Four years ago, after Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 election to Donald Trump, one of the most brutal conversations I had was with my then-11-year-old son, who had grown up imagining that the world looked a certain way and discovered overnight that it did not. He was worried that he might someday have to defend children at his school from racists and bigots in the schoolyard, and he feared he wasn’t up to the task. His words at the time broke my heart. He said something like, “I know myself. I’m never gonna be the No. 1 guy to step in. If someone else steps up, I could be the No. 2 guy. But I don’t think I could stop it myself.” We talked a lot in the weeks after about bystander intervention, about being the chip guy on the subway (he just ate chips until a violent situation was defused), and about the beautiful words Mary Beth Tinker once shared with me, about how terrified she was when she wore a black armband to school to protest the […]

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