Dear Daughter
For Vocal's Letters of Gratitude Challenge
Hi Boo, (Mushy Warning)
Thoughts of you were alive and breathing before you were ever born, before I ever met you: our love was conceived in fate. I did not know when you would arrive or how you would become part of my life, yet I had a deep notion that your special soul would enter my world somehow, someday.
One sweltering August morning the telephone rang. It was a social worker from an adoption agency far away: I knew immediately it was you. I got busy packing and began the journey to meet you right away.
As I sat on a sofa in an air-conditioned high-rise in Philadelphia, the energy lightened around the room when a young woman carried you in. You were placed in my arms, and in my heart a seed was planted forever. We were meant to be.
How did you change me? Our life has not been easy, despite my guttural call to protect you from this worlds perils you were hurt, not once but repeatedly. You have faced bullying, discrimination, injustices and rejection for who you are. I am so sorry I can't fix it all. No one deserves to be shunned for living true to themselves or for the colour of their skin.
You have taught me how easy I have had it and still do simply by being white, living as a middle-class woman with blue eyes that passes for okay pretty much everywhere I go. I have walked through customs when I travel with no questions asked, gotten off with polite warnings for speeding by police officers with no questions asked. I know you have had some bad experiences: recently a call to the police by a stranger reported you for looking suspicious while drinking a Fanta. You were waiting for a bus inside our local station, (because it was too cold and windy outside). The policeman pushed your arm and asked why you were looking down, you showed the officer your phone, that you were reading a story online.
I believe you when you instinctually know that you were treated poorly because you are not white. I have been with you when you've gotten those stares, the look from the server in a restaurant that is trying to sum you up and I observe how you gracefully handle it. I have not taught you that. You demonstrate astounding strength of character despite having good reason to want to give up.
Coming out as a transgender young woman was so brave, so scary for you and not for one minute did I question our bond. I am so angry your father rejected you. Remember, it's a reflection on him, not you. Please, please, try to remember that. I don't regret divorcing him.
Sitting, my own hands tied, I am unable to change the system that lengthens your wait for transitioning hormones, hair removal, and all the important stages you need to occur. For years on end, you've shown hope from appointment to appointment: I do see your warm eyes look away weary and that is unbearable. I don't know how you keep it together. I honestly don't know where you get your strength day to day. I have never had to fight so damn hard to be myself.
With learning challenges I have witnessed you persevere and you never cease to amaze me. Your wry humour has caught me off guard so many times as we faced adversities together.
Recently at lunch you said, "I'll never have Mommy issues", in a sarcastic retort to our discussing rejection and presence. I laughed, but deep down I was weeping for your losses. Once again, you took the weight off me with your insistence that I worry too much about you.
You continue to make me strive to be a better person, not only as a mother, but as a human being. I see further when I look into the eyes of strangers. I make an effort to pay attention to those who look different than me, I search for kindness and I am kinder, too.
You've brought out a fierceness in me, a part that has always been there but now is unrelentless. I don't just fight for my rights as a woman, but the right of all people, especially those who are part of the LGBTQ+ community and those who still get seated at the worst table when out to dinner without a white friend as a side-kick. You taught me to love right. I don't live to change you, I live to change this world for you.
I listen to people bragging about their young adults achievements, their kids degrees, their jobs and how proud they are. I can say, without hesitation, I am proud of you, Meg. I am proud of how you are navigating yourself in these dreary times when so many of us want to curl up in a foetal position. I am proud that you want to pursue your goals to feel better about yourself; I am with you every step of the way.
Thank you for pushing me to question my own thinking, to recognise my own flaws and for steering me on a more colourful path. With you I can see unicorns, rainbows, laugh at myself for lingering too long (out of loneliness?) while chatting up random people, smile at myself in a public washroom when I realise I am wearing only one earring.
I am grateful that you help me see me without blinders. I appreciate how you are able to call me out when I am clearly reverting to unhealthy behaviours and negativity. I am in awe of you.
My ridiculous imperfections in need of mending I will continue to work on, because of you.
Love always,
Momma
About the Creator
ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
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More stories from ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons) and writers in Humans and other communities.
