apropos of anything

Tonight was Heather’s –th birthday, and I had all sorts of elaborate plans. For one, it’s Mary’s –th birthday in two weeks, so I thought I’d convince her to come down, surprise Heather with her, and surprise Mary with a celebration of her own. And then Leta was conveniently in town, so I figured I’d surprise them both with a Leta since they’d both assume California was too far away to fly in for a weekend.

My cunning scheming began to unravel when Mary couldn’t make it for the weekend. It further crumpled when I forgot to call the restaurant for reservations until this afternoon — they only open at 5:30, and that’s a really small window, y’all, especially considering the boxing matches I currently engage in between 9 and 5 — and they couldn’t seat us any earlier than 9:00.

So we improvised. I bought some cheese, and everyone came over for in-house appetizers before we drove up to Di Paolo’s for dinner. Because we had such a late reservation, we outlasted almost all of the other diners until finally there was just us and the people in the booth next to us. Like all booths, these were tall and comfortable, and I was slouching a little bit as we relaxed into the slight coma that comes after a really good meal.

That was when the conversation in the booth next to us became more animated. We couldn’t help but overhear, not when they all insisted on talking so loudly in a quiet restaurant.

“He’s a war hero, for God’s sake!”

We surmised they were discussing John McCain. After all, Super Tuesday is two short days away, and we ourselves had been debating the various merits (and demerits) of all the candidates earlier with our cheese and crackers.

There was something negative but largely unintelligible about Clinton, and then a woman said, “And Obama! He was born and raised an Islamist!”

I looked at Heather and Jason, who were looking at me.

“I really want to say something,” I said.

“I know you do,” Jason replied.

But our friends next door weren’t done yet.

“He’s an Islamist! How can people want him to be President? This is America!”

We decided it was time for us to go, before I really did say something and we found ourselves unwelcome in this restaurant we had just discovered and liked immensely. I stood up immediately and slid out of the booth, grabbing my purse and takeout box as I moved. Heather and Jason had coats to worry about, so they took a little longer gathering their things. I waited for them a few feet in front of both the booths and smiled (or was it smirked?) at the people who were in the booth next to us.

Three of them had gone absolutely silent, and they were looking at everything in the room but me.

I know they saw me. I know they knew that I heard what they’d said.

The fourth person, a man seated mostly with his back to me, was in the middle of a sentence when he stopped to demand of (I presume) his wife, “Why are you pinching my arm?!”

She said, “Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

I stood there and smiled. Or possibly smirked.

Heather and Jason finished packing up, and we turned and left the restaurant. It was possibly the best moment I have ever had as a hijabi. I hope they remember this evening for the rest of their lives.

For the record, in case anyone reading this post arrived by way of Google, the term is “Muslim”, not “Islamist”, and Obama is not one. Unlike the people in the restaurant tonight, though, he represents the best our country has to offer, and I hope he does become our next president.

After all, this is America.

Happy birthday, Heather.