An Open Letter to Zohran Mamdani

Dear Mr. Mamdani,

Congratulations on winning the Democratic primary for the 2025 New York’s mayoral election. Based on what I’ve read, it sounds like you have tons of support from progressive New Yorkers and I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to beat Mr. Cuomo, someone so deeply entrenched in New York politics and so widely known for sexual harassment. Just messin’ around. Mazal tov!

I’m guessing you’ve read my open letter to NBA Commissioner Adam Silver on August 15, 2024. As bald Jewish men who love basketball, he and I have a lot in common. As it turns out, you and I do too.

We both live in big cities brimming with rich histories, vibrant cultures, and economic opportunity, as well as aging infrastructure, abject poverty, and violent crime.

We’re both liberal. Sure, I’m not some raging commie like the media paints you to be but I’m solidly left of center and fully support increasing taxes on corporations, making housing more affordable, and investing in impoverished communities. Your call for government-run grocery stores and free buses reminds me of my illegal visit to a black-market laden Cuba in 2002 but I’m open to change, especially if it involves meeting Cuban women.

We both like rap. No, I’ve never laid down my own beats or recorded my own videos like you,¹ but I can quote Tupac lyrics with the best of ‘em.

We both come from privilege. Your dad is a tenured professor at a prestigious university and my dad was a doctor. Your mom is a wealthy filmmaker and my mom is the shit. You spent most of your childhood on Manhattan’s Upper West Side and attended a private elementary school (2025 kindergarten tuition is $66,236²), a selective enrollment high school in the Bronx, and a private college in Maine.³ My mommy and daddy similarly paid hundreds of thousands for my education.

We both love politics. You ran for student body Vice President at your high school and lost;⁴ I ran for student body President at my high school and lost. You currently serve in the New York State Assembly and are likely to become New York’s next mayor. I was a White House intern and have a Master’s in Political Science. I even considered going into politics but it turns out that in addition to all the skeletons in my closet, I’m not as likeable as I think.

Of course there are some differences as well. You are handsome and have a full head of hair. I am gaunt and follicly challenged. You’re a millennial who is hip to all the socials. I’m a Gen X’er who has a blog no one reads. You’re Muslim. I’m Jewish. (Though it’s worth noting that you were almost half-Jewish, as your mother was first married to a MOT, Mitch Epstein, before divorcing him and marrying your father.⁵)

We also seem to have some significant differences on the Israel-Palestine conflict. I believe, however, that if we reflect on the ways in which our personal backgrounds have shaped our political views, we can reconcile our ostensibly dissimilar positions. Simply put, when I evaluate the Israel-Palestine conflict, I’m biased. And so are you. So let’s both get over ourselves and see if we can be friends.

___

I understand you spent some of your formative years in South Africa where victims of Apartheid often identify with Palestinians and where perpetrators of Apartheid are often compared to the Israeli government. In 1990, two weeks after being released from prison, Mandela met with Yasser Arafat. In 2023, days after Hamas’ attack on October 7th, Mandela’s grandson, a power player in the African National Congress, said, “We have stood with the Palestinians and we will continue to stand with our Palestinian brothers and sisters.”⁶ What did you learn about the Israel-Palestine conflict when you were young? Is a typical South African student taught that Palestinians are the good guys and Israel is the bad guy?

Some of my formative years were spent in Philadelphia where I went to Hebrew school, where I had plenty of Jewish friends and neighbors, and where my pride in Jewish history and culture was cultivated. I also lived in Israel for a year where I learned that Jewish refugees to Palestine drained the swamps (literally) and built the only democracy in the region.

My point here is most definitely not that South Africa is wrong and that the Shlomo Goldberg Jewish Cultural Center is right. It’s simply to describe the potential biases with which each of us approaches this issue and request that, if you haven’t already, you consider another narrative.

Speaking of narratives, I’m sure you’d agree that the ones provided by our parents are pretty damn impactful. My dad was deeply, proudly Jewish despite the anti-semitism he faced, including quotas for Jews at college and medical school. He loved Israel and, if I’m being honest, did not love Arabs. In fact, he sometimes referred to them as “the Arabs.” He took our family to Israel for a year-long sabbatical. He played in the Maccabi games. He steadfastly defended Israel and even bought me a book called The Case for Israel by Alan Dershowitz.

Your dad, on the other hand, is a postcolonial studies professor at Columbia who was persecuted as an Indian in Uganda, fought in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, and has spent most of his professional career writing about colonialism and postcolonialism, particularly in Africa.⁷ My dad was a typical American Jewish liberal in that he defended Israel, perhaps unfairly. Your dad is a typical liberal Columbia professor in that he criticizes Israel, perhaps unfairly. I’ll bet our fathers could’ve learned a lot from each other. In fact, if my dad were still alive, I’d suggest that “your old man and my old man...get together and go bowling” (Breakfast Club).

But where does all this leave us? Well, maybe you should read more of the books my dad gave me and I should read more of the books your dad gave you. And then we can sit in my basement, throw on Tupac’s “California Love,” and see if we can find some common ground.

I was for sure biased by my dad but my mom is my mom, ya know? She doesn’t even have to talk politics and I’ll still know how she feels. Most of her best friends are Jewish. She goes to synagogue most Saturdays. She keeps in touch with old friends in Israel. She travels to Israel every few years. Your mom, on the other hand, is married to a Muslim and, after declining an invitation to the Haifa International Film Festival, said she “will go to Israel when the walls come down...when [the] occupation is gone...when Apartheid is over.”⁸ My mom would say the walls are there for security, question the use of the word “occupation,” and be downright offended by the use of the word “Apartheid.”

