The Wikiness

Last weekend the American president continued his evisceration of constitutional norms by militarizing the police, taking over museums, and personally choosing who gets the national Kennedy Center honors. He wants to be seen as a strong, fearsome father, and he sides with war criminal Putin’ to set’s terms to stop the carnage in Ukraine. His new ICE army promises aggressive removal of one million people this year, with little thought for their safety.

These events are seen by many as “making America great” peaceful, and safe again. They represent the dreams of those who elected this wrecking ball to tear down the more-or-less agreed upon national character.

Meanwhile, down at Memorial Park, an alternative America, the sort of country I strove to build and maintain–one with a large middle class of generous people from all parts of the globe, of all genders, and with ages ranging from teens to super-seniors, is thriving. A wide spectrum of citizens talk, shout, and settle disputes with decorum and respect for the agreed-upon rules. 

There are harsh words, even expostulations, but nothing much past PG 13, and certainly no ad hominem or name-calling. There is delighted laughter, mutual awe and appreciation, and acclamations of welcome and sincere congratulations.

Perkily popping through this gatherings are the percussive plinks and pops of pickleball–a “Plop” when the plastic balls hit the concrete court, and when struck by the hard racket, a louder “pop.” Thus, “Plop/pop, plop/pop…” This is the sound of the Memorial Park Pickleball courts.

Today, doubles teams face off on all three courts. At least 12 more players await their turn, their paddles placed in an egalitarian rack. When your paddle comes up, you partner with whatever human the Pickleball Gods have handed you–the Mexican-American teenager, the middle-aged Irish-American housewife, the Queer American senior. Together, regardless of difference, you’ll struggle to win for the next 15-20 minutes. 

Maybe you’ll see a critical element in your opponents’ game–he has a weak backhand, she does poorly at the baseline–and you offer that intel to your partner. If you’re lucky, your partner notices aspects of your game that could improve. And over dozens of iterations, you your game gets better.

There is always music from a bluetooth speaker playing–a background to the sideline conversations and the “Plop/pop” of the games. Today it’s Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Proud Mary,” and hearing the lyric, I feel a bit proud of my formerly imagined America:  “…People on the river are happy to give.”

Someone has pinned up a 1×2 American flag on the fence facing the courts. I choose to see nothing MAGA about it. It hangs today over my American Dream: an open, free space where everyone is welcome if they take turns and play by the rules. Come with your unique abilities, subordinate your ego to the game, and we’ll get along fine. 

Today, it’s a place of color-blind companionship and mutual aid. We keep ourselves and each other active and healthy. There is pleasure in the old-fashioned value of meeting your fellows on equal ground where nothing matters but getting along and how you handle your self under pressure.

And it’s a place where politics, if they are ever spoken of, are whispered, lest this sanctuary be spoiled.