Down the street from me is a large African immigrant family, with five kids about ages 4-10. They are nice kids who ride their bikes and scooters down the hill, and have little races. I don’t know what country they are from: the little boys dress like any other kid, but the little girls always wear these beautiful, brightly-colored and patterned traditional dresses (for lack of a better term). I always go into dad-mode when I see the kids, reminding them to be careful and telling the older ones to look out for the littlest kids, because cars.
I was sitting on my front porch after a run with my friend, who had just pulled out of the driveway.
The oldest girl said to me, “is that your wife?”
“No,” I replied, “Just my friend.”
“Do you have a wife?”
“No,” I said. “Just me.”
“Do you live alone in that house?”
“No,” I said. “I have a housemate.”
“Oh!” the little girl said. “That’s nice.”
“It’s OK,” I replied. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have to call my son.”
“May I meet your son?”
“Sure,” I said. “When he visits in August. He lives in Canada.”
Her eyes lit up. “He lives in CANADA?” Then she got a look on her face, and asked me (and I swear to God on my mom’s soul this is true) “Is Donald Trump in Canada?”
“No,” I said. “He is not.”
“I don’t like him,” she said. Mind you this kid was like 10 years old. “I do not like Donald Trump.”
“I do not like him either,” I said. “And neither does any decent person.”
And then I went inside and called my kid.