Mamdani in Margie's house

I woke to a miracle. Zohran Mamdani, a socialist Muslim immigrant, advocate for the liberation of Palestine and for the dignity of working class labor, will be the next Mayor of New York City. I had listened to Mamdani’s acceptance speech three times before I left to visit Margie, and I took my laptop so I could play it for her. I especially wanted her to hear him saying that a cab driver who works 8 hours a day should be able to pay the mortgage, keep the lights on, and send his kids to school (minutes 3:57-4:07). “My father was a cab driver,” Margie exulted, delighted to hear it. “Nobody ever talks about the cab drivers. I love this guy! And he’s the new Mayor?” I told her he will be in November. I added that Mamdani went to the Bronx High School of Science and she was very impressed (see Extra). “That's amazing! But I can see he's very bright. You have to be very bright to get into that school,” she said, remembering it vividly. “I never even tried to get in. My math wasn’t good enough.”

As we were walking to the coffee shop, Margie asked me what I’ve been doing. I told her I’ve been listening to Mamdani’s acceptance speech. “Who?” I told her all about him as if for the first time. She was so happy that she let go of her walker to clap her hands. “New York has always been more liberal than the rest of the country,” she declared with great pride. 

After our coffee arrived, I brought up the good news again and mentioned that his mother is Mira Nair, the filmmaker who created Salaam Bombay, Mississippi Masala, Monsoon Wedding, and Queen of Katwe. Without remembering any of those films, Margie said with conviction, “Creativity must run in his family.” I agreed. “Imagine being that young and being picked as the Mayor of New York!” We enjoyed the good news afresh for a third time.

I went with her back to her place after coffee because I’d left my laptop there. She was unusually talkative and didn’t want me to leave, so I stayed for three hours, enjoying every minute. She talked about Uncle Herman and Aunt Mildred, her mother and father, her sister and brother, Camp Mikan, P.S. 23 in the Bronx. The stories are so familiar to me now, they’re like a litany of shining moments. As I packed my laptop, she asked me,  “Why is your computer here?” I told her I brought it to show her a speech by the presumptive Mayor of New York. She marveled as I told her about him, and who his parents are. That made her wonder if she had ever married. I told her what she has told me about her husband, but she didn’t remember him. 

She asked if she had any children. I brought her the photo of her and her three children I made in 2022 (It’s the Extra here, and it sits in her kitchen, framed). “Oh yes,” she said instantly, kissing the glass, “my three wonderful children,” then a pause and a worried expression, “Are they all still alive?” Yes, I said, yes, definitely. Lucy checks on you several times every day, and your sons visit about once a month. She grinned, “That’s a relief! So many people have died, but not them. I’m glad.”