To my daughter on November 5,

I told you that November 4th was an important day. What I didn’t tell you, because I don’t share my cynicism with you just yet, is that last November 4th I’d have said I really didn’t think this could happen. Because I haven’t told you this, either, but your daddy has had the n-word shouted at him more than once since we’ve been married — not because he’s black, but because his skin isn’t white, and despite our living in a neighborhood where hatred like that supposedly doesn’t exist anymore. 

But last night, I sat on the sofa with you, watching a mixed-race man give his victory speech. I don’t know if the man America has elected will be able to follow through on his campaign promises. Maybe so, maybe not. Here’s what I do know: Already, the world you’ll grow up in is different than the one your mommy did. But more importantly, the world you’ll have is different than the one your daddy did, a world that has dreams that aren’t just dreams now, but possibilities — and realities.

And so when you tell me that you want to be President, and that maybe you can “be the first girl President,” I can say — and believe — that maybe you can. 

But considering that you’re five, and that you’ve got thirty years to go before you’re even eligible to run for that office, I trust you’ll forgive me when I hope you aren’t the first. 

The second or third would be awesome, though.