Before I could say anything, he was turning it upside down and swatting at a hornet that had buried its way into the giraffe’s soft golden spotted fur. My son and I both react allergically to bee stings. I exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
“He was waiting for you to pick it up,” the man said.
“Thank you so much!” I said.
“Just clap really loud for me,” he said, gesturing to his injured arm that left him unable to applaud.
“Do you know the band?” I asked.
“He’s my son,” the man said, a look of embarrassed pride creasing his face into a shy smile.
I was instantly transported back to the night when Gov. Tim Walz officially accepted the nomination for vice president at the Democratic National Convention, and his son, Gus, standing teary-eyed shouted: “That’s my dad!”
It was another one of those moments where I thought decency might transcend partisanship until conservative radio and TV hosts mocked Gus, though they later rescinded their comments.
I felt a similar pull as I gazed down Judson Avenue, up Liggett to Dan Patch, where our transit bus awaited.
“That’s my fair!”
But it wasn’t. It isn’t. It has to be Ours, sweaty and smelly and dirty and crowded and oily and lard-y and cheesy and bursting at its seams, containing humanity together in-person and off our ever-present screens, forced to coexist, to save each other from hornet stings and hatred and authoritarianism alike.
Ugh link doesn’t work! What happens to the giraffe??
Before I could say anything, he was turning it upside down and swatting at a hornet that had buried its way into the giraffe’s soft golden spotted fur. My son and I both react allergically to bee stings. I exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
“He was waiting for you to pick it up,” the man said.
“Thank you so much!” I said.
“Just clap really loud for me,” he said, gesturing to his injured arm that left him unable to applaud.
“Do you know the band?” I asked.
“He’s my son,” the man said, a look of embarrassed pride creasing his face into a shy smile.
I was instantly transported back to the night when Gov. Tim Walz officially accepted the nomination for vice president at the Democratic National Convention, and his son, Gus, standing teary-eyed shouted: “That’s my dad!”
It was another one of those moments where I thought decency might transcend partisanship until conservative radio and TV hosts mocked Gus, though they later rescinded their comments.
I felt a similar pull as I gazed down Judson Avenue, up Liggett to Dan Patch, where our transit bus awaited.
“That’s my fair!”
But it wasn’t. It isn’t. It has to be Ours, sweaty and smelly and dirty and crowded and oily and lard-y and cheesy and bursting at its seams, containing humanity together in-person and off our ever-present screens, forced to coexist, to save each other from hornet stings and hatred and authoritarianism alike.