Dear Dream Kardashian, 

It is with great chagrin that I must inform you that you were born in the year 2016. Prince and David Bowie have been dead for months now, likely because they opted to escape their earthly forms before we headed deeper into this dark timeline. Because as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Donald Trump is going to be our next president. Truly, it was brave of you to even leave Blac Chyna’s womb.

In the nine months since you were conceived, our President-elect has built a platform on racism and sexism, which failed to prevent—and perhaps even galvanized—the majority of white Americans to vote for him. Most were too ashamed to admit to pollsters that Trump was their man, though apparently they had little to grapple with in the confines of the voting booth. At best, Trump voters are willfully ignorant, shrugging off this devastation with comments like, “Hey, we’ve had enough politicians, maybe he’ll shake things up!” At worst, they are members of the KKK.

To be clear, Trump supporters are correct in believing their candidate will “shake things up.” His rise to power promises to resurrect our most insidious hierarchies, and not subtly, but with explicit threats to ban Muslims and grab pussies. Apparently, a silent but deadly majority of Americans was longing to reinstall the white supremacist patriarchy.

Often, pop culture is an escape from these fears. I’ve buried myself in the intricate narrative arcs attached to your iconic last name. On that note, your mom is up against some serious passive aggression lately, let me tell you! Did you know, she threw your half brother, King, a Ferrari-themed birthday party, and the next day, your dad’s girlfriend/aunt put on a bigger version of the same event?!? I would have popped a pin in the side of her bouncy house faster than the likes got into the three digits on Instagram, but I’m petty. I hope your mom’s gonna teach you not to be petty. (But, being that your mom is Blac Chyna, you will probably grow up to be the best, pettiest girl in the world.)

A huge burden comes along with being a famous infant. You were just born, so you’ve got a minute, but by about age three, the trolls will emerge. They’ll slut-shame your outfits from Osh Kosh B’Gosh or wonder if you should really be inheriting the extended spoils of your father’s sister’s sex tape, as if you had any say in the matter. Any news story tied to your existence will be written off as vapid nonsense by the same people who elected a reality TV star to be president.

The bigoted misogyny that will clog your various social media accounts is not distinct from the forces that propelled Trump to power. Hatred is a masterful shape shifter. It perpetually changes forms, slipping away to escape all labels. Sexist insults can be coded as “attention-seeking,” racist slurs can be coded as “sassy.” The thesaurus for evil is endlessly creative, but things are not helpless. The fact that Trump has ascended to the White House gifts us with a massive bull’s eye. We are finally waking up to the ugly realities of this country, and realizing progressive ideals are far from enough. 

You were born into a nightmare, but a revolution is coming. Electing this monster will spur an ARMY of Hillarys, Bernies, and Michelles into being. We are going to band together to insist on the equality every last marginalized identity deserves. I hope that reality feels much less distant by the time you are old enough to read this. I hope you never have to wonder about your value, safety, or simply the ability to express who you are. For now, all that’s left to say is this: Welcome to the world, baby Dream. It’s not a very nice place right now, but we’ve only just started really fighting.