Mr. Trump's nightmare

I am sitting in the balcony of our daughter’s apartment in Kensington, Brooklyn, watching the world go by. It is Sunday and a threat of rain is in the air.

There is a party for a young Jewish girl in a house in front. A pony is called to give rides to a number of two year olds. The family is all there...old grandpa with his yarmulke, middle-aged people, some youngsters. The birthday girl is frightened of her pony ride and wails.

Next door, children of a Hasidic family are out riding their bikes and so are the neighborhood Bangladeshi kids. The neighborhood is quite alive; the promised rain has not yet materialized.

We go for shopping in a Bangladeshi supermarket. It is filled with Muslims from all different parts of the world. "Inshalla" and "Khuda Hafiz" are the words that we hear. The storekeeper is very polite and helps us navigate through the intricacies of what dates to buy…Saudi Arabian or Kuwaiti.

Then we take a walk on Fort Hamilton Parkway. The neighborhood changes. Now there are Mexicans and Central Americans. We enter an area where one can buy food from Honduras and Mexican tacos. Just like that English gives way to Spanish.

Clusters of Hasidic families, each with number of children all dressed in the same way, are heading toward a Park. The children look cute with their long braided sideburns. They speak Yiddish.  

We come back. It starts raining. We sit in the balcony sipping Japanese Sapporo beer. A Chinese woman in front house comes out briefly to throw garbage. A Bengali man comes out in his lungi and ganji, checking the rain pouring down. The Hasidic kids rush back, throwing their bicycles on the ground. An Indian father runs with his baby in a stroller.

Our daughter’s landlord Abdul comes back home and says hello to us. It is Ramadan and they will not eat until moonrise. The dates my wife has purchased from the Bangladeshi store are meant for them, as that's what they like to eat when they break their daily fast.

This is the America of our dream, where we all live peacefully. It does not matter who you are or what religion you follow. It is a fascinating tapestry of folks like us who have worked hard to escape poverty or persecution. We make this country vibrant and prosperous. There is no "us" and "them".

This is Mr. Trump's nightmare.