- It is the fourth of July.
A day meant to celebrate freedom and tolerance
in a country that seems to have forgotten both.
There is less to celebrate every year.
But we have the day off,
and most of us still have hope
that we can make this country better.
So we throw a party.
Not for our country, but for each other.
I invite all my friends in the city,
even though the ones I know can't come,
I want to let the people I care
about know every single time I can.
Among those who come is the good man,
he is the first to laugh,
the first to pour somebody else a drink, and always,
always the first to hug you when you are struggling.
Later, during a conversation about discrimination,
someone mentions that they are Jewish,
and the good man, now drunk, says,
maybe if you were a foreigner it would count.
Maybe if you wore one of those
funny little hats it would count.
But you, you're nothing.
My throat goes dread dry.
Shocked hoarse.
The good man knows that I am also Jewish,
but he says this looking right at me with a broadening
smile like he is letting me in on the sweetest joke.
Later, when I give the toast la heim,
he cuts me off.
He says, why are you using that gibberish?
Speak real words.
When he leaves he hugs me.
Says, goodnight, brother.
It's funny, this new definition of brother.
It stings, tastes like ash.
Weeks later the first time I tell
this story on stage the good man is there.
When I am done he comes up to me,
he is the first one, he says,
I can't believe someone said that to you.
What an asshole.
And for just a moment,
just long enough to decide that this
was more important than our friendship, I am silent.
And then, I tell him it was you.
You said that.
We talked it out.
He apologized.
At the end, we laughed.
When he went home he called me brother again.
We still get excited when we see each other.
Bear hug, even.
But I don't invite him to parties anymore.
And he doesn't call me brother.
He was drunk for both of these conversations.
They were years ago.
I don't know if he even remembers,
but I never stopped thinking about it.
It still stings.
It's still ash.
(applause)