The Irony of Democracy

She's sleeping now as I watch her; angelic, innocent—most importantly—happy. How do I tell her? It's become a type of obsession. How do I tell her? My nights are spent rearranging phrases; hoping for a turn of events. How do I look her in the eyes and explain what freedom means in our country? "I'm sorry love," I sing to her while she rests, “for bringing you into the world already at the bottom." And she will grow, stretch like the limbs of the great sequoias. Her classes will be filled with dreams and motivations. Reach for the stars; you can achieve anything, just warped, candy- coated reflections of the diminishing American Dream. And when she grows she will detest me—if only momentarily —for my lack of social standing. "Why does life have to be so hard?" she will cry, her teenage feet will stomp with more force than they did as a child, and the cheap clothes dressing her ever-changing body will be nothing more than a reminder. They will be nothing more than a suffocating cage of fabric. How do I tell her, I slaved to climb the executive ladder, and failed to get any higher? "I'm so sorry; love, for not representing the nation's elites, but falling into the poverty of the masses." I will whisper in response to her distress. I tried! I wanted to give you a decent life; I wanted to give you a head start for achievement! The drive to succeed for her is almost unbearable. She's sleeping now as I watch her; she only recently learned how to walk. Still, my nights are spent stringing the thoughts and words together; wishing our lives were better; wishing that I could shield her. Soon, she will learn how small her voice sounds in comparison with the screams of the nation. How do I tell her? Instead, I kiss her forehead, and tuck her in.