So, again, Mr. Mamdani, where does that leave you and me? My mom taught me that Israel is defending itself from those who want to destroy it. Your mom taught you that Israel is killing innocent civilians. From the moment our fathers’ prejudiced semen infiltrated our mothers’ prejudiced eggs, you and I were predisposed to feel a certain way about Israel and Palestine, to analyze the conflict with a particular lens, to support one group rather than the other, to love one and to disregard another.

Finally, as much as I’d like to forget about my wife, I can’t. She is Israeli. Her parents are Israeli. Her whole family is Israeli. Yada yada yada. Your wife is of Syrian descent and “has created numerous works [of art] about Israeli crimes in Gaza.”⁹ I can’t help but think that those late-night postcoital pillow talks have deeply influenced what you and I believe.

___

Mr. Mamdani, if I drank all of the pro-Israel Kool-Aid I was served, I might believe, among other things, that the intifada is a call for violent terror attacks against civilians, that Israel should receive unconditional military aid due the constant threats it faces, and that the current war with Hamas is just given the atrocities committed on October 7th. I do not believe those things. If you, for example, drank all of the pro-Palestine Kool-Aid you were served, you might believe, among other things, that the phrase “globalize the intifada” is defensible,¹⁰ that consumers and countries should boycott, divest from, and impose sanctions on Israel,¹¹ and that “Israel’s assault on Gaza is a genocide.”¹² Do you really believe those things?

At the end of Pulp Fiction, as Jules (Samuel Jackson) is deep in the throes of an existential crisis, he says, “But I’m tryin’, Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.” I’m not trying to be the shepherd, Mr. Mamdani, but I’m trying, trying real hard, to see this disaster as clearly, as objectively, as holistically, and as truthfully as possible. It pains me to read articles from Haaretz about Palestinians being shot at food distribution centers. It pains me to read articles from The Guardian about Gazan children dying outside of medical facilities. It pains me to read articles from Democracy Now! about Netanyahu’s desire to make Gaza a “perpetual, ongoing war.”¹³ The Kool-Aid I’ve been served much of my life doesn’t go well with this other Kool-Aid, but I force it down anyway.

And so I ask you, Mr. Mamdani, is the Kool-Aid you’re drinking today the same Kool-Aid you’ve had your whole life or are you trying some new flavors? Do the stories you read confirm what you already believe or do you seek alternative narratives? Are you in a social media echo chamber or do you look for spaces with truly diverse perspectives? Are you perpetuating your own biases or trying to address them?

In the words of the late, great Tupac Shakur, “I got love for my brother but we can never go nowhere unless we share with each other.” How about you and I meet for lunch, perhaps something shared by our cultures like pita with hummus, and talk?

1. Zellner, Xander. “Zohran Mamdani Used to Rap — and His Catalog Has Been Surging in Streams.” Billboard, 6 June 2025, https://www.billboard.com/music/chart-beat/zohran-mamdani-rap-catalog-streams-surge-1236008425/. Accessed 9 July 2025.
2. “Tuition and Financial Aid.” Bank Street School for Children, https://school.bankstreet.edu/admissions-2/tuition-financial-aid/. Accessed 3 July 2025.
3. “Zohran Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zohran_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
4. Sauer, Megan. “​​Zohran Mamdani ran for VP of his high school and lost—now he’s winning the Democratic primary for NYC mayor.” CNBC, 27 June 2025, https://www.cnbc.com/2025/06/27/zohran-mamdanis-political-career-started-in-high-school.html, Accessed 9 July 2025.
5. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
6. Imray, Gerald. “Nelson Mandela’s support for Palestinians endures with South Africa’s genocide case against Israel.” Associated Press, 11 Jan. 2024, https://apnews.com/article/south-africa-palestine-israel-genocide-mandela-arafat-39d222b9dd65994c4c13730efabe8815. Accessed 8 July 2025.
7. “Mahmood Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahmood_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
8. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
9. “Rama Duwaji.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rama_Duwaji. Accessed 10 July 2025.
10. Arkin, Daniel. “NYC mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani criticized for 'intifada' remarks.” NBC News, 19 June 2025, https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/nyc-mayoral-candidate-zohran-mamdani-draws-criticism-intifada-remarks-rcna213967. Accessed 7 July 2025.
11. Beeferman, Jason. “Critics say Zohran Mamdani is antisemitic. He says he’s holding Israel accountable.” POLITICO, 24 June 2025, https://www.politico.com/news/2025/06/22/critics-say-zohran-mamdani-is-antisemitic-he-says-hes-simply-holding-israel-accountable-00416388. Accessed 7 July 2025.
12. Harb, Ali. “Mamdani’s New York victory boosts pro-Palestine politics in US.” ALJAZEERA, 26 June 2025, https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/6/26/mamdanis-new-york-victory-boosts-pro-palestine-politics-in-us. Accessed 8 July 2025.
13. “‘Netanyahu Is the Problem’: Sanders’s Former Adviser Matt Duss on Why Gaza Ceasefire Remains Elusive.” Democracy Now!, 9 July 2025, https://www.democracynow.org/2025/7/9/netanyahu_trump. Accessed 9 July 2025.

A Hero's Journey

Fast Friends

In August of 2023, 150 puberty-infused 7th graders started school at Schmane Schmeck Academic Center, a program for high-achieving nerds from across the city of Chicago. Every kid was new to the school and most walked in on Day 1 without a single friend. Out of desperation and fear, two young ladies glommed on to each other like Truth Social and a white male without a college degree.

The first of these young ladies is Chloe who is blonde, thin, and cute. She has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile. Chloe plays soccer, sings in the school chorus, and competes annually in the Chicago History Fair. She is articulate, smart, and kind of annoying. She’s the type of kid who not only thanks you for a ride home but does so multiple times, profusely. She’s overly complimentary. She talks loudly. She gives hugs too easily and too strong. In the words of OG (the other young lady and the hero of this story), Chloe is “really great but she’s a lot.”

