THEY CAME OUT OF THE WOODWORK

           They came out of the woodwork almost immediately, the haters. Even as Nina Davuluri was crowned Miss America their venomous tweets were already seeping into the internet. They hurled names like mean children throwing rocks at a bird sitting on a limb. “Terrorist!” “Anti-American!”

“I am disgusted,” screeched one, “that a true 100% American did not win.” Never mind that Davuluri was born in Syracuse, New York which makes her as American as Mickey Mouse and hotdogs. A graduate of the University of Michigan with a Bachelor of Science degree and a straight A GPA, she is considering becoming a physician as is her father.

But none of that matters to the haters. What matters to them is that in her features can be read her heritage of Mother India. Never mind that she was born in Syracuse. “Demand to see her birth certificate!” howled one tweet.

Which brings me to a man I know who was not born in Syracuse. He is a Sikh, born in the Indian Punjab, inheritor of a great warrior tradition. When India was the Jewel of the British Empire the Sikh cavalry regiments with their great stallions and pennants fluttering from nine-foot lances were the backbone of the Anglo-Indian Army.

The man looks every inch the Sikh he is, bristling black beard, obsidian eyes, precisely wound turban. He is married to an Indian lady and they follow the ways of their forbearers. But I doubt that he would have made much of a warrior. Better he be what he is, a small-town veterinarian.

I only saw him lose his temper once and that was at us, Wife, Daughter and me. Daughter, who loves all living things, had rescued an abandoned cat. The cat was terrified. And coated with dirt, its matted fur alive with crawling things. We brought it to the veterinarian. He looked at it and then at us.

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD THIS ANIMAL!” he roared.

“About twenty minutes,” squeaked then eleven-year-old Daughter.

Reassured that we had not abused the shivering creature on the examining table, he apologized, carefully examined the cat, prescribed some things and told us to go home and give the cat a good bath. Then bring it back to begin its shots.

Daughter came back again and again, sometimes dragging me along. Soon she was appointed official-comforter-of-frightened-staying overnight-animals. Occasionally she did little chores for which he gave her a couple of dollars. And because she was truly interested, he eventually allowed her to watch while he performed minor surgery on hurt animals.

We worried for his safety in the aftermath of 9/11. Haters can be found in small towns too. But we needn’t have. No one called him hateful names or scrawled hateful things on the walls of his pet hospital. The parade of hurt and sick animals to his clinic continued unabated.

And why not? True, he in his turban and his wife in her graceful sari looked a little exotic compared to us in our J.C. PENNEY jeans and shirts. But they were and are as American as us. As American as my ancestors who fled starving Ireland only to find NO IRISH NEED APPLY signs in Boston store windows. As American as Nina Davuluri of Syracuse, New York who has just been crowned Miss America.

Dad out.
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