Dear Child,
(to my son, and any sons and daughters who might be listening)
A few months ago, during the primary elections, you asked your dad, “If Donald Trump hates women, will he send Mommy away?” Your dad reassured you but later, when you were asleep, I reminded him that while Trump may not send your mommy away, he and his team have threatened to send other people's mommies away.
Dear Young Seeker
I am writing my letter to the revolution to you and to you specifically because you are that rare creature, the seeker. You do not really feel comfortable in any group, you do not have an identity made up of 7 adjectives that box you into a group with both the privileges of “Belonging” and the mental suffocation that comes from belonging to a such a “‘group”.
(Content/TW: Discussion of racist and ableist violence, mentions of sexual violence)
Dear fellow organizers, activists, rabble-rousers, and rebels,
To those with a body who are feeling unseen by the incoming administration,
Planned Parenthood of New York City sees you, and we will continue to see you, no matter what.
You have a body, and caring for that body may be about to get tougher — although let’s be real: did it ever feel easy to begin with?
Dearest Queer Family and Our Beloved Allies,
We are heading into unknown and potentially dangerous times. Everyone with a liberal mindset, everyone living any sort of marginalized life is responding with great apprehension. Yes, it’s likely that many of the freedoms we take for granted will be rolled back. The usual suspects will most likely be targeted for further marginalization: women, children, people of color, the working class, the elderly, and of course anyone who falls outside of cisgender heteronormativity. I’m so, so sorry.
Dear Artivists,
I was sitting alone in a Georgia hotel room as the election results rolled in, and it felt increasingly surreal as the projected blue states turned red. I called my family and friends to ground what I was seeing in reality. That night, the same dream played on repeat: I wake up, look at my phone; this has all been a mistake. Relief. But when I reached for my phone the next morning, the notification screen read, “Donald Trump has been elected President of the United States.” There was no more room for denial.
Dear Darlings All,
The night of the election, I watched the results roll in from one state after another, turning a red that seemed bloodthirstier with each passing result.
I said aloud, “The course of my life changes tonight.”
Dear women who felt like I did on November 9,
If comedy is tragedy plus time, 2016 felt like the year time collapsed and those two tropes became indistinguishable.
Dear everyone (of every gender, skin tone, bodily arrangement, assignment given or achieved in the Universe known or unknown in perpetuity now and in the hereafter),
To queer youth of color,
It sucks to be familiar with the sense of impending doom. You might have survived being socialized cis or straight in a queer body. You might have survived institutionalized racism, the gentrification of your home, and the fight to preserve your culture. You might have survived your given family. You might have survived the realization that your home is on a minefield; dirt, grass, concrete and tiny wildlife under siege.
