everything from what we should have for dinner, to the best route home in a traffic jam, to the best use of our time on a Friday night when we’re exhausted but know we could contribute to our area through community service.

My dog must know that I’m watching him closely because every time he finds exactly the right spot to release the contents of his bowels, he turns his back to me. Before he enters his squatting position, he looks back over his shoulder to make sure no one or everyone is watching him. He’s easily distracted in the moment of separation from his solid waste.

I respect his wishes and give him his moment of privacy once he starts the process. Now, of course, much as we might watch them as they relieve themselves, I know that they watch us closely, wondering why we’re so meticulous, or not, as the case may be, about scooping up everything they’ve dropped.

My dog still seems to think that he’s doing sufficient cleanup duties by kicking a few blades of grass in the general direction of his creation. He starts tugging on the leash immediately after that, sending a nonverbal signal from his neck to my hand, as if to say, “I got this one, let’s move to that flower bed where Marshmallow left me a secret scented note.”

As I bent down recently to clean up his mess, he saw one of his favorite couples. That’s not exactly a fair characterization, as almost any combination of two people would immediately rank among his favorites if one or both of them came over to him and rubbed his stomach while he turned over on his back and dangled his paws in the air, as if he were at a canine nail salon. The challenge for me, as he was pulling, tugging and twisting on the leash, was to do the impossible: Chat with his human friends, keep him from knocking one or both of them over with his enthusiasm and politely scoop up his poop.

I waited for a moment to retrieve my retriever’s droppings, hoping that he’d calm down enough to allow me to bend my knees and lift the boulders from the ground. No such luck, as he seemed to be playing twist-the-leash-around-the-human-legs game.

One of the many sensory problems with my dog’s poop is that the longer it remains in place, the more it seems to spread out and sink into the ground. Knowing this, I was eager to bag it and to move on during our walk.

Just as the couple finally disengaged from my dog and his leash, another dog and his owner appeared, causing my dog’s tail to wag so violently that it looked like those whirling propellers on an old airplane. While my dog darted and retreated from his much bigger and more mellow friend, I got farther away from his droppings. In the back of my mind, I wondered whether I could, just this once, leave his biodegradable droppings where they landed.

When the other dog and his owner took off, my dog and I returned to the expanding pile. I’m convinced that my dog watched the entire pickup routine with rapt fascination, knowing he’d succeeded in extending the process into something considerably more challenging for the human scrunching his nose at the other end of the leash.

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I wonder how the creators of the show “Seinfeld,” Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld, would portray today’s world? The answer resides in their approaches to other ideas and conflicts that became the focal point for shows that continue in reruns almost every day.

In one show, Elaine, played by Julia Louis-Dreyfus, is dating furniture mover Carl (David James Elliott). When Elaine finds out that Carl is a pro- lifer, they decide to end their relationship.

In Washington, D.C., and indeed throughout the country, that seems tame compared with the passions people feel when they share their views about the president and about the upcoming election of 2020.

I could imagine an entire modern “Seinfeld” episode dedicated to the efforts people take to avoid discussing politics. Changing the subject, walking out of the room and pretending they can’t hear each other seems like a way these characters might keep the political genie locked in the bottle, allowing them to enjoy the company of anyone and everyone, even if those people disagree with their views on national politics.

We play out that scenario regularly wherever we go, whether we’re looking to date someone or just chat with someone in a line at the deli, on vacation or at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

We are so concerned that we might offend the other person or that he or she might offend us.

When did we become so incapable of speaking with each other? Are we determined to live in echo chambers, where we only listen and speak with the people whose ideas, thoughts and words match our own?

Come on, that’s not how democracy is supposed to work. We can and should be capable of hearing from other Americans whose ideas differ from our own. In addition to the land, the flag, the monuments, the Constitution, the history and so many other facets of American life that we share, we owe it to ourselves and to future generations to be able to listen to each other and to remain open to ideas and opportunities.

Are we afraid that someone who seems rational and reasonable might convince us to change our mind? Are our ideas so fragile and our confidence so weak that we can’t have an informed discussion about our views and our ideas?

Surely, we are better than some homogenized party line. We are a land of rugged individualists, who can and should find a way to advance our local, state and national best interests to give everyone an equal opportunity.

It’s not up to the leaders to tell us what to think, who to be and how to live. We have the chance to make those decisions for ourselves. At their best, those leaders are working to give us a shot at pursuing the American Dream which, last time I checked, doesn’t belong exclusively to one political party or another.

By not talking with each other, we increase the tension that separates the parties and the people who support them. Rather than waiting for a bipartisan detente in Washington, we can and should gather ideas about each other.

If they were still making the show today, the characters from “Seinfeld” might have helped us laugh about how entrenched we have become in dealing with our differences. We, however, aren’t living in a TV show and we owe it to ourselves to gather real information, to listen to other people and to bridge the divide that’s causing the fabric to fray of a country we all call home. 

We can learn and grow from making decisions for ourselves, instead of following the same script with every conversation.