Denied
As soon as she could walk on her two tiny feet Kalthoom had been obedient; she listened well, always attentive, mindful to cause no strife as her older brothers had. She rubbed her father's feet and served him sweet tea when he came home to their small two room apartment in their displaced country. She ran to him each night with bright warm eyes and a smile that reminded him of his wife; he would lift her high into the air and say, “my gift". Muhamad was the father of four sons, Abdelkarim, Hussein, Salim and Omar; three were married to good women who stayed home cooking, cleaning and focusing on their husband's needs while his sons were studying the new language in this culturally perplexing new homeland, at least for him. Muhamad for as long as he could recall was Baba, the provider and strong one who lived the life of a faithful Muslim. He wanted nothing more than his family to be happy, secure and feel loved. His youngest son and fourth child Omar who was following in his father's footsteps gave Muhamad much pride. His trade took expertise, patience and time; he would become an excellent mason with much to look forward to. He was not bright in the book knowledge sort of way, yet he was a master with his hands, his craft flawless. He longed for grandchildren and would often lean in with an unassuming manner trying to overhear his wife Amina speaking in low tones over tea with his son's wives. Kalthoom was his little miracle as he was fifty-eight years old when his wife surprised him with the news that she was carrying his child once more. She had been a perfect companion, younger than he by eighteen years; she was angelic, never hurried or too tired of the children’s scattering about and noisy play, never once had she been ill. She did not deny him of pleasure nor raise her voice or undermine his decisions. It was an agreeable union meant to be. He was pleased that he could still create life with the grace of Allah and prayed for a healthy pregnancy. Honestly, he fully expected another son. Amina was his best friend, much more than she would ever know; he needed her easy way, her scent of life itself and her smooth skin touching his. Amina's understanding gaze into his eyes at night by candlelight when he spoke of their earliest days together illuminated their faces, setting a melancholy atmosphere for his nostalgic recollections. He spoke of the chill in his skin when sitting nervously waiting to meet his soon to be wife, an arranged bride with their parent's blessings. They laughed, remembering his shaking hands causing an obvious rattling clank of his teacup on its saucer. Her father asked him to stand when she came into the family room where they received visitors. He had spilled his tea on the carpet beneath his feet and his eyes widened and looked away quickly after his first glance. She had been escorted by her eldest brother and eventual first son’s namesake, Abdelkarim and seated with her mother on a burnt ochre settee. She never spoke directly; her mother and father spoke for her. Next, they welcomed Muhamad's father and Aunt. His mother had died when he was sixteen from a stroke. The elders spoke while they had smiled, sneaking glances eye to eye. Her dress was like the desert sky, a perfect shade of blue. It had handsewn golden sequins around the high neck, her hair although mostly covered by her matching hijab, was a rich auburn, carefully dyed with henna. He would recall their first meeting often and Amina never grew bored with his repetitive memories. She knew that memories were important to savour for they both knew they could not return to where they had met. Kalthoom began to cook when her mother was ill with a sickness that no one talked about openly; her father was once a comforting man, reassuring her that everything will be fine if you believe in Allah's plan. This was long before the dark shadows of sadness caused the family to simply appease their elders. The Imam came to pray with Muhamad by his wife's bed some mornings when Amina was alert. She would thank him for his grace, then ask in her small voice for Kalthoom to serve tea, and whispered, "please serve the best of our sweet cookies, the one's with dates carefully pressed into the middle." Kalthoom obliged. She bowed to the Imam, careful not to catch his eyes and placed the silver serving tray on the low round table where his father sat on decorative cushions across from the Imam. Her father excused her, sending her off to sit by her mother and read to her poetry in Arabic, the only language her mother would ever know. Some nights and days passed quickly when Kalthoom would be awakened by painful moans and Baba crying in gasps, echoing was his broken heart throughout their otherwise silent surroundings. Kalthoom was frozen, unable to express her sorrow. The brother's and wives came with trays of food which filled the long table, yet no one dared to eat other than Hussein’s wife who was due soon with their first baby. Omar stayed over on the floor, ready to help Baba if he should quiver, ready to clasp his father’s hands into his own. A year passed and Baba relied heavily on Kalthoom. She learned from Omar how to take the bus to the pharmacy for Baba's new medicines prescribed to calm his agitation, to walk without an escort into the enormous supermarket and her list of things to do grew longer and more stressful. One evening as Baba sat squatting on his haunches smoking his pipe on the balcony Omar called and said he needed her to listen to his guidance. "My dear sister, I cherish you for all that you do for Baba without complaint however, he is nearing the end of this life and you must learn the language spoken here. How will you survive when Baba should pass?" Kalthoom had never thought about her own future, not even once in a late-night dream state had she known what she longed for. Omar had finally bought a van for his business which was growing and said he would speak to Baba about her learning the new language. Surprisingly to Kalthoom Baba gave her permission to study. Class after class she attended regularly and the stares at her from all the blue eyes was unnerving. One morning a young woman replaced her usual teacher, her eyes were dark as Kalthoom's. After each class they smiled at one another in a way Kalthoom did not understand; she only knew that the teacher's smile made her heart thump faster and her palms to sweat. Weeks turned to months when one day the teacher asked her to have tea after class; Kalthoom jumped for joy for the very first time. A friend! She had a friend. For the first time she sat without one of her brother's supervisions in a cafe sipping her tea and enjoying what the new land called, "fika". Her teacher's parents came from Iran, yet she had been born in Sweden; she shared each time they met a little bit more about the Swedish culture. She was watching how