It occurs to me that the Democratic Party as a whole is like my big imperfect family...

“Phones. Phones. Give it up. No Trump at the table. Not tonight. ” My sister is collecting everyone’s cell phones, shooting an accusing look at her granddaughter, who finally cedes a gold compact sized flip phone. “Nice. I might keep this one.” My grandniece mouths a single word. “Whatever.” We’re all being directed outside to the garden where tables have been set up at Mom’s house. Nothing’s perfect. Mom invited too many people. In the center of the grass, two actual tables have been supplemented with a closet door perched atop some container bins, all of it hidden as best as possible under crisp white tablecloths. Mismatched chairs, some wooden, some plastic surround the tables. At one end of the garden, a serving table strains to contain dishes that Mom and my sister have been working on for the last several hours. Nearby, a smaller table holds an old record player picked up at a garage sale. In Italian, a woman is singing that her love is without walls, without ceiling, revealing only infinite trees and the sky above.

It’s something we’ve been doing each summer for years now - A themed dinner for friends and four generations of the family. Maybe it began with the thought that time is seeping away and not all of us are still present. Perhaps it was the realization that the world beyond this home and this garden is indeed crumbling, the result of mentirosos y tontos, as my 91 year old Mom would say. Tonight though, there is no time for liars or fools. Only Italian, and everyone’s been given a responsibility leading up to this evening. As in previous years, I’ve been assigned the task of stringing Edison lights. The pear shaped yellow bulbs arc from the house, through the warm air above the tables to the liquid amber trees separating the property from Ginny the neighbor. Ginny is a racist who spends her retirement watching Fox. We know this because of her threats to call ICE on the Honduran workers who put up Mom’s storm downed fence last year. The shutting of a window from Ginny’s direction and it’s clear that she has no taste for Italian either.

Once we’re all seated, Mom asks that we join hands while she says grace. It’s her house, so it’s her rules and thus it is that believers and non-believers alike grasp hold of one another, their respective thoughts retreating to their respective corners. Mom’s only halfway through her prayer when my sister’s dog, who’s been maneuvering around the chairs, quite clearly passes gas. Opening one eye, I see my grandniece ready to lose it and my brother scrunching his face into a ball. He can’t contain himself. A union guy with a union guy’s vocabulary, I know he wants to drop an F bomb. Instead, out of respect for Mom, he lets out a strained “Dear God.” At the other end of the table, Mom - her eyes still closed - interprets this as an affirmation of her blessing and continues “Yes, Lord, we give thanks for…” It’s moments like this that we all just have to roll with, because we’re like the tables and the closet door and the wooden and plastic chairs we’re seated at. Imperfect at first blush, yet somehow making sense when we’re all thrown together.