A Thanksgiving story to warm your pluralistic hearts:
A cab pulled up, and I got in the front seat—because in the days before metered cabs in DC, drivers were allowed to pick up more than one fare, and someone else was already occupying the back seat.
He exploded in a tirade.
The man had a point, even if his passion in expressing it was unnerving me.
I asked him where he was from.
Somalia, he said.
As he pulled up in front of their house, he turned on the dashboard light so he could count change—and his eyes fell on my papers with Hebrew writing.
And he controlled the vehicle.
My American pluralism side won out.
“Yes,” I said.
”Where do you get kosher meat around here?” he demanded.