other women dressed as if flipping through a foreign fashion magazine. "Have you learned how to speak yet?" Baba asked the same question everyday. Kalthoom explained the new letters which made unique sounds, Ä, Ö, Å. She had a goal now. She continued to cook, clean and sit with Baba when he stared blankly at the television, not understanding anything he watched; it no longer mattered. His mind was tired, his appetite less and other than Omar picking him up to go to mosque together he lay on a mattress near the window, drifting in and out of sleep. Her other brother's wives were all expecting babies now and she looked forward to being an aunt again. When the first baby was born to Hussein’s wife, it was a girl and although it was a delight for the entire family, there was an unspoken knowing a son was longed for. Hussein and his wife Bouchera gave their daughter her grandmother’s name, Amina. Baba was showing joy when they visited with the baby. A grandchild finally; he carefully cradled the swaddled bundle and held her close to his heart. Baba would die before the next grandchild was born. For weeks Kalthoom missed her classes and sat crying in the now empty apartment; her sisters-in-law took turns staying with her and they cooked for her, and she was grateful yet hopeless now. The teacher rang her, understood her mourning and said she could return when she was ready. She told her to continue to the next level she needed to her identification number. What was that? Kalthoom wondered. One night the entire family gathered and spoke about necessary things, how to pay rent, how to avoid Swedes who asked too many questions and the brothers agreed that they would all pay a bit toward her rent. Omar would move in to supervise her, and she would need to stay home more. Kalthoom slipped into a depression when she was told she had been brought here with her parents illegally. Her oldest brother Abdelkarim had come with special papers and was able to study and work, but she and the rest of the family had come when she was small through channels worked carefully by other refugees. How could this be? Baba worked, Omar worked, and they had a happy life before. How could this number be so necessary? The wives suggested they meet a nice Muslim man at the mosque who was here legally and then they could arrange a marriage to avoid any complications perhaps. Everyone agreed except Kalthoom. This is how it would unfold; she would be placed like a dog in a kennel with some man she never met. She was given handsewn dresses, typical formals to greet her unknown suitors. She was primped and stuffed into a yellow and white satin dress, her hair was dyed by Abdelkarim's wife for the first time with henna and she had her eyebrows plucked and had eyeliner carefully applied. The teacher rang again and asked to meet Kalthoom, and she said she could no longer continue to learn the language. The language that gave her freedom was the entrance into a gated inner world of silenced women who could not be left to sip tea and sit in cafes with new friends from other places. The dreaded day came when a gentleman twice her age came to meet her. He looked directly at her and chatted and laughed with her brothers. She felt encroached upon, an item for sale like the plums in the market where she shopped. Baba had left some money and a letter to give to the husband to be which Kalthoom never had known of. Unlike her obedient, attentive and congenial persona she stood up and ran into the bathroom slamming the door and locking it. Everyone could here her sobbing. The gentleman agreed to leave and was given apologies on her behalf. Once he was gone Omar beat hard on the door, "Kalthoom! What on earth are you doing? We are trying to help you, please, I beg you to come out." She refused and sat sobbing in a haze of loneliness. The rest of the family left, and Omar let her be, falling asleep on the sofa after an exhausting day. When all was quiet, Kalthoom opened the door and ripped off the sticky dress and put on one of her mother's old tunics, a big coat with a hood and took cash from the safe inside the closet which once was her parent's bedroom. She took a large bag of her mother's and stuffed it with photos of her family, her bus card and a notebook of memoirs her mother had kept. She took a long look at her most loved brother and snuck out the door, unsure of her intentions. She walked to the bus stop and boarded with no plan. She arbitrarily pressed the button somewhere in the city and stepped out and saw light's on in windowsills, snowflakes under streetlamps and heard laughter and passers-by enjoying each other's company. It was not late, perhaps seven at night, but it was black outside, and she felt freedom in absence of her family. She saw a pizzeria open, and she went inside to warm up. She used the new language to order coffee and sat reading her mother's journal.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)3 years ago in Humans
The Courage to Let It In: A New Paradigm for Emotional Healing
Introduction: The Myth of “Letting It Go” For years, popular culture has repeated a simple mantra whenever someone is hurting: “Just let it go.” It’s offered as a cure‑all, a spiritual shortcut, a quick emotional detox. But for many people, this advice doesn’t heal — it harms. It pressures the wounded to rush their process, bypass their truth, and pretend they’re “over it” long before their hearts have even begun to understand what happened.
By Julie O'Hara - Author, Poet and Spiritual Warrior7 days ago in Humans
Comments (8)
This is absolutely beautiful. "I don't live to change you, I live to change this world for you." Wow. Chills..
Hi Meg my niece, your mom's words filled with love extreme, and I quote - "I am proud that you want to pursue your goals to feel better about yourself". I love you.
Oh damn it ... I knew when I read the title and then the first line I'd be a crying mess by the end of this one ... Andrea, I can't express how much seeing this type of love poured out from a mother to her daughter means, it's not something I have truly felt from mine yet since coming out, and may never get ... Meg is a beautiful and amazing soul and she's so incredibly lucky to have you. I'm going to go the whole sappy way, and say I wish my mum was more like you. 🩷🩷🩷
This speaks to a mothers unconditional love. Written with tenderness and vast empathy!
very well written. Your daughter is very lucky to have you. 🫶
beautifully written!
That love. That indescribable love has now been described. Beautiful letter from an incredibly beautiful spirit
So ... Im not crying, you are! onions! thats it! lol! anyway this was so beautiful, inspiring and just all kings of eloquent brilliance! you always bleed freely but this feels like one of the rawest ive read from you! well done on your approach to motherhood and for this heartfelt letter!