Letter to my daughter

Holding my daughter Norah at a #blacklivesmatter protest in Vail, Colorado

My dearest daughter,

The first time I wrote a public letter to you, I was 4 months pregnant with you, not knowing your gender yet fixating in my heart you were a girl, on November 9, 2016. That was the day after the United States of America failed me, failed us, failed millions of girls and women around the world, and elected a bully, a sexist, a racist as president.

My heart has been heavy for the nation since that day. But in the letter, I spoke to you with so much love, so much hope, knowing that I would and I will be able to raise a strong, independent, compassionate daughter who will grow into a full woman. After all, that’s what hope is- a strong, inexplicable belief that things will get better despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary. The week that follows, millions of girls, women and allies around the world would march in what’d go down as the biggest women’s march in history, voicing their hurt and pain and solidarity with million broken hearts and dreams around the world.

Yesterday, you, your father and I, together with over 500 people in this tiny valley, marched together, me and you for the first time. For a different cause, but with the same kind of energy and anguish and hope I felt 4 years ago. On the car ride there, for the first time ever, I had a conversation with you about race. About the difference in the colors of our skin. About my heritage. About your father’s. About the word “injustice”. You asked so many questions. What did the signs say, mama? Your father’s said “a house divided against itself, cannot stand”. Mine said “all lives can’t matter until/unless black lives matter” You learned that people can be colored. You then asked what color is pap? What color is Nonna? What color is Bodie? To you, colors are just that, beautiful parts of a rainbow. Your favorite, if you could be any, would be pink.

At the rally, you stood side by side with us, walking as we walked, chanting as we chanted, and lying down as we all lied down for 8 minutes 46 seconds, hands behind our backs, muttering “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe...” over and over. Tears came out of your dad’s eyes, as he was next to us, hands on you and me, guarding both of us from a possible jump of a nearby, idly sitting dog.

My dearest Norah, the world we are living in is unjust. It is hard to even begin to fathom the pain and suffering of the people who we have never met. We will never fully understand the depth of their despair and the anguish of their very attempt at, well, existence. But we shall not stop trying. You, your father and I can lie down in absolute peace, hands behind our backs, utterly and completely vulnerable even just for a brief moment, knowing that we will of course be safe, and the most danger that could come our way yet was the jump of a domesticated dog nearby.

Our lives are made possible by the struggle of many, particularly, our black brothers and sisters of many decades past. Equality under law for women and men alike, blacks and whites and all people of color alike, came about in the 60s, as people, angry and frustrated like you and me, marched and protested against institutionalized injustice reinforced by the largely silent collective.

Decades later, here we are again.

For this time, let us walk with you. Let us be your guide. Let us hold your hands. You are not too young to understand. You can feel the visceral, palpable energy of hundreds of beating hearts around you. You can look around and see faces like yours, young and curious, but listening. You can understand and repeat after us “I can’t breathe” (you even did after the rally was over). Because Norah, if he can’t breathe, neither can we. If he can’t jog, neither can we. It she can’t sleep, neither can we.

History tends to repeat itself, and it’s unrolling before our own eyes. The question is- what side of history do we want to be on?

May you walk with us, be our guide, and hold our hands when the time comes?

With much love,

Your mother.