All direct quotes in this post are attributed to OG, my 14-year-old daughter who, in her own way, is also a lot. Specifically, she can be a bit holier-than-thou. In 6th grade, OG was brought to tears by some wretched little boys who threw snowballs at her during recess. OG decided to send a 1,000-word email to those boys, shaming them for their behavior. Her sanctimony got her in trouble: The boys shared the email with the entire world and OG was bullied to no end.

But sometimes the bullied become heroes and the defenseless become saviors. Before becoming Spiderman, Peter Parker was tormented for being a science geek. Before becoming Batman, Bruce Wayne witnessed the murder of his parents. Before OG became a hero, she was a sad little dweeb on the playground with wet mittens and damp cheeks. Becoming a hero is complicated.

Back to Chloe and OG who, within weeks, were besties: endless messaging, sleepless sleepovers, excessive sharing of feelings, mindless excursions to Sephora and Starbucks, etc. It was all very cute.

Drama

Less than two weeks into the school year, Chloe also had a girlfriend named Violet. At a school where everyone is new and no one knows each other, it’s weird for anyone to start dating so quickly, let alone two girls, even in today’s climate where basically everyone is gay.

And sure enough, as the year dragged on, the drama between Chloe and Violet picked up: emotional texts, breaking up, getting back together, etc. It was all very silly. As Chloe’s best friend, OG often listened to Chloe complain about Violet not giving her enough attention. Because all feelings experienced by anyone in 2025 must be validated, OG validated Chloe’s but often lamented the fact that she herself had to give Chloe so much attention.

Chloe and OG were also part of a bigger friend group who, I suppose, are generally high-quality people but often suffer from groupthink (“we don’t like Ms. Barker,” “we like being nonchalant,” etc.) and, consequently, become mindless, middle school monsters, resembling a more naive, less Machiavellian version of Mean Girls. By spring of 7th grade, most of them had already “stopped liking” Chloe and one of them outwardly expressed frustration at OG for “spending too much time with her” (code for “I’m a jealous bitch”). By the end of the year, OG had started distancing herself from Chloe because she was “just a lot to deal with.”

OG liked Chloe but sometimes felt annoyed by her. She didn’t want to abandon her but pressure from the Mean Girls was mounting. OG felt stuck. Summer was approaching, and her friendship with Chloe was in doubt. Becoming a hero is complicated.

The Phone Call

Luckily for OG, she was able to avoid making any decisions for most of the summer. Such is the life of the privileged few who get to shirk responsibility and decision-making by attending sleep-away camp for the entire month of June and frolicking around the Middle East and Europe for the entire month of July. By the time OG came home in early August, school was about to start and she felt that a “decision” with Chloe needed to be made.

OG was slow to respond to some texts and Chloe asked if the two of them “were still good.” She messaged OG again, saying she didn’t want to be “iced out” or “left on read.” The worst thing any human being can do to any other human being is 2025 is “ghost” them so, like a big girl, OG picked up the phone and actually called Chloe, something no child has done since approximately 2009. OG initially tried to give her the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech but ultimately felt compelled to tell Chloe that she “needed some space because it was a lot to handle.” 

“What’s ‘it’?” Chloe asked.

“Being around you,” OG responded.

Chloe was in tears.

An hour after the phone call, OG was feeling sad, perhaps guilty, so she went to check her phone which, sure enough, had an “essay” from Chloe. OG responded sympathetically, came back to the couch for Family Movie Night, and returned to her phone a few minutes later to see another “mad” essay followed by a “sad” essay.

Chloe was reeling. OG apologized. Chloe sent another “mad” essay followed by another “sad” essay.

They were both in tears.

Lunch Tables (Part I)

Mean Girls is a great movie and one of its many great scenes is when Regina George breaks the rules by wearing sweatpants on a Monday. After a heated exchange at the lunch tables in the cafeteria, Gretchen Wieners explodes, “You can’t sit with us!”

The Mean Girls in this story commandeered a few lunch tables in Schmane Schmeck’s cafeteria and, on the first day of 8th grade, Chloe sat with them. Soon enough, the Mean Girls at Table 1 started literally, figuratively, and wickedly “pushing Chloe to the side,” saying they could only fit a few girls on each end.

OG: “Maybe we also made some comments. I don’t remember.”

Saul: “You don’t remember? You mean you remember perfectly but don’t want to admit it?”

OG: “Okay, we were pushing her. I’m taking responsibility. But, like, I don’t remember if there were comments or if she just got fed up and moved to another table.”

Was OG a bystander? Was she complicit? Are bystanders ipso facto complicit? Quick story: I went to high school with a kid named Greg and once when we were taking a group picture, another kid named Jason directly excluded Greg from the photo because, well, the details don’t matter. I sat there, silent, while Greg walked away in tears.

So Chloe (now at Table 2) is feeling rejected, eating a sloppy joe made by the lunch lady, and OG is feeling safe, eating a turkey and cheese sandwich made by Saul. The Mean Girls at Table 2 then start complaining to the Mean Girls at Table 1 about Table 1 having banished Chloe to Table 2. So what does Table 2 do? It squeezes in with Table 1 so now Chloe “actually can’t fit.” If I may: What a bunch of heartless bitches.

So now what does Chloe do? She goes and sits with Violet (the girlfriend) and a couple of Violet’s friends who also don’t want Chloe sitting with them. I can’t explain why a girlfriend wouldn’t protect her girlfriend in this situation but I can tell you that everything does, in fact, get worse.

