When I read his letter, I didn’t think about Congress. I didn’t think about policy or campaigns, or whether his ideas would ever survive a committee hearing. I thought about the first time I realized the rules were not written for me — and how long it took me to stop trying to pretend they were.
I used to dream of being a doctor.
When I was nine years old, at a Thanksgiving dinner, my uncle — a successful cardiologist — told me I wasn’t smart enough to be one. He said it casually, the way adults do when they believe they’re stating something obvious. No one corrected him. The table moved on.
I remember the heat in my face more than the words themselves. I learned early that intelligence was something I would have to prove — and that even then, it might not be believed.
Years later, in high school, I worked as a backserver in a prestigious restaurant. One night, a table of businessmen asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told them about my plan: graduate college early to save money, go to medical school, become an ER doctor. I told them I was already training to be an EMT.
They laughed over their wine. Looked me up and down. And asked if I had ever considered becoming a model.
That was the moment I understood that the rules weren’t written for someone like me — not because I lacked ambition or discipline, but because my seriousness was optional. My body was legible in ways my plans were not...
