The Night I Loved the US—Again

The night I loved the US again had started early.

Around these parts, somewhere near Canada, there is no other choice.

Sure, in New York City, life might begin at 10 pm.

But here, in the same state, they put the chairs up at that hour.

On that frigid evening, the village I found myself in was a far cry from the Village.

There was no hipster culture, and there was definitely no bohemian vibe.

There were, however, a lot of Italian Americans, of varied proximity to the time of immigration.

And that meant one important thing: tasty Italian food.

It was December 14, 2024, just between my wife’s birthday and my own, which was the next day.

We called it our birthday celebration, even though the 15 people in our group weren’t there for that reason.

Almost everyone at the table was born in the US—the thick accents were a dead giveaway.

Some even used a hard A, the Great Lakes’ linguistic contribution to Americana.

Save a few, most looked like they had roots somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. Exactly where was anyone’s best guess—those details were less relevant in this type of crowd.

The driving force, after all, was one of commonality.

In childhood, it was about standing out in a way you didn’t want to.

Then, it was about realizing your culture was different from the one your parents brought over.

Along the way, there were microaggressions—but never the kind that held you back.

Of course, none of this was actually spoken—it was just understood.

The spoken part revolved around far more important matters, things like American football, both fantasy and real. Given the season, there was plenty of chatter about Christmas as well.

The real focus, however, was on the ingestibles.

Bruschetta.

Calamari.

Pizza.

Gnocchi.

Some in the group were vegetarian, and others ate beef. No one seemed to care—a few married couples had been treading that line for decades.

Cocktails dotted the table, as did fantastic table wine. (Someone even poured wine in a used martini glass.)

By the time the desserts and espressos arrived, the dreaded chairs had already started going up.

But the night still felt young, and there was no way this urban crowd—misplaced where suburbia meets the countryside—was going down quietly.

The best bars in such spots are found in cookie-cutter homes, and in one of those is where the party really got started.

There, California wines disappeared.

Kentucky bourbon did, too.

Conversation gave way to yelling, followed by some sort of speaker.

And from that speaker poured out the stuff that had guided a bunch of cultural nomads through adolescence and young adulthood:

’90s hip hop.

This jam had provided unexpected inspiration.

And this one was a necessary lesson in fidelity.

As I danced (or whatever my body spasms are called), I looked around.

I saw a beautiful Christmas tree.

It stood just next to a picture of Ganesh.

Then I thought about the kids.

My daughter was sleeping over her best friend’s house—the friendship had introduced her to the basics of Islam.

My son had taken a tour bus to Massachusetts for a gig with a Zach Bryan tribute band. It was country music, courtesy a keyboardist whose grandparents had once hardly known the country or its music.

I danced to one more song, the one whose artist had reminded us about the fragility of life.

The hour was starting to get late—or early, if you will.

My birthday had technically arrived, and one of the leftover desserts doubled as birthday cake.

I paused to take in the moment.

I noted that one of the particularly jovial revelers had suddenly fallen asleep.

But mostly, I noted that I loved the US—again.