The Text

Who hates immigrants the most? Immigrants. More broadly, who hates outsiders the most? Outsiders. Pardon the xenophobia, but Table 3 of Mean Girls consists of two Chineses (Tropic Thunder) and one Ethernopian (South Park), two of whom are downright vicious and one of whom personifies complicit bystander. Out of utter desperation, Chloe joins their lunch table and the Outsiders jump at the chance to destroy another outsider. After a few days, the most “mean-spirited” of the three sends the following text:

“Hi [Chloe]. I think I’m speaking for my table and [that other Mean Girl’s] table that you have been hopping around recently. In short, we would like space. We have constantly made it very obvious that we don’t want you with us. All of us are visibly uncomfortable with you around us and you continue to deny that. We don’t want to be friends with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries and completely denies the fact that anything’s wrong. I know for a full fact that you know what you did. I have a few requests. Firstly, give everyone space. Secondly, stop body-shaming people. And lastly, stop following us after school. If you are unsure who to sit with at lunch, sit with your girlfriend or at your original table.”

Before I once again refer to these young ladies as heartless bitches, let me offer some commentary and context:

1. This text was, somehow, unbelievably, a softer, edited version of an earlier text which included shaming Chloe for allegedly flirting with some stupid boy.

2. What does “full fact” mean? I thought you attended an academic center.

3. Chloe didn’t body-shame you but if she had, maybe there was a reason.

4. If you had any balls, you’d say this to Chloe’s face. Good luck hiding behind a screen for the rest of your life, you heartless bitches.

OG claims she told all the Mean Girls, “Stop being mean to Chloe and stop icing her out. If you really want space, tell her in a nice way.” But, she says, they still “wrote [the text] and [asked] for space in a mean way. I didn’t tell them to write this. I didn’t even know they wrote this.”

Well hold on there OG. What do you mean by “this”? You knew about an earlier version of the text, right? You knew they were gonna send something, right? Did you tell them to talk to Chloe in person? Did you tell them to just chill out and grow up? Did you tell them to be nice or else you'd torture and murder them?

No, OG, I don’t think you did any of that because becoming a hero is complicated.

Winter Formal

Let’s take stock: After starting a brand new school, Chloe finds a crew, gets a girlfriend, and makes a new best friend. She is then rejected by her vicious crew, excluded by her callous girlfriend, and abandoned by her confused best friend. The bullying continues, and we arrive at 8th grade Winter Formal.

Per aforementioned privilege, our house is a big house which means our house is the party house which means OG’s friends come to our house for sleepovers in the basement, sun-bathing on the deck, and beautifying themselves in preparation for the most awkward of awkward: middle school dances. OG told the Mean Girls she’d send a text to invite everyone over before the Winter Formal. A day or two later, Chloe (who, OG claims, didn’t know OG was hosting a pre-party) sent a “sad” text to 13 girls inviting them to get ready at her house where they could “have snacks and order pizza in the basement.”

In a state of total chaos and complete anarchy, the Mean Girls immediately start blowing up OG’s phone: “Are you gonna go? Are you not having a party at your house? What’s going on???”

Though OG had not planned to invite Chloe to her house, she admirably responds to the hysterical Mean Girls, “I’m going to Chloe’s. There’s nothing at my house anymore. I’m going. I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t pressure you into this. I’m going. I think you should too.” She also quickly responds to Chloe on the party group chat, “Yup, I’m coming.” Maybe becoming a hero isn’t that complicated?

The Mean Girls are in crisis mode. They don’t know where to pre-party and they certainly don’t know how to be nice. One of them strongly considers getting ready in the school bathroom. Fast forward a couple weeks and a total of three girls go to Chloe’s pre-party: Chloe, OG, and Kendra, who is not a member of the Mean Girls and whom OG describes as “very nice.” The pre-party at Chloe’s is fun, the dance is great, and OG has a post-party with the Mean Girls at our house. Chloe is not included. Oops, maybe becoming a hero is still complicated.

Lunch Tables (Part II)

Cold February day in Chicago. Cafeteria in Schmane Schmeck Academic Center. Regina George, Gretchen Wieners, OG, Chloe, etc.

OG gets up from the lunch table and Chloe sits in her seat. OG returns to the table and thinks, No way I’m kicking her out of my seat. She’s sitting here now. Maybe I’ll ask her to scooch over.

OG: “Hey Chloe, can you scooch over a bit?”

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you took her seat. You’re in her seat. Get up. Go away.”

OG: “Guys, it’s ok, it’s ok. She can scooch over a bit.”

Mean Girls: “No. Chloe, go away.”

OG thinks, Forget it. I’m just gonna stand here and eat my blueberries. I’m standing. It’s fine. I’ll stand.

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you have to leave. You have to leave.”

Gretchen Wieners stands up and exclaims: “CHLOE, CAN’T YOU SEE NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE?!?”

Chloe gets up, tears welling her in her eyes, and “speedwalks” away. OG catches up to her and says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t even believe she did that. That was so horrible of her.”

Chloe: “No, it’s ok, it’s ok. Just leave me alone.”

OG: “I’m so sorry.”

Chloe: “You don’t understand how hard this year has been for me. This is taking such a toll on me. It’s so hard for me to get up in the morning and come to school every day.”

OG: “Yeah, I understand. This has been so horrible.”

Chloe: “It’s not just them. It’s you too.”

OG: “I understand. I’m so sorry I can’t stand up for you more than I already am.”

Chloe: “No, I understand. I’m not worth risking all your friendships over.”

OG was mad at the Mean Girls but mostly swallowed her anger and guilt. OG considered going to the counselor with Chloe but ultimately encouraged her to go alone. Gretchen Wieners told OG she apologized to Chloe but Chloe said she didn’t. OG never followed up.

The balance between defending Chloe and maintaining a friendship with the Mean Girls was delicate. After OG called out one of them for excluding Chloe from an after-school gathering at Wendy’s, the Mean Girl got mad at OG for not blindly “having her back.” OG told her she didn’t have anyone’s back when what they were doing “was wrong.” In the end, however, OG ended up profusely apologizing to the Mean Girl even though she knew that calling her out had been right.

