When Gus Walz stood up and shouted, “That’s my dad,” on the third night of the Democratic National Convention, in front of 20,000 people at the United Center, in front of 21 million watching at home, in front of — and most importantly — his father, I felt something shift.
Something big. Something necessary. Something permanent.
Of course, it was a spontaneous, unscripted display of human devotion—my favorite kind of display.
Of course, I was watching it from a hotel room in Washington, D.C., next to my daughter — one of the last things we’d watch together for months, as I was moving her into a dorm the next morning.
Of course, I have a soft spot for kids who are crazy about their dads – having been blessed with one of the world’s greatest dads, who I am crazy about.
Of course, in other words, I had plenty of reasons this Wednesday night to feel a little more emotional, a little more tearful, a little more 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 a part of something bigger than yourself, to celebrate someone other than yourself, he showed us the best of ourselves. He showed us why we are here. He showed us who we can be, who we should be, and who we already are.
Gus Walz said the quiet part out loud.
All over this country, every day, in every community, families are living their lives quietly without fanfare, with many obstacles and even more love. They do not look a certain way, they do not love a certain way, they do not worship a certain way. They have a different look, love and worship.
Maybe they’ve struggled with acceptance. Maybe they’ve felt the pangs of being ostracized. Maybe they’ve seen people in power scapegoat them or try to undermine their basic human rights or make fun of them 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 rejoice in one another. They know they don’t need approval from those in power. They know that pride, joy, love, unbridled celebration, and spontaneous, unbidden displays of human dedication are inalienable rights. And they know they can be done silently, out loud, or on national television—where each of us can see them and be reminded of what we’re made of, what we’re capable of, and how beautiful it all can be when we don’t tear each other down.
I loved this year’s Democratic National Convention. This will come as no surprise to anyone who reads my columns and guesses my political views. I loved the diversity, the camaraderie, and the energy. I loved the hope. I loved the tone set by Doug and Kerstin Emhoff, two amiable and friendly ex-husbands. I loved that football players, veterans, children, Stevie Wonder, a former Secretary of Defense, a handful of Republicans, and Oprah Winfrey were on stage. I loved that Chicago was the host of the convention.
But it was more than politics. It was more than politics. It was more than politics. It was more than politics. It was more than future politics, important as that is. It was a mirror that reflected the parts we sometimes forget to see: the strong parts, the happy parts, the wounded, damaged, repaired and wanting more.
And it was smaller than all that, too.
He was a child too. He was looking at his one and only father. In his father’s greatest and brightest moment yet. And feeling unable, unwilling, uninterested – thank God – in keeping his love and pride to himself. How generous.
And that’s why I think something has changed. I hope so. Because a few weeks ago, things seemed pretty bleak. A few weeks ago, it seemed like fear and despair and division were going to be the loudest things we heard.
A few weeks ago, hope seemed a little indulgent, a little naive.
But that’s not the case anymore. That’s not the case anymore. And I think we should dwell on that. And pay attention to that. And I’m grateful for that.
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