by Pablo Cartaya
Hey!
Before you dive in, I wanted to touch base and explain why I chose to write a letter to my daughter for this anthology on hope. If you’re reading this, you probably know about the global pandemic that uprooted much of the world. You, or someone you know, was probably affected in some impactful way. It was a tough time. The world seemed to be caving in on itself. It was rough. To be honest, I don’t know how much better things are right now. Maybe better. Maybe good. Maybe not.
In March 2020, my daughter Penelope went from going to school to complete virtual learning literally overnight, and her school stayed virtual through June 2021. She didn’t have an eighth-grade graduation ceremony, nor a dance, nor even a place to hang out safely with her friends. She lost three grandparents that year. Her mother got sick. Her baby sister got sick. She saw her little brother celebrate his birthday via Zoom.
The anxiety, loneliness, and fear she felt was something I’ll never forget. But as I watched her through that difficult year, she taught me something amazing. It’s a lesson I will never forget. This letter is my reflection on that lesson. Writing does that. It allows us to put words together to form a thought that can later become a story—or in this case, a letter . . .
My dearest Penelope,
You’ve been through so much these last three years. Some of middle school was pretty great. Some of it was just blah. Some of it, I know, sucked. But in the end, you closed your laptop on your last online class and smiled (braces off) while you told me, “I’m ready for high school, Papa.”
Yes, you most definitely are. But first, please allow me to reflect on these last three years . . .
I remember when you walked into your sixth-grade class. You were shorter than most of the other kids. There was a wide-eyed curiosity about everything that lay ahead. You were nervous, excited, hopeful. You had pigtail braids. You hadn’t yet gotten your braces—that would happen a few months later. I remember sitting in the orientation of your theater class and watching as you looked around trying to figure out who was going to be your friend.
You made a few friends in sixth and then some new ones in seventh and then some new ones in eighth. They were all different, and it showed me how you’re capable of having many different kinds of people in your life. You don’t follow a particular group; you just follow your heart and who makes you happy.
You’ve taken every challenge and processed it and broken it down and then gone for it. No matter the circumstances. And we can safely say there were some circumstances!
I mean, right when you were about to finish seventh grade, the whole world shut down. Suddenly, all these online classes popped up, and nobody had any idea how to navigate them. Not students. Not teachers. Not parents. Not even our government!
The way you adapted to online learning and how, in spite of not being given the accommodations you needed, you still managed to pull through and thrive in an environment nobody was prepared for—not even your parents.
Like math.
The way you patiently waited while I tried to explain geometry only to find out I was logged in to the wrong math class the entire time. The way you couldn’t get a decent math teacher to ever understand that math is difficult for you and it’s not that you’re being lazy! I get it. I wasn’t exactly in love with math at your age, either.
You took it all in stride. You continued to work hard and try to understand. You got frustrated when you saw me get frustrated, and then you softened up when you saw how stressful everything had become.
Our little house was suddenly flush with Momma at home, and your brother, and your baby sister, and your dad trying to navigate deadlines and math that he hadn’t done in over twenty years—and even when he did study it, he still wasn’t very good at it.
You understood that your frustration was not singular—that many people were struggling like you were. That the world was suffering.
The world had changed overnight, and you stood up and demanded something must be done. You grew into your social activism and were unafraid to show who you were and how the world needed a reckoning, and that you were there for the fight. I saw how you began to see the world through the eyes of others. Through the eyes of injustice and your increasing rage at intolerance.
I saw how in quarantine your little brother was crying in his room because not even Abuela could see him on his birthday, and you invited him for a “sleepover” and let him watch whatever movie he wanted.
I saw how you began to ask us questions about the world. Asking for answers and measuring our responses—almost like testing us to make sure we understood the position you took—on everything from social justice to human dignity to why we needed to watch My Hero Academia.
I saw how you rolled your eyes when we went hiking in the mountains to escape the brutal Miami summer (I have videos of that face). You standing on the ledge overlooking the beautiful landscape with a look that said—Why the heck did you make me go on this two-mile hike in the middle of these woods?
I also saw the face you gave when we reached our destination, and the humid air gave way to the cold as the mountain left remnants of winter at its base. Enough for a teenager to abate her frustrations and marvel at the beauty of nature.
You’ve never been afraid to apologize. That’s a gift. Believe me.