Boston

Cool days in April. Violet dumps Chloe. Chloe now has no one to room with for the 8th grade spring trip to Boston. Each room has four girls. OG is in a group of seven so Chloe would be an easy eighth. Chloe asks two of the Mean Girls if she can room with them. They straight up lie to her face with their ugly, lying faces and say they don’t have space. Chloe asks OG if she can room with her and, without asking the Mean Girls, OG says yes. (“I didn’t need to ask them. I just said yes.”) The Mean Girls are not pleased and do everything in their repulsive power not to share a room with Chloe.

On the final night, Chloe, OG, and two of the Mean Girls “just start talking.” Chloe tells them how “horrible” they have been and the girls say “I’m so sorry” over and over. Chloe keeps asking, “Why? Like, why?” and the girls can’t explain their behavior. The “trauma-dumping” goes deep into the night and there are tears, laughter, and hugs. Though some of the Mean Girls not in the room that night initially resist, Chloe gets added back to the original group chat. The next day, “everyone was friends” again and the Mean Girls were kinder to Chloe.

A few weeks later, OG had the end-of-year party at our house. All of the Mean Girls were there and so was Chloe. I watched them sitting around the dining room table, stuffing their fat faces with cake, sending vapid selfies on Snapchat, and jokingly calling each other racist for using the word “Hispanic.” OG was laughing. Chloe was laughing. The Mean Girls were laughing. Becoming a hero isn’t that complicated: You just have to keep trying.

Other Emotions

A few weeks ago, Panini and I hopped in the Honda Odyssey at 7am and drove 25 miles from Chicago, to some miserable suburb for some miserable tournament. She should have crushed most of the girls there but pressure changes everything and Panini somehow figured out a way to make the day even more miserable. Rather than beating these girls in straight sets, she kept winning the first set and then losing the second.

And I'll tell you what: I get emotional when she splits sets. 

___

It’s not the anticipation of the third-set tie-breaker that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that now I have to continue to make “polite” conversation with this slick-haired, teeth-whitened, Northface puffer vest-wearing, douchebag executive recruiter who won’t stop talking about how he didn’t want to leave the city and move to some nameless, soulless suburb but felt like it was the “best thing to do for his family.” And how he used to be on the grind teaching 5th grade at some gritty Chicago Public Schools elementary school but now he’s a corporate sell out bitch (my words, not his). And as we talk more about city life, he says, “Yeah you just do your best to make sure your kids are safe and the rest is in God’s hands.” And I say, “Yeah, totally, everything is in God’s hands, you Jesus-loving Christian fuck.” So yeah, I’m not anxious about the super-breaker; I’d just prefer to be done with this overly friendly, self-righteous sycophant.

It’s not closeted Chris Cooper from American Beauty that’s making me emotional; it’s the Asian helicopter dad sitting stoically, alone, in the front row of the stands, with perfect posture and a slight forward lean. It’s cloudy but he’s wearing dark sunglasses and a hat. It’s chilly but he’s not wearing a jacket. His jeans are too tight and his Hoka walking shoes are so red that [insert joke about Communist China here: ___________ ]. He for sure speaks Chinese but he doesn’t say a word. Meanwhile, his fist-pumping, high ponytail-wearing daughter won’t shut the fuck up. She’s wearing a bright green tennis dress to match her bright green racquet. She’s also wearing glasses because the only time Chiang Kai-Shek* lets her outside is to play tennis, so of course she’s near-sighted due to lack of natural sunlight. But her glasses have transition lenses because of course they have transition lenses, so she’s actually playing in dark sunglasses which, as you know, no respectable tennis player uses. Did I mention this little girl is 11 years old and weighs 80 pounds? She’s playing in a tournament with 15- and 16-year-olds because she’s very good at tennis. She’s also putting most of these big girls to shame and screaming out “C’mon!” every other shot. But what’s making me emotional is that I’ve seen this movie before: Queue will never play another sport in her life and, instead, will play 15 hours of tennis per week for 50 weeks a year for the next few years until she gets injured or burns out. She will then realize how much resentment she has for her father, who, per stoic East Asian cultural norms, will forbid her from going to therapy and, thus, expedite her suicide. So yeah, I’m emotional because I feel bad for this sad little girl in the bright green dress.

___

It’s not China ruling the world that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m missing the Nuggets game. This stupid tie-breaker is delaying our departure, so now I’m gonna be late picking up Broosevelt from his soccer game and, shucks, I’ll have to miss seeing him standing around kicking up dirt while he plays goalie for the entire second half when his team is already up 6-1. And I’ll probably hit vicious Saturday afternoon city traffic when we get back which will make my 70-mile day of driving even worse. And then I’ll finally get home and the Nuggets playoff game (read: the only thing I have left in my life) will already be over.

It’s not the delay that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m feeling nervous about my new seating arrangement. I’ve moved away from Phil Dunphy and Pol Pot on the bleachers and am now lying on the sidewalk next to the rec center because that’s the only sunny spot near the courts and there’s a good view inside the rec center of a karate class for kids with special needs. Some construction guys in Carhartt hats just finished working on the rec center roof and, though they cleaned up, I’m surrounded by rubber tubing, broken pipes, and other detritus. And when I say I’m lying on the sidewalk, I mean that literally. I am prone, head propped up by my right arm, like a Sports Illustrated bikini model but handsomer and hairier. Even though it’s cold, I’ve already put on two layers of sunblock because cancer kills. My knees hurt, the gravel stings, and I’m pretty sure the other parents think I “walk the earth” (Jules, Pulp Fiction). So yeah, I’m feeling insecure about loose roof shingles, a Daniel LaRusso crane kick going sideways, and someone calling the cops on the guy with a rainbow hat and bright blue sunglasses that say “Saul.”

