12-year-old David Byrne and his little sister run a lemonade stand outside their home in South Boston.
On Wednesday, two Blacks robbed the young White siblings at gunpoint.
“What does race have to do with it?”
Everything. Absolutely fucking everything.
Zac Brown isn’t apologizing for performing at Sunday’s UFC event at the White House 👏🇺🇸
“I’m there for the troops, man. I’m there to honor America. This is patriotism, not politics for me. I mean, fuck all the division. I don’t believe in that. I love this country. I love all the people that have sacrificed so that I can live my American dream and that everyone that lives here gets a chance to do that if they work hard and make the right decisions. So it doesn’t have a place in politics for me.”
WOW…Trump has transformed Washington DC
Water is flowing, memorials are shinning, and locals are out in DROVES 🔥
DC is proof you can fix a grungy crime ridden city - residents love it!
@Real_RobN@BMoyers I’m curious as to how nothing in the social security dept alerted anyone of, repeated numbers. That should be an easy clerical oversight.
Based on one single piece of verifiable evidence—and nothing else—from the entirety of the November 3, 2020 election:
Over 10,000 illegal aliens used the exact same Social Security number—voted in the November 3, 2020 presidential election.
This means the SAVE America Act would have prevented the overthrow of the United States government.
@aderemi_haruna Parents failed the most. No guidance, no sex education, no accountability at home. The boy is a child too—he doesn’t grasp the damage because nobody taught him
There was a man at the next table in uniform, and the waitress would not let him pay.
I watched it happen. He reached for the small folder with the bill. She placed her hand flat upon it, gently, the way one stills a sword that should not be drawn.
"Not today," she said. "Somebody already got it. They asked me to tell you — thank you for your service."
He looked around the room. He did not know who. That was the point.
I set down my fork. I needed a moment to understand what I had seen.
In my homeland, a man who guards the realm is fed by the realm, openly, with ceremony, his name spoken at the gate. Here, a stranger pays for his meal and then hides, so that no debt may be felt. They guard the man even from the weight of being thanked.
"Thank you for your service."
I said it under my breath, testing the shape of it. Four words. A whole code folded inside four words.
(I confess my eyes stung. I blamed the pepper. There was no pepper.)
So I called the waitress over. "The firefighters," I said. "When they come. Their bill. Bring it to me." She blinked. "Sir, that could be a lot of people." "Then bring it to me," I said, "many times."
She laughed, but she wrote it down.
A man in a soft helmet at the counter — off duty, a firefighter, I learned — raised his coffee at me from across the room. He did not know the rite I had just sworn. He only saw a foreigner in old armor, smiling too hard.
"You good, man?" he asked.
I was not "good." I was overflowing. But the word for that is not a word they use at lunch, so I said, "I am good," and held the cup up too high, like a banner.
Here, the people who run toward fire are repaid by people who refuse to take the credit. The whole nation passes one quiet gift hand to hand, and no one signs it.
I am keeping a folder now. For the bills. So tell me where to send the thanks — I have a great deal of it, and I have only just begun.
I adored Garth Brooks until he IDIOTICALLY quit focusing on country music and started anti-Conservative screeds.
Apparently, he’s having some regrets now.
USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.