Dear Philadelphia: The Scots Have Some Notes

My social media feeds have spent the last week being aggressively Scottish.

Bagpipes.

Kilts.

Football chants.

Whisky.

More bagpipes.

And honestly, I couldn't be happier about it.

For those who somehow escaped the algorithm, Scotland is back in the World Cup for the first time in a generation.

Not four years.

Not eight years.

A generation.

For many of these supporters, this isn't another tournament.

It's the tournament.

The one they thought they might never see.

The one they waited years for.

And judging by the videos pouring out of Boston, they have decided to celebrate accordingly.

The Scottish supporters are known as the Tartan Army.

Which may be the least threatening army in human history.

When Americans hear the word "army," we tend to think of force.

Conflict.

Power.

Conquest.

The Tartan Army appears to be armed primarily with bagpipes, football songs, and enough whisky to lower the property values of an entire neighborhood.

Yet somehow the result is thousands of people singing with strangers.

There are pipe bands marching through the streets.

Fans linking arms with people they've never met.

Entire sections of Fenway Park singing "500 Miles" long after the song ended, the reason for singing ended, and common sense had probably packed up and gone home.

The singing continued.

As it should.

I watched a video of a bagpiper joining a street musician.

No stage.

No tickets.

No event planning committee.

Just two people making music because they happened to occupy the same patch of sidewalk.

Another video showed fans cleaning up after themselves.

Not because someone told them to.

Not because there was a camera.

Because apparently that's what you do when your mother might find out otherwise.

And that's the thing that keeps sticking with me.

Not the football.

Not even the bagpipes, and I say that as a woman who firmly believes every major life event could be improved by the strategic deployment of a pipe band.

It's the joy.

The pure, unfiltered joy.

Not performative joy.

Not curated joy.

Not sponsored joy.

Not joy created for content.

Actual joy.

The kind that spills into the streets.

The kind that gets strangers singing together.

The kind that makes people throw their arms around someone they've never met because they're both lucky enough to be standing in the same place at the same time.

Maybe that's why these videos have struck such a nerve.

We've become weirdly accustomed to gathering around anger.

Every headline is angry.

Every comment section is angry.

Every social media platform feels like a digital cage match with occasional recipes mixed in.

We've become so used to outrage that we almost don't know what to do when we see thousands of people gathering around happiness instead.

And if we're being honest, Americans don't exactly have a flawless record when it comes to public celebrations.

We have a tendency to express joy the same way toddlers express frustration.

Loudly.

Destructively.

With limited regard for the furniture.

A team wins a championship, and somebody flips a car.

A city celebrates, and somebody climbs a greased light pole.

Things catch fire.

Windows break.

Local news stations suddenly have footage of a shirtless man explaining why this seemed like a good idea.

The Scots, meanwhile, crossed an ocean and responded to their moment by turning Boston into the world's largest singalong.

It's hard not to notice the difference.

One approach says:

"We won."

The other says:

"Come join us."

One is about domination.

The other is about community.

One leaves people exhausted.

The other leaves people smiling.

And maybe that's why so many of us have been captivated by these videos.

Scotland isn't a football powerhouse.

The fans aren't celebrating because they're entitled to be there.

They're celebrating because they're grateful to be there.

There's a humility in that.

A gratitude.

A sense of wonder.

The joy feels genuine because it is.

They're not acting like people who expected the world to roll out a red carpet.

They're acting like people who finally got invited to the party.

And maybe that's what the rest of us are responding to.

Not Scotland.

Not football.

Not even the bagpipes.

Though definitely also the bagpipes.

What we're responding to is the reminder that public joy still exists.

That strangers can still become friends.

That communities can still form around something other than outrage.

That thousands of people can gather in one place and leave behind songs instead of scars.

The Tartan Army didn't conquer Boston.

It adopted it.

And for a few days, the city became one giant Scottish pub where everyone was welcome.

Honestly, the world could use a little more of that.

Slàinte mhath.