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You are nine years old, about to be ten. In the fourth grade and I can hardly believe it.
When you were born, in 1994, things were good. We lived in a fairly peaceful world, your dad and I kept doing better and better financially and it looked like the world was our oyster.
When you were in kindergarten, things started going downhill fast. You hardly knew his name back then, the reason for the decline, but now you know it well, unfortunately.
You've watched your father and I fight for the last two years to change the direction this country is going in. You are the biggest motivation for us. We want you to have a promising future, economic stability, freedom and rights, privacy, and happiness. We want you to grow up and live your life in a safe country and a stable world.
We tried. We worked so hard, and you saw it. You rubbed my feet after canvassing, you accompanied me to countless meetups, you saw me take the microphone and urge my fellow Democrats to get busy and take back our country. You stayed quiet while I phone banked in the evenings.
You even got involved, giving speeches at your school and giving heart and hope to the kids whose parents were Kerry voters, too. You joined Kids for Kerry and stood up for yourself strongly when other kids made fun of you for it.
I don't know what to tell you about the election. You sat in the van during the last two hours I poll greeted, hungry, waiting for dinner there in the dark. You fell asleep on the living room floor that night, with a headache, and me stroking your hair, hoping and praying for a good outcome. I fell asleep beside you, with tears on my face.
You've asked me if the stories of election fraud are true. I've told you I have no reason to think they are false. But when you ask me what that means for the future, I don't know what to tell you. If Americans can't trust that the system works, if they think their vote just disappears depending on who it was for, I fear for our democracy, our very system of government.
And I fear for your future.
I don't know what to tell you. I have no reason to believe the next four years will get better; in fact, I fear they will be worse than what we have experienced. I feel helpless. My generation will keep fighting and keep trying.
But all I can do right now is hold you and hope against all hope.
I'll hope that you and your friends don't get sucked into endless wars.
I'll hope you still have the reproductive rights and freedoms that I have enjoyed.
I'll hope you still have the freedom to express yourself as an adult.
I'll hope maybe your generation will reverse the history of discrimination gays and lesbians have had to endure.
I'll hope your financial future and those of your peers won't be crushed by an ever-increasing debt burden. Or worse yet, that financial disaster for the entire country doesn't await you and your generation, just on the cusp of adulthood.
I'll keep fighting, Emily. You know me, I can't give up. And neither can dad. I just wanted you to know we did everything we knew to do.
Love, Mom
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