Her mascara dripped into the wrinkles on her cheeks. I smelled her dog from where it lay by her stool, and she clutched the leash with one upturned palm, waiting to be led. “I just don’t get it,” she said to a young couple who looked eager to pay their bill. “How can we have this fucking tard for a president?”
At that moment three people ran into the brewery, the size of a small store-room. The first through the door was a young man wearing a bar shirt that clung tightly to his muscled figure, no shoes. He took a deep breath in and grinned. “I won,” he announced. The remaining adrenaline coursed from his mouth, onto the floor, up the legs of the barstool on which I sat, and for a moment (despite my distaste for the frat boy persona) I shared his euphoria.
Two other young people in their twenties, a man and a woman, came in panting after their victor. The few bar patrons turned towards the new arrivals, and the young couple who’d just paid their bill used this as an excuse to escape. The victor, who turned out to be an off-duty bartender at Hop & Craft Tennessee, stepped behind the counter. Mascara-face, now without a pair of listeners, turned to me and introduced herself as Ann Clare. She scanned over the rest of us, surveying the new victims for her tirade.
“I don’t want to deal with this,” confided the bartender to Justin and I, leaning over the bar to whisper to us. “That guy,” she jutted her thumb at the man beside her, who spoke excitedly with his friends. She furrowed her brow as if he were a rabid dog. “He’s a republican.”
I successfully contained my excitement. I was looking at a real live republican. I yearned to encounter this above all else in my first expedition to the South, perhaps even more than a moist southern biscuit. Among my cohort, a Trump-supporter was as rare as spotting a 3-legged wolf in the woods, as inviting as a prickly Persian cat. But I was taught that democrat folklore teaches us all we need to know about those republicans: they’re uneducated, they carry guns in their pick-ups, they get their hair cut at Walmart and they speak in tongues when they’re not dismantling every advancement towards social progress. I was sure that such folklore was true of only a fraction of the South, but I wanted to gather a few seeds of information on my own.
“Fuckin’ tard!” Silence. “President won’t let the minorities eat cake!”
The young man removed himself from the conversation with his friends, and now he raised an eyebrow at Anne Clare. “Everything alright ma’am?”
“Not with our president! We’re all going to shit!”
“Now m’aam,” the man said, cocking his head, lifting up his palms in surrender. “This is a bar. We don’t need to talk about politics. C’mon. How about sports? How about those—”
Never hush a woman launching herself in the Age of She. “We’re in the midst of the apocalypse because of our shit-hole president, and and all you want to talk about is sports?!”
I watched the man. I watched the republican.
What does republican do when a democrat loses her wits?
In this case he goes calm. He listens. He assigns himself as an arbiter of peace. He does not deny his alignment with conservative values, nor his identity as a Christian and a marine, but addresses the wrongs on both sides, astounding the believer of socio-political lore.
It was clear the woman wanted to be listened to. “I’m liberal. I’m a Californian. I’m liberal” She repeated this, as if committing herself to a refrain. Then she said. “I’ve lived here 16 years. I just want this to be a nice place.” I nodded my head, reserving comment. What she meant was I want to be in a place full of people like me.
The republican listened patiently behind the bar until she finished speaking. “The way I look at it,” he said, “is that there are wrongs on both sides. Extremism in politics is causing the wrong people to get elected, and the wrong kinds of judgment to float around. I don’t like it either.”
Anne Clare drew a deep breath to unleash another monologue.
But the republican wasn’t finished. “But I’m sick of people who claim to be liberal and open-minded talking about how all Christians are the same, and that people who have conservative values are all uneducated. I’m Christian, and I’m highly educated. I’m also not the same as every conservative person out there.”
Anne Clare looked at me, gave the republican a sidelong glance over the bar, and spat. “Protestants. They think they’re so righteous.” She paused, tipping back her glass to finish the dredges of her beer. “I grew up Catholic.” Then she turned to look at the young man again. “But I don’t get it. I don’t get how republicans think they can refuse cake to people they don’t like. You think that if a neighbor was baking a cake, they should be able to refuse that cake to people of color, or a same-sex couple? That’s wrong!”
The republican tried to emphasize that he didn’t approve of discrimination either, but laws couldn’t stop racism. Laws were limitations, not inspirations. The latter came with the ways communities raise their children.
Ann Clare looked deflated. “But the cake.”
The bartender announced that the brewery was closing. If we wanted to continue the conversation, we could do it at another bar. As we prepared to pass through the door, Ann Clare bent towards me. “You know my friends say I’m like an angry black woman.”
I looked at Anne Clare: a lite-pilsner-skinned woman in her late forties, blonde hair hanging to the middle of her back, dressed in pink as if she’d been drafted into a sorority 30 years late. “Don’t call yourself that,” I said.
The man, the republican, opened the door for Ann Clare and gave me a hug. “I’m just trying to stop extremism when I can help it.”
I thought about the cake, how “the republican” gave the cake of service and attention—and the most essential ingredient in the slice, the act of listening—to a person who attacked all his values, along with the people who aligned with them. And Ann Clare?
“We women are smart and intelligent,” she said to me as we met the Nashville air. Her gait was lazy, and it was clear she’d consumed more than a healthy fill of alcohol that evening. “It would be better if all the republicans were just wiped free from the earth. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I’m on board with Ann Clare in some ways. I believe that the historically silenced should be offered the first rounds of cake. But I do believe that everyone, even Trump, deserves some cake (though he should eat it following his impeachment). And as for “us liberals” observing the American South, if we truly believe in sharing whatever this perplexed country can bake up, then maybe we should stop shouting that we deserve the biggest slice.
After we walked Ann Clare to her home, Justin, who had been silent throughout the whole conversation, said “I got a free beer for not partaking in that argument.”