Madam Secretary

I sent this letter to Hillary Clinton tonight. 

I can’t wait for tomorrow.

 

Madam Secretary,
It started about a week ago. Well, it’s been happening in bits and spurts all year, but it started happening all the time about a week ago.

The crying.

Every time I read an article. Or watched your closing week videos. Or saw your special, local fleur de lis signs throughout my neighborhood. Or read the stories on #pantsuitnation. I held it in when my kid told me she voted for you in school today, so casually, like it was no big thing and I should have assumed it all along, and don’t be all emotional about it anyway, gosh! And tonight, as I planned out what I would wear to go to the polls tomorrow, where I would go to watch the returns, and how I’d manage to get a hold of my internationally jet-setting, 78-yr-old, early-voting mom once the returns come in…

I’m crying. All the time. And I’m not ashamed. Because these are bad-ass tears of joy. For a barrier broken. For ceiling shattered. For our first woman president. And I’ll be crying all the way to the polls. Big, bad-ass tears of joy.

When I was a little girl, I told my dad I was going to be the first woman president. It was 1980-something, and my dad told me I’d never be the first woman president. Because surely a woman would be president before I grew up.

As a teenager, my mother told me, and I can only assume my four sisters too, “Honey, you can be absolutely anything you want to be. You’re just going to have to work harder at it because you’re a girl.”

When I was 18, I cast my very first vote for a presidential candidate for your husband, and at the time, I told my friends, “I wish I could vote for Hillary instead.”

Twenty years later, on the eve of the day when I will get to vote for you for the third time, even though I live in a state that will not turn your way, I will take my kid with me, so she can see me check that box and be a part of electing the first woman president. So she can be a part of electing the first woman president.

Big, bad ass tears of joy.

This election cycle has been brutal. And for a while now, I’ve just been praying for it to end. But now, it’s the night before the day, THE DAY WHEN WE ELECT THE FIRST WOMAN PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, and I almost don’t want it to end. Almost.

I hope, in the middle of all of this, all the hype and the press, the events and the polls, those horrible debates, the rallies and meetings, and the fundraisers, oh my word the fundraisers, I hope that here and there, in tiny moments and ways, in the middle of all of this, you’ve been able to make space to hear all of us little girls and grown women, shouting THANK YOU! And I hope you’ve been able to sneak in just a few big, bad-ass tears of joy of your own.

Go get ’em, Hillary.
We are with you.
I am with you. With my bad-ass tears of joy. And my pantsuit, too.

With gratitude,
Erin

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