I Lied To My Daughter
Thoughts on the morning after
I lied to my daughter this morning.
She asked me why Trump will be a bad president.
I froze. She’s 10. There was so much I wanted to say.
I wanted to tell her that the country just told us that our stories — women’s voices about how we feel when men are cruel and demean us, about how we see the world after our reproductive rights have been taken away — don’t matter.
I can’t say those things to her.
Instead I gave some bullshit answer about Trump not being good at his job. Like he was unqualified as a job candidate because he lacked certain skills. So maybe not a real lie but not the full truth. I wasn’t honest in the way that I usually am as a parent.
I can’t give her the real answer.
That a qualified, exceptional, and positive female candidate will lose to a lying, misogynistic, vulgar authoritarian in this world right now.
That those in power who scapegoat and demean others are most likely to seize and keep power in this world right now.
That appeals to fear and chaos will triumph over joy and decency much of the time in this world.
That the right side of history often loses in the short term and that the results of those losses can deeply hurt many people, including potentially her.
That women’s dignity and humanity matter less than the false promises of lower gas prices.
That our culture is broken in a fundamental way that threatens her full citizenship.
I can’t say those things to my beautiful daughter, who teeters on the brink of adolescence, when all these terrible truths will start to reveal themselves. I can’t tell her yet.
Instead I will hold back. I will make sure that she’s loved and safe in our little world and try to protect her from the harsh reality of the bigger world while I still can.
Yes, I am shocked. I am in horror. I am angry. I am sad. I feel betrayed. But most of all I feel like I am in mourning for the future world that I wanted to tell my daughter about this morning. I wanted to share this world and feel joy with her today. A world where a smart, kind, and fearless woman could be president and defeat a brutal, cruel, and dishonest man.
When I close my eyes, I can feel this alternate world, this other scenario where I wake my daughter and tell her that we will have a joyful and brave female president. I can taste this other reality, the one that values her and me as equal citizens. I can see still see it in its beautiful glory and want to pretend it’s still there, but I know that this is just a stage of grief, denial, playing tricks on me.
We don’t live in that world yet, not even close, and it hurts badly. For me and for her.
I want to tell my daughter that it’s okay to be angry and grieving that the world is like this. But in order to tell her that, I have to explain this world more deeply than either she or I am ready for.
Instead I will keep most of my grief from her. My heart is broken for her, but she doesn’t — and won’t — know that yet.
We are a community of midlife women, and we know many of you are grieving too. No matter how you are feeling this morning, please reach out — to a friend, to family, or in the comments below. You are not alone.
When he won the first time, I was consoling 12 and 14 year old boys who were sobbing. Just sobbing. This time, my older boy, who turns 22 today, was working the polls yesterday, and has spent the last couple of months working for a local Congressional candidate, who lost. The younger son is up at school, and this time I can't hug him. And this time, the stakes feel so much higher. So much so, that there's no scale for them. This is half the country, more than half the country, thinking autocracy is just the ticket to make them feel better about whatever their grievances are. I'm stunned and horrified and sad and exhausted, but I haven't even begun to contemplate what this all really may mean for the future of democracy, for the planet, for everyone. But I'm not done fighting. I said that in a text to my college son this morning, and he said, "I know you'll fight. That's what I love about you." So my two boys are hope, maybe? and your kids, and all our kids? We have to keep fighting. Strength and peace, all.
My heart is breaking with yours. I am too numb to put my horror and pain into words, and am grateful to you for doing it for us, so powerfully, so eloquently. Much love to you and your daughter. Love to all of us and to all our daughters -- and sons (based on this result, mine can't imagine bringing a child into this world). This outcome reflects a failure of many things (decency, critical thinking, empathy, etc) but most of all, it's a failure of love, a failure to love. But that thought invites despair. So for this moment, so that I do not collapse, the only emotion I will allow and live into is love. That's what you were doing for your daughter, allowing her to feel safe, while she can. Mine is 26 and I wish I could construct a lie big enough to make her world safe again.