My mom and dad, better known to readers of this blog as “Aaron’s father,” took me and Lisa out to dinner the other night. (Tocqueville, and it was excellent, thanks. Started with a yellowtail sashimi/tuna hamachi thing, then a scallop with foie gras, then sturgeon with white truffle foam, and a chocolate souffle cake with mint ice cream for dessert. Get your parents to take you there.) Dad thoughtfully waited until the sturgeon to reveal his agenda. He objected to my description of my upbringing as “ACLU-Creative-Playthings-crypto-Communist-marginalized-Jewish.” Not the whole phrase, and not even the excess of hyphens; just the crypto-Communist part.
My parents are not now and never have been members of the Communist party. One of my father’s uncles voted for Wallace in ’48 — now that’s crypto-Communism — but the family, my father not least, scorned him for it for decades. It is true that when I insisted, in sixth grade, on plastering my school with McGovern for President posters, that they drove me down to Democratic Party Headquarters on supply runs, and didn’t even complain, as I recall. But that isn’t quite the same as advocating the violent overthrow of the government, even secretly. So I have removed the offending adjective, even though Dad said a substitution of “pinko” would have been acceptable.
And Dad, as for that place where I called you a moral relativist, I’ll be happy to discuss it. Over dinner. Real soon.