___

It’s not my imminent arrest that’s making me emotional; it’s Panini’s anxiety. After splitting sets with some completely mediocre girl in her first match today, she walked toward me with tears in her eyes and stammered, “I can’t lose!” I wanted to venomously spit back, “Actually, you can lose, you often do lose, and you’ll probably lose this one.” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and talked her off the cliff by helping her realize that all of the mistakes she was making on the court were a result of the mistakes she was making in her head. She somehow got through that match, and now here she is in the finals, freaking out because she’s about to choke away the entire tournament. And I’m a little emotional too.

She comes off the court after double-faulting away the second set and the first thing she says to me is, “It’s the wind!” I want to venomously spit back, “It’s not the wind. It’s you! Make an adjustment!!” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and tell her to use her slice when the wind is at her back. It works, she pulls ahead in the tie-breaker, and Panini now has two championship points. She hits a solid cross-court backhand and a beautiful approach shot. She gets an easy forehand volley put-away on top of the net and all she has to do is put it in the court to get that precious, plastic, long sought-after trophy. She misses, and I know for a fact that she had the same thought I had: Holy shit, she’s gonna choke away this match.

Thank god the other girl was an even bigger choker: She double-faulted on the next point to gift Panini the match and the tournament. I was proud of Panini but mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of there to catch some of the Nuggets game.

*not a Communist

A Mirror

I get emotional when she hits a backhand.

___

It’s not just the backhand that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that it’s a one-handed backhand. 16-year-old girls usually use a two-hander, so a one-hander makes her unique.

It’s not just the one-hander that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she’s hitting with slice. 16-year-old girls usually hit with topspin, so a slice makes her particularly unique.

___

It’s not just the slice that’s making me emotional; it’s the talent that the slice demands. Anyone can “grip it and rip it” with topspin; slice demands a soft touch and a firm wrist. It demands sensitivity and strength, feel and power. I’m emotional because every time she hits a slice, she shows me how god damn good she is at this sport.

It’s not just the talent that’s making me emotional; it’s the intelligence. She’s mixing up spin to keep her opponent off-balance. She’s mixing up pace to keep her opponent guessing. She’s using it defensively out of necessity. She’s using it offensively out of opportunity. These other 16-year-old girls are mindlessly blasting the ball; she’s playing with precision and patience. God she’s so fucking smart I could cry.

It’s not just the intelligence that’s making me emotional; it’s the confidence. The belief that this shot is the right shot. The trust that she’ll win the point a few shots later. The understanding that sometimes being different is better. She’s an anxious kid, so I get emotional when I see her being brave.

___

It’s not just the confidence that’s making me emotional; it’s the work. Talent, intelligence, and confidence aren’t enough. She has put in the time. Hours of cross-court, down-the-line, and figure 8’s. Warm, comfortable days in October; cold, painful days in April. Blazing outdoor sessions in July; dreary indoor sessions in February. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretching, pilates. She has earned this moment. I see her daily, years-long grind in this shot, and I feel pride.

It’s not just the work that’s making me emotional; it's the toll of the work. The physical toll of 6am alarms and hour-long drives to distant suburbs. Twelve-hour days and entire weekends in the car. Shoulder pain and ankle sprains. The emotional toll of nail-biting victories and brutal defeats. The satisfaction in playing tougher than her opponent and the shame in choking. So much laughter in the bleachers and so many tears in the car ride home. The fun of making friends and the misery of getting cheated. So much time and energy, so much joy and pain. It’s all brought her to this moment, and I am overwhelmed.

___

It’s not just the toll that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she is grown. From crawling to walking to running. From fear to hesitation to embrace. From novice to expert. From weakness to strength. She has mastered the grip, the angles, the footwork, and the timing. She is tall, fast, smart, and beautiful. She is a role model. Spectators walk by the court and are impressed. They stay for a moment to bear witness. She entertains; she captivates; she inspires. She’s not a 16-year-old girl; she’s a woman. And I can barely handle it.

It’s not just her being grown that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m looking into a mirror. The slice is my shot, my weapon, and I taught it to her. I called her up to the net and adjusted her grip. I taught her when to use it, how to follow through, and the correct angle of the racquet. I’m emotional because when I look at her, I also see me. I see our work together and I see the daughter becoming the father. I see my legacy.

___

It’s all of it: the excellence of the present, the grind of the past, and the brilliance and torment of the future. I think I’ll give her an extra-long hug after her match today, and she and I will be back on the court tomorrow.

No One Phucks Anymore

I lost my virginity on my 17th birthday. Well, it wasn’t right on my 17th birthday but I like to pretend my deflowering was special.

It wasn’t. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and dry. Jennifer and I loved each other but the sex was bad. I had no idea what I was doing, she had no idea what she was doing, and we walked away from the experience feeling a combination of relief and shame.

I’m guessing you also lost your virginity when you were 17 and that it was similarly overhyped and underwhelming. And I’m happy for you. I’m happy that when you were an insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, desperate to smush junk with another insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, you found someone you could put your junk into or someone with whom you felt comfortable enough that you permitted them to put their junk into yours.

Cuz that’s not what’s happening in 2025. Today, no 17-year-olds are smushing junk because they’re all a bunch of scared losers.

_____

Let’s back up: When should one lose one’s virginity?

13-year-old shepherdesses in the Red Tent days lost their virginity to 40-year-old men as soon as they had their first period and were, thus, deemed to be women. That’s messed up; 13 is way too young. 14-year-old milk maids in the Middle Ages lost their virginity to 30-year-old lords whenever the lords got a royal boner. Seems oppressive; 14 is too young. 15-year-old cheerleaders in the 80’s lost their virginity to 18-year-old football players with a Corvette. Clear power imbalance; 15 is a bit too young.

