What I share with ‘The Squad’
It turns out I have something in common with “The Squad,” that informal grouping of Congresswomen Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York, Ilhan Omar of Minnesota, Ayanna Pressley of Massachusetts and Rashida Tlaib of Michigan.
On more than one occasion — like the representatives — I’ve been told I should “go back” where I came from.
I’ve also been told, like them, to “love it or leave it.” Though never by a sitting president.
Donald Trump says these four women, who went through the trouble of entering the political arena and are serving in Congress, “hate our country.”
I’ve heard some version of that, too, just recently receiving a missive from a reader who said in part, “I don’t understand why someone like you, who hates Arizona so much, continues to live here. Could you explain that to me?”
I told her I could not. Because, like her, I cannot understand why someone who hates Arizona would continue to live here.
I can, however, provide a bit of an explanation why someone who LOVES Arizona might choose to stay.
For me, back in 1980, it was the newness of the place. Having come from the industrial East, Arizona seemed to have none of the grim stodginess, the age, the sense of being set in its ways.
I wrote once that Phoenix may look fully grown, but it’s still a kid, an adolescent, that Phoenix had just started shaving. And it seemed true at the time. But a new resident soon discovers that what appear to be our state’s youthful indiscretions (relatively speaking) are not a matter of age, but of choice.
It’s who we are. It’s part of what draws so many dreamers, innovators, iconoclasts, crooks and charlatans to this strange, curious, beautiful place. It’s what makes living here so much fun.
And while it may not seem possible to scrape away the political divisions that exist between neighbors these days, I’ve seen it happen.
Here.
Like on June 26, 1993, six days after the Phoenix Suns lost to the Chicago Bulls in the NBA Finals. There was to
be a parade that day for the team.
By 6 a.m., when I arrived at what then was called America West Arena, the crowd in downtown Phoenix already was larger than anything I’d seen in the city. And it kept getting larger. And larger. The temperature was forecast to be 105 that day, leading police to expect about 50,000 spectators to show up.
Instead, the number swelled to 300,000.
I found a spot outside the arena along the parade route with a plan to walk behind the blue-and-white Cobra in which Charles Barkley was riding. But the car never made it into the arena’s garage. The crowd swallowed the vehicle whole. But gently. No pushing or shoving. Only cheers and high fives.
Barkley was whisked away by officers. He later thanked and exhorted the throng from the balcony of the arena.
A team of transients had brought together a community of transients.
In 2003, during a time of heavy military deployments, we learned that the families of some reservists suffer financially as well as emotionally when their loved ones are called to duty. The difference between military pay and civilian pay placed some folks in a bind. So, the local National Guard established a fund to assist families in need.
I grew up outside of Pittsburgh, and offered for the highest donation to guard’s fund a baseball that had been autographed by members of a great Pirates team from the 1960s that included Hall of Famers Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell and Bill Mazeroski.
More than a few readers pointed out, correctly, that I did not deserve such a prized possession. Each seemed to throw in a few bucks, however. Some, a lot more. The ball eventually brought in $66,277.
And there was the time I returned to work following the death of my mother.
I wrote a column about her life, talking about how I didn’t want to go to first grade, and how each morning she’d walk from our house to the long, steep hillside steps leading from our neighborhood to my grade school, and sit on a step about halfway down so I could look up at recess and see her, and feel better.
My office voicemail filled up. And there were emails and more emails. And cards. And letters. Hundreds of them.
I started collecting them in binders, which I gave to my father, who read every message, note and letter. They lifted him from his deep, dark well of sorrow. A few of them even made him smile. Imagine that.
So, while I’m not sure why a person would continue living in a place he hates, I know exactly why a person would stay in place.