You’re a lightning bolt inside a peony. Everything about you is beautiful, powerful, electric. Your strength, your tenacity, your spirit always amaze me. The way you take care of your siblings and also demand respect from them, and from everyone who comes into your orbit. From the second you came into this world, you’ve proved time and time again that you are a force to be reckoned with.
I’ll never forget the moment you came into this world.
The emergency C-section. Watching Momma shaking on the cold hospital table. Wondering what was wrong. Then the doctor took you out—“right on time,” she said—and I nearly lost myself.
I looked on, a combination of fear and hope as they pulled your tiny purple body out. You dangled there for a moment. The doctor tapped you twice on the chest and after less than a second, you sprang to life and let out a cry that filled the cold room and warmed my worried heart. From that moment on, you would constantly prove to everyone that you are someone who not only survives under great pressure—you thrive.
You learned to love stories. Using your audiobook device and flipping the pages of the physical book at such a rate, I found it difficult to keep up with what book you were reading and when. The loud crying from your room when a favorite character died, or the sheer joy when two characters you totally “shipped” at the beginning of the novel miraculously got together in the end.
You spent the last three years in middle school figuring yourself out, and I want you to know how proud I am of everything you’ve had to overcome to get yourself into high school and ready for the next journey of your epic adventure.
Watching you go through the many ups and downs of a really tough time in your life and managing to get through with such triumph is inspiring. You are an inspiration. You. Give me my greatest hope.
I want you to know . . .
. . . sometimes we fall. Sometimes we feel like the world is caving in on us. Like it’s hard to breathe and there’s no place to get air into our lungs.
I want you to know . . .
. . . I’ve also felt like that before. I’ve also known what it’s like to finally catch that breath. To feel my lungs fill with oxygen.
I want you to know . . .
. . . sometimes all we need to do is breathe and recognize the air was there all along.
I want you to know . . .
. . . I worry about you. I was scared when they called your mom and me from the school to say you needed to go to the hospital. It scared us, but I’m grateful you were okay.
I want you to know . . .
. . . I was not mad. Neither was Momma. We were just scared. Middle school sucks sometimes. I already told you this, but it bears repeating.
I want you to know . . .
. . . your resilience is what inspires me to be the best at my job and to be there when you need me. To be a champion of you and everything you do.
I know you’ve been bullied because you’re different.
Looked down on because you are trying to be you.
But I also know you erased those negative influences from your sphere and commanded they would never, ever have dominion over you again.
You are brave beyond measure.
You are caring and compassionate.
And I see in you everything I wish for this world.
I still have the poem you wrote just before you entered fifth grade. With your permission I’m going to repeat it here:
I see a smile in the sun
Sometimes the sun is talking to me
And it says. You’re a happy girl.
The sun makes me Love ideas.
Ideas like how to be kind.
When it rains.
Clouds cry.
So the Sun.
Tries to brighten them up.
With happiness!
Sometimes the sun’s talking to me.
And it says you’re a happy girl.
And do you remember this other poem? The one you wrote about your friend who was having a tough time in school.
Abby
I think clouds are shy
Why do I?
Well because
Sometimes I see clouds get pink
And I think.
Whenever you look at them.
They blush.
And so here I am, writing this on your last day of eighth grade, and all I can think is how lucky I am to be your dad. I want to tell you that you are, and have always given me, so much hope for the world. So much promise. My greatest joy is that I’ve gotten to witness the world next to your eyes, your voice, and through your stories.
As you head off into summer and prepare for high school, I want you to know how much hope I have for everything you are and will be.
I want you to know
I love you.
And I want to thank you for sharing the gift that is you.
Te quiero con todo mi corazón,
Papa
PABLO CARTAYA is an award-winning author, screenwriter, speaker, and occasional actor. He is the author of The Epic Fail of Arturo Zamora, Marcus Vega Doesn’t Speak Spanish, and Each Tiny Spark. His forthcoming titles include The Last Beekeeper, a middle grade novel that contemplates a future where bees are central to rebuilding the world, and ¡Leo! El Magnífico, an Apple+ Ghost Writer Series novel. His novels primarily focus on the themes of family, community, and culture. He lives in the hyphens between his Cuban and American identities and with his familia in Miami. Visit him at PabloCartaya.com.