17 seems like the sweet spot. End of junior year of high school, maybe some time during senior year. A few years after you’ve realized you’re a sexual entity. Right when you’re gaining some confidence. Right when you’re feeling like a big fish in your small high school pond. Maybe you have a boyfriend or girlfriend. Maybe you’ve been dating for a few months. Maybe you’re finally ready to take that step, and you’d rather lose your V-card now than at some rapey frat party in college.

_____

Let’s (heteronormatively) back up a bit further: When should a boy first timidly hold his girlfriend’s hand? When should a girl first overzealously French-kiss her boyfriend? When should a boy first clumsily caress his girlfriend’s breasts? When should a girl first fearfully handle her boyfriend’s penis? When should a boy first aimlessly explore his girlfriend’s vagina? And so on and so forth...

Regardless of your answers, here is a problematic anecdote: My incredibly intelligent, absolutely gorgeous, and increasingly curious daughter is about to finish 8th grade, and neither she nor any of her smart, pretty, and inquisitive friends have had their first kiss. C’mon now.

Remember truth or dare in 5th grade? Remember spin the bottle in 6th grade? Remember two minutes in the closet in 7th grade? Remember seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade? Me too. They were fantastic. They were awkward, humiliating, anxiety-provoking, and thrilling. I got to stick my tongue in Julie’s mouth, push my little boner up against Rebecca’s zipper, and wrestle with self-doubt and fear. They were the best moments of my otherwise wretched middle-school existence.

But no more. No one is French-kissing anyone, no one is fumbling around with anyone else’s bra, no one is taking any risk, and no one is fucking.

_____

Here’s what you’ll see if you look out across a sea of 17-year-olds today.

A nerdy-ass white boy with skinny arms, thick glasses, and a gnarly head of hair resembling a 1970’s bush with dandruff. He doesn’t exercise, he has bad skin, and he has never kissed a girl. I imagine he masturbates but he may lack sufficient dexterity.

A light-skinned black girl who gets straight A’s and is on the dance team. She is pretty but she wears way too much lipstick, talks too fast, and is drowning in high expectations and anxiety. She has maybe kissed a boy but certainly never made it to third base, let alone copulated.

A short Hispanic kid with an earring whose hair covers half his face. He’s kinda funny and probably has some good text banter going with one or more of the females in his grade but he’s for sure a virgin. He spends too much time on his phone, too much time playing video games, too much time watching porn, and, well, too much time watching porn.

A chubby future lesbian who loves science. A quiet Asian boy who never smiles and wears the same khakis every day. A non-binary squash player who wears short skirts, high socks, and bunny ears.

None of these dorks is getting laid cuz, like I said, they’re scared losers.

_____

But hold on: I was also a loser when I was 17 (and so were you). I had big glasses, a receding hairline, and skinny calves. I was arrogant, obnoxious, and selfish. I couldn’t shoot 3’s, I wore sweater-vests from Abercrombie, and I vomited all over a bathroom in a seedy motel room after one too many Zima’s. 

I was also scared (and so were you). I was scared of failure, scared of being vulnerable, and scared of being different. I was scared to shoot 3’s, I was scared that my sweater-vests weren’t preppy enough, and I was scared that if I didn’t drink more, my friends wouldn’t think I was cool.

So what’s the difference? Why did scared losers knock boots 30 years ago but not today? Why were kids more willing to push through fear and discomfort 30 years ago than they are today? What the hell is going on?

William of Ockham tells us that the simplest answer is often the correct one: phones. In the words of mediocre rapper, Jack Harlow, “All these social networks and computers got these pussies walking 'round like they ain't losers.”

Kids aren’t playing truth or dare in 5th grade; they’re playing Jellyfish Tap on their Apple Watch. Kids aren’t playing spin the bottle in 6th grade; they’re watching YouTube Shorts. Kids aren’t playing two minutes in the closet in 7th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, texting their friends some stupid meme of a polar bear slipping on the ice. Kids aren’t playing seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, snapping their friends some stupid selfie at a 45-degree angle.

In other words, they’re missing out. They’re missing out on the bravery of saying dare rather than truth. They’re missing out on the courage of kissing that zit-faced nerd the bottle is pointing to. They’re missing out on the audacity to close and lock the closet door. They’re missing out on the determination to stay in that closet for the entire seven minutes and see what’s what. So fast forward a few years to when it’s time to bump uglies, and they are woefully unprepared. They’re still at home, lying on their bed, alone, doom-scrolling on Instagram, jerking off, or both.

_____

Who cares? Well, we all should because this generation of infantilized dweebs will fail in the most important thing in life: intimacy. They’ll be research assistants, finance managers, and pharmaceutical reps, but they won’t know how to be a good husband or wife. They’ll have no tolerance for discomfort and zero ability to deal with adversity. So when it’s time to have sex with their high school sweetheart, discuss birth control with their college bang buddy, break up with someone they’ve been dating for two years in their mid-20’s, or have an extremely difficult conversation with their life partner about kids, money, or trying anal, they’re screwed. Simply put, if they don’t know how to fuck, they may never know how to love.

So what do we do? Well, let me tell you a quick story about 11-year-old Broosevelt who, I recently discovered, is absolutely mortified about some of the physical changes he is experiencing. I understand that puberty is tough and that we all felt self-conscious when our bodies started going berserk, but I refuse to let Young Broosevelt recede into the shadows of anxiety and self-loathing. So, I embarrass the shit out of him by chasing him around the house with my pants pulled down a couple of inches, yelling, “Look at my pubic hair!” The logic here is that if I make him super uncomfortable right now, he’ll feel less uncomfortable later when it’s time to hold his girlfriend’s hand or, inshallah, smush junk.

