When Gus Walz stood up and cheered “That’s my dad” on the third night of the Democratic National Convention, in front of 20,000 people in the United Center, in front of 21 million viewers at home, in front of — most importantly — his dad, I felt something shift.
Something big. Something necessary. Something permanent.
Sure, it was a spontaneous, unscripted display of human devotion — my favorite kind of display.
Sure, I was watching it from a Washington, D.C., hotel room next to my daughter — one of the last things we’d watch together for months, as I would be moving her into a dorm the next morning.
Sure, I’m a sucker for kids who are crazy about their dads — having been blessed with one of the world’s greatest, who I am crazy about.
Sure, in other words, I had a bunch of reasons on that Wednesday evening to feel a little extra moved, a little extra weepy, a little extra raw.
But something else was happening.
When Gus Walz stood up and reminded us what it looks like to be proud, to be joyful, to be part of something bigger than yourself, to celebrate someone other than yourself, he showed us the best of us. He showed us what we’re here for. He showed us who we can be, who we ought to be, and who we already are.
Gus Walz said the quiet part out loud.
All over this country, every day, in every community, there are families quietly going about their lives with little fanfare and a whole lot of obstacles and even more love. They don’t look one certain way or love one certain way or worship one certain way. They look and love and worship all different ways.
Maybe they have struggled to be accepted. Maybe they have felt the sting of being ostracized. Maybe they have watched as people in powerful seats use them as scapegoats or work to chip away at their basic human rights or turn them into punchlines or take what’s beautiful and unique about them — their neurodivergence, for example — and mock it.
But they know something powerful.
They know they don’t need permission to delight in each other. They know they don’t need a stamp of approval from people in powerful seats. They know pride and joy and love and unbridled celebration and spontaneous, unscripted displays of human devotion are inalienable rights. And they know you can do them quietly or you can do them loudly or you can do them on national television — where all of us can see them and be reminded what we’re made of and what we’re capable of and how beautiful this all can be when we’re not tearing each other down.
I loved this year’s Democratic National Convention. That will surprise exactly no one who reads my columns and guesses at my politics. I loved the diversity and the camaraderie and the energy. I loved the hope. I loved the tone that Doug and Kerstin Emhoff set as kind, amicable ex-spouses. I loved that gracing the stage were football players and veterans and children and Stevie Wonder and a former secretary of defense and a handful of Republicans and Oprah. I loved that Chicago played host.
But it was bigger than politics. It was bigger than a candidate. It was bigger than the upcoming election, as important as this upcoming election is. It was a mirror and it reflected back the parts we sometimes forget to see — the strong parts, the happy parts, the bruised and battered and repaired and back-for-more parts.
And it was also smaller than any of that.
It was also one kid. Watching his one and only dad. In his dad’s biggest, brightest moment yet. And feeling incapable of, unwilling to, uninterested in — thank goodness — keeping his love and pride to himself. How generous.
And that’s why I think something has shifted. I hope so. Because a few weeks ago things felt pretty dark. A few weeks ago, it felt like fear and despair and division were going to be the loudest things we heard.
A few weeks ago, hope felt a little indulgent. A little naive.
But it doesn’t anymore. It doesn’t right now. And I think we should linger in that. And pay attention to that. And I feel grateful for that.
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