If You Were Mine

Before You Were You

You were born in 1985. The same year as my daughter.

I can’t let go of that. Not because it’s profound. But because it reminds me that cruelty and care begin from the same starting line. Two children, side by side in time. Two small bodies zipped into backpacks, laced into sneakers, sent out into early mornings.

She was learning to share, to listen, to notice who felt left out. I imagine you were, too—or at least, you could’ve been.

And now—here you are. On podiums. Behind policies. Architect of harm.

And I keep wondering: what if the boy who became you had been mine?

I’m Sorry Someone Hurt You

If I had the chance to say one thing to you—it wouldn’t be a takedown. It would be this:

I’m sorry someone hurt you.

Maybe not once. Maybe again and again. Maybe in ways you couldn’t name, or weren’t allowed to.

I don’t know what happened, Stephen. But something must have.

Because people don’t usually wake up and decide to disappear the humanity of others.
Not unless theirs got tampered with first.

That doesn’t excuse it. It just haunts me differently.

It would be easier, honestly, to believe you feel nothing. That you’re ice. A strategist. A shell.
But I don’t quite buy it.
You weren’t born this way.

Truth Without Leaving

I think about those parenting moments when your heart cracks open a little—because you have to say the thing.
The hard, true thing.
And you don’t know what it’ll do. Not really.

Tough love gets thrown around like punishment.
But to me, it’s presence.
It’s saying the truth and staying in the room after.

It tells a child: you’re not being left alone with this.

And I wonder—did anyone stay in the room with you?

What Do You Feel?

You were the boy who quoted Theodore Roosevelt in your high school yearbook.
Who called into radio shows at sixteen to rail against bilingual education.
Who wrote essays about “Islamo-Fascism” in college—and brought white nationalists onto campus under the banner of free speech.

Even then, you knew how to smuggle harm into language that sounded like liberty.

You weren’t quiet about what you believed.

You rose quickly.
From student to staffer.
From Jeff Sessions’ protégé to Trump’s speechwriter.

You helped shape the Muslim ban.
The refugee cuts.
Family separation.

You pushed people out of government—for not being cruel enough.

And now you’re back.
Fewer restraints.
More reach.

You call it an invasion.
You draft the camps.
You search for a disease to make it all seem necessary.

You’re preparing mass raids.
Rehearsing how to suspend habeas corpus.
Meeting with billionaires to describe what the new country will look like.

What do you feel, Stephen?

Not—what do you think.
Not—what do you believe.

What do you feel when you press send on a policy that will tear families apart before sunrise?

Do your hands shake?

Do you ever hear their voices when the house is still?

Or does power feel cleaner now?
More precise.
Easier to wield when you don’t look anyone in the eye.

You’re not in the shadows anymore.
You are the blueprint.

I ask because if you don’t—mine still do.

If You Were Mine

If you were mine, I’d still make dinner.

I’d call you to the table.
Ask if you needed help with your tie before school.
Tease you gently about the way you always overfilled the kettle.

I’d ask how your day was.
Even knowing.

I’d ask if you’ve told your kids what “suspending habeas corpus” means.
If they know what you’re planning.
Or if you still tuck them in with stories that end softly.

I’d look you in the eye and ask how it feels—to build detention centers while your own children sleep safely upstairs.

If you were mine, I wouldn’t stop loving you.

But I wouldn’t confuse success with wisdom, or sharpness with good.

In our house, we said hard things gently.
We left the light on when someone was late.
We asked follow-up questions.
We noticed when someone’s silence got loud.

You would’ve learned that early.
Maybe it would’ve stuck.

And if it didn’t—then I’d keep saying it.
Until it did.

And now, I’d say it plain:
Stephen, no.
Not like this.

Then I’d hand you a plate.
Sit down across from you.
Not to argue.
Not to change.

Just to keep my heart from shutting down.

When Your Children Ask

You were born in 1985. So was my daughter.

She’s built her life around helping young people step into the world—teaching them how to think, how to ask hard questions, how to care for each other.
She stands beside the ones still becoming.

Not in front.
Not over.
Beside.

As her father, I’ve watched her become someone who builds futures instead of fortresses.

And I wonder what your children will remember.

Will they know you spent your days making the world harder for other people’s children?

When they ask about the policies—the camps, the disappearances, the suspensions of rights—will they hear your answers with pride?

Or will they ask with the lights off,
their voices low,
as if even the question is something to hide?