A momentary encounter cracks open questions about who claims the U.S. as theirs.

A woman walking a small dog through Custom House Plaza at the end of the Monterey Peninsula Pride celebration last July approached our ACLU chapter table. Like other information stations around the perimeter, it was covered with what remained of our materials – “We the people” posters, “Know Your Rights” guides, “Resist” stickers and, surprisingly the least popular, condoms and dams. She scoured the materials.

“So,” she said, “you are socialists?”

“That,” I responded, “depends on how you define ‘socialist.’”

“What,” she asked, “is this ‘pride?’”

I explained. She shook her head, and asked another question: “You know what they call this in my country? In my country, we call this a crime.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her dog at her side.

So many responses raced through my mind, the first of which, to a mixture of amusement and shock, was, “Then why don’t you go back to where you came from?” Such an easy, uncomplicated answer – and one that allowed me to treat her more like an object than a human being.

But I also thought of my grandparents, immigrants who fled the pogroms in Russia in the early 1900s, who, speaking only Yiddish, made this country their country; and my father, who changed our family name from Ruchowitz to Roberts, terrified by the anti-Semitism in this country, who also made this country his country.

The woman walking her dog in the plaza that day did not want an answer to her question, nor would any answer I might have given in that moment to change her mind. There are, in fact, no easy, uncomplicated answers, not even “Go back to where you came from.” Best just to let her walk away. Beyond our brief exchange, we didn’t talk. I don’t know anything about her story – who she loves, what she loves – other than she once came from somewhere else.

With dance music in the background, I started packing what tabling materials were left. As I packed, I thought of the people who’d stopped by, including children who were delighted to put our stickers on their shirts. Did they have any idea what “Dissent is Patriotic” meant? Not at the moment, but they were being raised in a family culture of acceptance, joy and pride.

Here, I thought, is where our energies need to go: educating the young, building upon the base of those who support inclusiveness, reaching out to those who are not fully aware of the challenges facing our country.

But also this: How to respond to those so solidly opposed to our beliefs? There has to be a place for compassion in this world filled with such hostility and hatred. As the woman walked across the plaza, I felt a sense of sadness: Who knows what brought her to this moment where, wreathed in disapproval and values from a country in which she no longer lives, she walked alone with her dog past the circle of Pride celebrants who moved together to a music to which she would never dance?

ELLIOT RUCHOWITZ-ROBERTS is a long-time member of the Monterey County Chapter of the ACLU of Northern California. He also serves on the board of directors of the ACLU of Northern California.