My tired eyes and racing mind are up and running, 7:05 feeling strong beneath my feet as they snake their way out from the covers, and sink to the carpet. I have a strange consciousness about my feet as they draw me, then my hungry mind, to my parent’s bedroom. A focus that seemed almost silly, once the news struck my head. My awake-until-one-AM eyes slowly adjust to the light that consumes the room, and I flop on the bed knowing, truly in my heart that she had done it. Hillary Clinton; President of the United States of America. Knowing, with every fold of my brain that yes I, a girl, had her to look up to. That my parent’s votes, dinners they spent anxiously checking the polls, counted. For a girl president. With the satisfaction of an artist, finally sitting back from their work, I lie there. Contentedly; I try to think about what this would mean for me as I grow up. I am reminded that Baba’s lightened brown eyes sit upon my delighted face. I can only imagine what he thought. I let my eyes wander, and they pull my head to face him. I don’t know where to begin, so I feel my voice pour out, “The first female president...”
I study his face. His forever calm, needless to say, does not help in the slightest for an eleven-year-old eager for a reaction. I feel the movements of the bed, from the corner to me. I stiffen as I hear an all too familiar, “Habibtee…,” breathe uneasily from his mouth.
I wait. I want to hear what he says, every word. I prop my head up on my hands and wait. The hesitant breath continues, “She didn’t win.”
The light gets to my eyes. It stings, relentless; relentless to me. I search every inch of his face. No smile. No laugh. A deep sadness is all I see. I wonder if the sadness is for me. If on my face lies the unwelcomed reality. Breath that seconds ago was all too impatient to escape my body, with joy, with triumph. Stops. It won’t leave me. My playful fantasy of a new America is far from my mind. I can’t let this happen to me, for me. A meager, “What?”, breaks off from my teeth.
I don’t want to understand what can’t be unheard. But, undeniably, I do. Baba’s shoulders press back to the pillow, almost in a futile escape. And he sits up, with a tired hand reaching toward the radio. Within seconds of flipping through the usual 99.5, A woman’s droning voice cuts the Piano Sonata No. 11 to an unwanted stop. It wraps tightly around me, “President Trump.” My eyes stick to the ground. I don’t, I don’t want to look up. To see any more than I already do. To see anything familiar, the same blue walls, gauzy curtains I see every morning, with a hope now long gone. And, a thought that slowly seeps in as my elbows grow numb against the textured bedding, I can’t bring myself to hear. This is the world I live in now. I want no part of it.
My body is rigid, combatting the shaking of the bed, as Baba reaches over to turn off the droning woman. To face the silence. I look once more, in a lost effort, to find the joke on Baba’s face. I see nothing. The light striking his features. The light, catching the sad knowing that weighs down his eyes. Hanging in the air, the way smoke sets, lazy. Defeated. I lie defeated. And angry. At the hours I wasted staring at the TV last night, to be picked up and dropped so, so far. I could have been in bed, ever so slightly more immune to the hurt I’m feeling now. I want to crawl back to that immeasurably distant 7:05. But I don’t say this. My words don’t say how I’m feeling. I spew questions that I don’t care to hear the answers to.
But he answers. And it’s nice to hear his breath. Something that is no different. Something that won’t be silenced, lost. The breath eases, slightly. I let myself think. “The President.” This title means nothing. This very same title I replayed in my head with pleasure last night. Now, now it’s backed with narcissism. Bigotry, sexism, racism, hate. My eyes wander to my pink pajama pants, with black fleur-de-lis spotting it. I have outgrown them, and my ankles stick awkwardly from them, almost in protest.
I study his face. His forever calm, needless to say, does not help in the slightest for an eleven-year-old eager for a reaction. I feel the movements of the bed, from the corner to me. I stiffen as I hear an all too familiar, “Habibtee…,” breathe uneasily from his mouth.
I wait. I want to hear what he says, every word. I prop my head up on my hands and wait. The hesitant breath continues, “She didn’t win.”
The light gets to my eyes. It stings, relentless; relentless to me. I search every inch of his face. No smile. No laugh. A deep sadness is all I see. I wonder if the sadness is for me. If on my face lies the unwelcomed reality. Breath that seconds ago was all too impatient to escape my body, with joy, with triumph. Stops. It won’t leave me. My playful fantasy of a new America is far from my mind. I can’t let this happen to me, for me. A meager, “What?”, breaks off from my teeth.
I don’t want to understand what can’t be unheard. But, undeniably, I do. Baba’s shoulders press back to the pillow, almost in a futile escape. And he sits up, with a tired hand reaching toward the radio. Within seconds of flipping through the usual 99.5, A woman’s droning voice cuts the Piano Sonata No. 11 to an unwanted stop. It wraps tightly around me, “President Trump.” My eyes stick to the ground. I don’t, I don’t want to look up. To see any more than I already do. To see anything familiar, the same blue walls, gauzy curtains I see every morning, with a hope now long gone. And, a thought that slowly seeps in as my elbows grow numb against the textured bedding, I can’t bring myself to hear. This is the world I live in now. I want no part of it.
My body is rigid, combatting the shaking of the bed, as Baba reaches over to turn off the droning woman. To face the silence. I look once more, in a lost effort, to find the joke on Baba’s face. I see nothing. The light striking his features. The light, catching the sad knowing that weighs down his eyes. Hanging in the air, the way smoke sets, lazy. Defeated. I lie defeated. And angry. At the hours I wasted staring at the TV last night, to be picked up and dropped so, so far. I could have been in bed, ever so slightly more immune to the hurt I’m feeling now. I want to crawl back to that immeasurably distant 7:05. But I don’t say this. My words don’t say how I’m feeling. I spew questions that I don’t care to hear the answers to.
But he answers. And it’s nice to hear his breath. Something that is no different. Something that won’t be silenced, lost. The breath eases, slightly. I let myself think. “The President.” This title means nothing. This very same title I replayed in my head with pleasure last night. Now, now it’s backed with narcissism. Bigotry, sexism, racism, hate. My eyes wander to my pink pajama pants, with black fleur-de-lis spotting it. I have outgrown them, and my ankles stick awkwardly from them, almost in protest.
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