Gus Walz, I am so sorry for what I've done

Regardless of your political leanings, by now you have heard about or seen Gus Walz's tears of joy and pride as his father, Governor Tim Walz, took the stage at the Democratic National Convention a few days ago.

And you may have seen the sad, ugly derision that followed. So ugly, in fact, that I could not bear to go beyond the headlines and read the sordid details.

Gus Walz's Tearful Moment Sparks Backlash And Empathy.

Ann Coulter Deletes Post Mocking Gus Walz After Backlash.

Republicans Defend Tim Walz's Son After MAGA Attacks.

Gus, I am not apologizing for these hideous people. I am apologizing for me.

As a third grader in rural southern Wisconsin, I had a classmate with a congenital heart defect and a learning disability. I'll call her "Sandy." Sandy had big scars on her chest from surgeries. Sandy was in the special ed classes. Sandy spoke slowly and with a slur. Sandy was the target of every bully at recess.

And not just the bullies. Regular kids like me. We all laughed at her. We called her the r-word.

I moved away soon after, and I forgot about Sandy. Years later, something triggered a memory, and I was absolutely flattened by the sense of shame I felt for the pain I must have caused her. Forty-five years on, that shame is as intense as ever when I think about Sandy. Defenses like "you were only nine years old," or "you didn't know better" just don't make it feel any less bad.

Eighteen years ago, my husband and I brought into the world two little girls. One is now a young man starting college at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, a state called "America's 'ground zero' for anti-transgender legislation", and I am gutted knowing that even an accepting, supportive family can't shield him from the pain of discrimination he will encounter in his life, from people unwilling to simply let people live and let live.

Our other daughter is a musical, dreamy, anxious neurodiverse individual who sometimes finds downtown Stillwater on a weekend too noisy, too peopled for her comfort. She needs protecting, maybe for the rest of her life. I lay awake sometimes fretting about the day when I can't be there for her anymore.

The lesson learned from Sandy, in other words, hit particularly hard after I became a mom.

None of us are perfect. I can't reach through time and undo what I did to Sandy. I can't find her and apologize. But I can listen, learn with humility, and strive to always do better. And I can help nurture a community where we all take care of each other.

Because we're not cruel playground bullies. We're neighbors.