Look, I may be a total piece of shit but the Boss loves me for more than just my below average manhood. She loves me because I communicate, she loves me because I know how to be vulnerable, and she loves me because I don’t avoid difficult shit. Ultimately, she loves me because I know how to be intimate, and the reason I know how to be intimate is because I practiced it when I was young.

So get your kids off their phones, lock them in the basement with their boyfriend or girlfriend, toss some condoms in the room, and let’s Make America Fuck Again.

When My Dad Died

I remember there was blood in his urine.

I don’t remember if he, my mom, or my brother the doctor told me about the blood in his urine, but that’s the very first thing I remember.

I remember that weeks, maybe months, after the blood in the urine, my brother the doctor told me that weeks, maybe months, before the blood in the urine, my dad had told him he’d lost some weight. My brother had told him not to worry about it. Weight fluctuates.

I remember my brother the doctor feeling guilty about not paying closer attention to our dad’s weight loss. He thought, and maybe still thinks, that if he’d told my dad to go see someone immediately, things may have gone a different direction.

I remember feeling optimistic when it started. There were a few spots on the kidney but no signs it had spread. My dad was strong. He worked out six days a week, skied more than twenty times a year, and ate one square of chocolate every night for dessert.

I remember still feeling optimistic even after one of the MRIs showed spots in his chest. I remember discussions about chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and I was confident that my stubborn 78-year-old dad would beat it.

I remember feeling less optimistic after a conversation with my brother the doctor. He said the goal was not to beat the cancer; it was to give my dad two or three more years.

Two or three more years, that’s it?

I remember one of the first side-effects of the treatment: sores all over the inside of his mouth. He ate nothing but smoothies for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember talking to my brothers much. I remember talking to my mom a little. I remember talking to my dad a lot. I had close to an hour in the car every day after work so I put on my headset around 4pm and called him from my pre-Bluetooth 1998 Toyota Camry. We probably talked about my job. We probably talked about my kids. We probably talked about the cancer. I don’t remember. I only remember that the Camry was beige.

I don’t remember visiting Denver at all. I don’t remember if we went there for Thanksgiving, Winter Break, neither, or both. I think my mom and dad visited us in Chicago because I remember my dad wearing black Skechers, sprinting down the sidewalk, and pulling my laughing, screaming 2-year-old twins in a red wagon. I remember thinking that I would never run that fast down any sidewalk, I certainly wouldn’t do it if I were 78, I definitely wouldn’t do it if I were pulling two toddlers in a wagon, and I for sure wouldn’t do it if I were dying of cancer. I remember feeling proud and scared.

I can’t remember any other side-effects of the treatment. I’m pretty sure he didn’t lose his hair. I don’t remember if he experienced nausea. I think he was fatigued. I’m sure there were lots of side-effects and I’m sure my family in Denver told me about all of them but I don’t remember a single one.

How can I not remember any of a year’s worth of side-effects?

I don’t remember things getting worse; I only remember when they became unbearable. A tumor grew out of my dad’s nose and I remember that’s when he decided to call it quits. My memory is that he drove himself to the hospice.

I remember that about a week later, my wife, my four kids, and I flew to Denver to say goodbye. I think it was a Thursday, maybe a Friday. I think we went straight from the airport to the hospice. My dad was in his bed, maybe sitting up, maybe wearing plaid pajamas. My mom was in the room. I think both of my brothers were there. We hugged and kissed my dad. He hugged us and kissed us. Everyone cried.

I remember my dad always said he was going to work until the day he died. I think I remember him sitting on the patio outside his room, at a small table with an umbrella to protect him from the August sun, surrounded by a bunch of manila folders.

But I don’t know how that’s possible because the night we arrived, or maybe the next day, my dad went to sleep and never woke up again. I remember thinking how cool it was that he waited for us to say goodbye. My wife and kids flew back to Chicago a day or two later but I stayed to be with him, my brothers, and my mom until he died.

After he went to sleep, there was no more eating or drinking, just lots of morphine. I remember my brother the doctor asking our dad’s doctor to “make him as comfortable as possible.” I remember thinking that that was the euphemism of all euphemisms: We were clearly asking the doctor to end my dad’s life.

I remember feeling proud that after two, maybe three, days, my dad’s heart was still beating. He was so strong, I remember. He didn’t need food or water, and neither the cancer nor the morphine could kill him. His body was refusing to let him die.

I remember the funeral a few days later. My wife and kids were there.

Wait, did they really fly back to Chicago and then back again to Denver for the funeral?

I remember my brothers giving speeches but I can’t remember anything they said. I remember that in my speech, I compared myself to my dad. He loved sports and I love sports. He loved dirty jokes and I love dirty jokes. He didn’t care what other people thought and I don’t care what other people think. I remember not feeling embarrassed about choking on my tears.

I remember my four kids and my two nieces sitting in the front row, but maybe my 2-year-olds weren’t there. I think the girls were wearing dresses with flowers. When I cried, the big kids cried. When the big kids cried, the little kids cried. I remember at first thinking that some of the tears felt inauthentic but then I remember thinking that there’s nothing more naturally contagious than laughter and tears. My kids didn’t fully understand they had lost their grandpa but they knew their dad was sad.

I don’t remember much after that. I vaguely remember the casket being lowered into the ground and thinking that, god damn it, my dad had had ten more good years in him.

I remember flying back to Chicago and burying myself in my very new, very challenging job.

I remember that in every teaching job I ever had, my dad always came to watch me teach. He shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. He sat with and worked alongside my students. He smiled up at me from his desk.

A few months into that job, my mom came to watch me teach. She shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. She sat with and worked alongside my students. She smiled up at me from her desk. I remember feeling happy she was there and thinking it was weird that my dad wasn’t.