Mija, we’ve always known that something wasn’t right with the world, but before you shave your head and draw on your brows, find solace in your beautiful, brown skin. I know that when you walk down the street it’s with a scathing hardness you wear like a badge of honor. I know that your scowl is self preservation so people know not to fuck with you, but Mija, they always will. Before you make plans to fight the homegirl that took one too many cigarettes from your pack, think about why you smoke in the first place. We know it’s to help calm the rage inside you but where is it directed at this point in time? Is nicotine your savior because you can’t stand listening to our anti-feminist dad spew religious nonsense at you for being ‘gay like your mom’, like he isn’t the reason we live on the streets when it’s not his weekend? Maybe it’s for our manipulative Mother, promising time and time again a stable place to live while she caters to the whim of a partner that doesn’t show up for her? Or is it because it’s the one thing you have in common with mom’s abusive girlfriend to keep calm before the domestic storm? Could it just be that you like your weed and Adderall to have a companion, because you know how loneliness cascades?

Mija, make sure you give our little sister a kiss before you sneak out to hustle and sling at the punk show. Promise her you’ll take her to the library to get her next meal. Did you ever stop to think it strange how drugs are more easily available than food, to people like us? How even the public library that offers free meals to youth on weekends, never once drew you in to feed you knowledge? But there is kindness in the eyes of those that see you as more than a dirty southside kid; The Paleta man that gives you an ice cream, and sometimes a buck or two, or your art teacher that believes your talent for drawing will help you heal. Always be grateful and give to others in any way you can, because if you deserve liberation, so do they.

Mija, when you grow, you will heal, so hold on. Keep drawing pretty pictures, laugh boisterously, listen to Sinéad and Fiona and cry, move across the country, move across the country AGAIN, make countless mistakes, always be weary of who you buy drugs from, get sober, HEAL. And above all, continue to not listen to adults because they don’t know shit.
Mi Hija,
I know,
I know,
I know,
how much you hurt.
I know,
I know,
I know,
what causes your pain.
I know,
I absolutely fucking know,
Because you are my daughter
and I am yours.