I’ve done my best to shield you from the chaos and negativity surrounding the 2016 presidential election, but alas, I fear I’ve fallen short. The morning after the election, your innocent, sparkling brown eyes were filled with excitement as you tiptoed into my room for the results. I was left speechless. How do I convey the harsh reality that the woman you admired has been defeated by a loud, unapologetic misogynist? I can’t dull the sting of disappointment, nor can I ignore the looming shadows of future challenges that might bring tears to your lovely face.
My quietness is heavy on your heart, and I wish I could find the right words to explain this bitter shock. But for now, my embrace is all I can offer. After a brief moment of silence, you asked if I was scared of Donald Trump. My instinct was to brush off your concern, but your perceptive five-year-old mind has picked up on the feelings I’ve tried so hard to conceal. Someday, I hope you can read this and understand what I struggled to express that fateful morning.
My fear isn’t just fear; it’s dread. How can I explain to you that the man who will be your president seems to relish in belittling, humiliating, and objectifying women? How can I encourage you to rely on your intellect as your greatest strength when we’re led by someone who values a woman’s appearance above all? I worry that our male allies might feel intimidated and step back during our fight for gender equality. I fear that dreams of universal parental leave, equal pay, fair representation, and women’s health rights could be pushed back decades. These harsh realities will reach you in ways I can’t control, and I dread the day they threaten to shatter your belief in your own greatness.
As the election results trickled in, I tried to find solace in past elections where outcomes favored Republicans initially. But as midnight approached and the map turned red, anxiety gripped me. I held on to the hope that our liberal strongholds would defy the odds and pull through, but once Pennsylvania fell to the Republicans, I turned off the TV, staring blankly at my husband. “Shock” doesn’t even begin to describe the panic that coursed between us. We knew all too well his promises to target Muslims, monitor us, and lay blame at our feet.
That night, our home echoed with a chilling “Get out!” — a message we felt all too personally. We lay awake, eyes wide, as if bracing for disaster. The next day, our young children would demand answers we weren’t ready to give. So, am I scared, my love? Yes, I am scared. Not of Trump himself, but of the forces he has unleashed. I am scared of those who will seek to scapegoat us and infringe upon our rights. I fear the aftermath of a Trump presidency, the hatred, and the division. I worry that hate will manifest itself before you, tarnishing your innocence and your belief in humanity. My heart aches at the thought of our country’s beauty and diversity being sacrificed on the altar of his ego. I fear that my faith in the goodness of others is mere naivety.
Not too long ago, I found myself sitting in an 11th-grade history class at Westview High School, where we began a new segment called “Facing History and Ourselves.” This curriculum focused on recognizing and preventing the root causes of genocide, ensuring the horrors of the Holocaust are never repeated. I remember reading about how minorities were dehumanized and demonized until the majority turned a blind eye to their suffering. It seemed like a distant, ancient issue — one that couldn’t possibly happen again.
Yet, during this election cycle, as I witnessed Trump’s improbable ascent to power, my disbelief turned into resignation. His campaign has been built on dehumanizing and blaming vulnerable groups. What seemed impossible a few weeks ago has now become our grim reality. So yes, my dear, I am afraid. I feel a fear rooted in both dread and the knowledge that humanity can be swayed against its own best interests. I fear we’ve only begun to see the ramifications of this political shift, and that you and I don’t fit into his vision for America’s so-called greatness.
Despite all of this, there’s a glimmer of hope I cling to. I envision a future filled with individuals who believe in that beautiful spectrum of possibilities. I see our generation and yours embracing concepts like social justice, equality, and, most importantly, love. We think collectively. I hope I’m not being too optimistic when I say we won’t let this election jade our idealism like those before us. I hope my fellow millennials will see this election as a wake-up call — a reminder that if we become complacent, our worst fears for our nation and our children could become our reality.
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In summary, my dear daughter, as we navigate this complex world together, know that I am here to guide you with love and support, even when the path seems daunting.