To My Future Wife

Dear You (you know who you are),

I've thought about you again lately. It's been some time. I've been living my life trying to shake off the absence of you, but like a cat looking to perch you came up in a conversation I had with Mom (you also call her Mom, and she loves you for that).

I thought about how our kids would be involved in so many extracurricular activities, any and everything we could throw them in: hip hop dance classes, ballet, soccer, volleyball, robotics, community gardening, every instrument in a rock band, chess, violin, the list went on. Mami also stressed with, great calm and sincerity I might add, that, "My babies are NOT going to public school!"

That's not entirely up to her, but I also reflected on the state of the public education system today, and it's looking grim. I can only imagine, with a shudder of horror, how it'd be in the next five to ten years. Mom and I just talked earlier today about how R. R. Moton Elementary School is set to shut down. It's surreal, because I entered the magnet art program there, I was recognized for my art there, and that was where I found my voice when I felt voiceless. I was bullied and a social butterfly for standing out without ever understanding why, and that's a lot for a nine year old to handle, and I don't want our child to ever feel devalued because some other snot-nosed jit doesn't know how to self-regulate.

I do want to see that spark of curiosity for the world to survive, to allow them to thrive and prosper in ways neither you nor I could at their age. I want them to stay curious, to keep asking questions, keep asking why, because I never left the why stage, not completely. I also want to keep them humble, to show that life doesn't always bend to their whims, especially if their intentions are misguided.

I can't wait to have our cute little nothing with all this wild curly hair running around telling people what to do, since she'll of course take after you and her Mima, who'll probably be her favorite person— aside from you of course, which I've long since accepted— and all because Mom would spoil her the way she would've wanted to have been spoiled at five, and will do many of the things she did (and refused to) with me and my siblings. And you spoil her because, I mean, c'mon, look at that face, she looks just like you. My genes didn't even try aside from the hair.

One of the things I love about you is how hard you love, how your compassion is measured by all the little things you do in between the big moments. I've told you so many times, you are such a hard worker, I love the sharpness in your eyes when you lock in and get shit done. Could cut a man down with a glare. We built such a beautiful life together– or would build, because you haven't read this yet.

I'm not a hopeless romantic, because I have hope you're out there, taking the world by storm while you water your plants, comb through political poetry and essays and cuddle with your cat named something like Mochi, or Gimli, or with a very human name, like Elsa Marie Presley, or Gustavo.

I hope you're doing well, and I can't wait to see you (for real this time).

With all my love,

— That Guy That Somehow Convinced You He Was Worth Your Time

(p.s. — stay tuned for Volume II of the Eve of Our Generation, coming to a bookstore near you!)