For my child, about to start PhD across the country in the era of science being mangled

You ask, “Will they rescind my offer?”

You ask, if this university, which is older than the country, folds, will you be crumpled up inside its fallen bricks?

“What will I do then? Go to Canada or Europe?”

“You could learn to drive and drive an Uber,” I say, unsuccessfully trying to lighten the mood. I do wish you could drive. I picture you commandeering a car and escaping to Canada, should it become necessary.

“You will be okay. The university won’t crumple. You will be okay,” I say, willing myself to believe it.

You who love lasers, optics, mirrors that bounce light, particles with intricate shapes that appear in multiple places at once. You, whose mind ticks through quantum mechanics. You, who have found your tribe in academia. You, who are ready to move across the country to study. “You will be okay,” I say, hoping we both believe it.

I watch the livestream of eaglets in their nest being fed. Bright red chunks of fish move from yellow big beak to tiny gray ones, the parents push sustenance at the little mouths all day. One night, it snowed, and one parent eagle sat covered in crystal white, white head against white sky, black back covered. Under her body, a cavity in which the eaglets sat snug. Instinct, I thought. She knows how to do this without practice. One day, the eaglets will balance on the edge of the nest and toss themselves into the sky. An overly obvious, but emotionally accurate analogy.

Unlike the stoic eagle mom, I can’t hardly bear for you to leave. I have had a child of mine within arms’ reach for twenty-nine years. I mean, my days are organized around good morning, how did you sleep, dropping off, picking up, what’s for dinner, after-dinner walks. We walk through the dark streets of the neighborhood having conversations in which you explain science, and I ask you to repeat it because I got lost, conversations in which you plan your future, conversations in which I validate your fears and then suggest solutions, conversations in which I ask your advice about my writing projects, and then we push towards home, we pet the cats, you retreat to your room, and I peek in later to say good night.

One night you cried about the possible dismantling of your future, the path that looked possible with lots of hard work, now obscured in a fog of what will happen next. I wish I could zap a certain orange buffoon with a laser and alter his brain to one that is compassionate and cares about knowledge. I wish I could pulverize a certain billionaire into his constituent particles after leaving all his money to beneficial projects. And yes, we know we are lucky, you are lucky compared to international students being deported for no reason, compared to people losing their jobs, compared to so many who are suffering. I do believe, you will be okay.

Yesterday, we went to downtown Oakland, joined the throngs across the country, decked out in slogan-studded t-shirts, carrying witty signs. We moved away from the obligatory drum circle and ran into unexpected friends. In the crowd, a thrum of solidarity, we all had our reasons for being there. Some of the signs made me laugh, “Orange you tired of him yet?” The pro-science signs signaled support for you, for your future, and I felt resolute, stronger. The signs supporting trans kids made my eyes mist up. All this goodness, here. All of this strength, here. All of us together, giving us all hope, grounding us in the belief that if we stick together, we can change things for the better. Together, we can make things more than just okay.