I'm the weirdo of my family — that’s for sure. They love me; they just don’t get me. It seems they have a hard time understanding what it is that makes me tick. I like to put Tabasco sauce on my baked potato; I wear sneakers with a suit; and I’m a 38-year-old man with an increasingly-more-salt-than-pepper faux hawk. Put it this way: in the biannual Diskin family Christmas photograph, I’m way easier to find than Waldo. (No, not the guy in the hat and striped sweater; my Uncle Waldo. He’s a hunchback — he’s noticeable.)
Okay, so fine, I’m the freak of the family. No big news flash there. I accepted the role of “crazy Uncle Mike” years ago. But tonight, I’ve learned just how different I really am. Tonight I’ve discovered something about my family that I’m embarrassed to admit I never knew before. It’s a difference so drastic it will most likely change the way I look at them for the rest of my life. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. Okay, here goes: my name is Michael Diskin, and every single member of my family is a Republican.
Lovely. As if the aging tribute to punk rock carved into the top of my head isn’t a big enough point of contention at tonight’s dinner table, now I’m being looked at as if I were a terrorist. After a brief moment of shock that leaves me suddenly aware of how much my mom resembles Barbara Bush, I calmly put down my slice of pizza, grab the phone book, and immediately start looking for an adoption agency. (Anyone have room for a low-maintenance Democrat who’s in need of a hug? I’m good to have around the house. I’m tall — I’m good at changing light bulbs.)
Realizing the look on my face is not one of agreement, my sister — who drives her kids to soccer practice in a minivan and could be described as a pit bull who rarely wears lipstick — defiantly blurts out, “I LOVE SARAH PALIN!”
“Of course you do,” I reply. Then my mom, who recently retired from a long career with the Internal Revenue Service and just last year was pissed to find out she couldn’t purchase a black-and-white television from Best Buy, starts quoting a friend of a friend of a friend who got a forwarded e-mail from a different friend that “proves” Senator Obama gets financial support from Osama Bin Laden, has a trust fund set up for him by Saddam Hussein, and is Mephistopheles himself. (Okay, fine, I’m exaggerating. But the scary part is, not by much.)
Look, I’m not going to turn this into a political pissing match about who’s right and who’s wrong, because by the time this column hits the streets, the American people will have turned that discussion into nothing more than a pool of spilt milk (hanging chads willing). I’m just trying to figure out where all this fear comes from. Seriously are things that are different really all that scary? Is there safety in staying the same? My dad, a retired FBI agent, seems to think so. Every time I show up at the man’s house with another tattoo, I’m convinced he’s going to exercise his GOP-supported right to bear arms and shoot me in the face. Let’s just hope having to look at my bad haircut throws his aim off.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I love my family very much, and I fully support their right to be as bland and as nervous as they want to be. I’m just not going to join them. I’m going to continue to appreciate individuality, cherish change, and support the people who have ideas that are different.
Because, when you get right down to it, if you’re weird enough to think you can actually make the world a better place, chances are you probably will.
Michael Diskin can be reached at mdiskin@stuffatnight.com.
