Election Season: An Open Letter to My Ten-Year-Old Daughter

I'm writing to you because this is a very big week for our country. This is the week that Hillary Clinton becomes the first woman in history to become a major political party's nominee for President of the United States. We went to Brooklyn for two days (you have pink hair now!) and we missed the roll call vote when Hillary was officially nominated, so when we got home last night, we watched it on the big screen in our living room. I can't tell you how special it was to me to be able to sit between my daughters and watch a 102-year-old woman, born before women had the right to vote, cast Arizona's votes for woman who will hopefully be the first female president of our country. 

You don't remember a president who wasn't Barack Obama. When Obama won the 2008 election, you were a toddler, too little to go with your dad and me when we flew to DC to stand in the freezing cold with hundreds of thousands of people and watched him take the oath of office. However, if Hillary Clinton becomes the first woman president, you will remember that day. And hopefully you'll remember a little bit of last night, even though you are thankfully young enough not to realize how ground-breaking it was, even though you rolled your eyes when I asked you stay in the room and watch it with me. You probably didn't notice that I was crying. I'm pretty sure you thought I was being a little silly. 

But even though I don't think you fully understood the significance of the roll call vote, I know you understand the importance of this election. And that's why I'm writing to you about it right now and not in November when we'll know the outcome and be either ecstatic or devastated. I'm writing to let you know that while we were in Brooklyn, you "prank called" people to ask them how they felt about the convention, to ask whether or not they were "with her." I'm writing because I watched you sit outside with a group of adults last week and paint a banner that said I Condemn Anti-Black Police Violence, and then march through our new city with a poster bearing the name of one of the many people of color killed by racist police violence in 2016. I'm writing because you ask our LGBTQ friends questions about their experiences, really listen to their answers, and then incorporate those answers into the way you see the world. I'm writing because you know you're privileged as a middle-class white girl, and you use that privilege to speak truth and stand up for people who don't have the same advantages. I'm writing because you do see race. You saw that your friends in Atlanta often experienced racism. You see the difference between the way white people and people of color are treated in this country. But you don't care about race when it comes to deciding whether someone is a good person, someone you want to be around, someone worthy of love. I'm writing because I'm proud of you. 

Last night, after the roll call vote, we watched a video about mother whose children have been killed because of racist civilian or police action. Even though we had marched for an end of racist police violence last week, I don't think you fully felt the emotional weight until you heard Sandra Bland's mother talking about her love for daughter, saying, "Sandy will continue to speak through me, her mother." You were sitting next to me on the couch and I felt you wipe your face on my arm. I looked over and saw that you were silently crying as you listened to those women speak. When I asked what was wrong, you managed to whisper, "This is just so sad" before you started shaking with sobs. You sat on my lap and we watched the end of their speech before listening to a beautiful song about rising up from hardship. I was so grateful for that song because as your mother in that moment, I didn't know what to say to make you feel better. I just held you as you cried. 

What I should have said was this: You are good for this world. You don't see it right now, but the love and empathy you have for every other person on earth is a remarkable thing. I've never known another child like you, even when I was a child. I've never known a child who automatically accepts every person she meets as person worthy of dignity and respect. And I mean every single person you meet. People don't have to be like you for you to value their experiences. Every life matters to you just by virtue of being a human life. Your kindness, intelligence, and compassion are inspiring not only to me, but to everyone who has a chance to see you in action.

I know you don't think you could possibly have any impact on the mothers we saw speaking at the convention last night, and to a large extent, you're right. One of the most difficult things about growing up is realizing that sometimes bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, and no amount of praying or bargaining can ever undo the wrong that has been done. It's a lesson you learned for the first time when you were five and your uncle-- your favorite person in the world-- was killed in an accident. You felt the pain of that loss, and you watched helplessly as the rest of our family felt it, too. I know that as you watched the mothers of Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, and Jordan Davis speak about losing their children, a part of you was imagining your grandmother. You know all too well that that you cannot "fix" the death of a child. But you can work to fix the circumstances that led to the deaths of those particular children.

I know you think that as a ten-year-old girl, you lack the ability to create any meaningful, positive change in this world. But I am your mother, and as your mother, I have a responsibility to you to correct you when you're wrong. The truth is that people like you-- people who operate solely out of a desire to do good and love others-- are the only people who ever change things for the better. I know it's not always easy to care as much as you do, or to feel as strongly as you feel. I know it can be crushing to want to so badly to reach through the TV screen, hold the hands of grieving mothers, and fix all their problems, erasing racism and bigotry from the earth and bringing their children back to life. I know it doesn't feel like enough that whenever given the opportunity, you choose to speak up for those whose voices have been silenced. I know it doesn't feel like enough to listen and learn from people who have experienced prejudice and hardship. But you've only been around for ten years, and you've already done so much to change this world for the better. You can't see how great you already are, and you can't see how great you're going to be. You can't see what I see. And what I saw, holding you in my lap last night as you cried for the lost lives of people you never met and looked forward to the election of the first woman president, is that you are going to do big things. 

You're already my hero, and you've only just begun.