First Birthday

You were born in the year of Donald Trump’s ascendance.

You are an American citizen. We are not. As much as we’d like to move elsewhere and wash our hands of this mess, you are a reminder of why we need to stay.

Your face makes each news story more visceral. I’m no longer an Indian immigrant observing the absurd political theatre of the United States. I am Leila’s mama ensuring that her daughter’s future is safe.

We need to know that you — a brown woman, the daughter of immigrants, the holder of an odd, hard-to-decipher first and last name — will be able to loudly and proudly stake claim to your country.

That you celebrate your immigrant history without fear or shame.

That you wear your womanhood fiercely.

On your first birthday, I am making two promises to you:

• I will not seed fear in you. Despite my greatest maternal instincts, I will not remove every barrier in your way, nor every danger. I want you to explore. I want you to be fierce and independent. Most importantly, I want you to see the world as friendly, open, and welcoming.
• I will ensure that your femaleness is of your own making, without interference from me. This goes both ways: I will make sure the world doesn’t impose its gender constructs on you, but if you choose pink bows over lego, and Barbies over dinosaurs, I will support you. Because gender is fluid and your sexuality is yours and only yours.