I’ve always loved stories.
Sometimes when I sit in my home office, I just stare at my bookshelves, and I imagine one day getting to talk with my own daughter about the stories I’ve collected. I hope she’ll like reading as much as I did as a kid. I hope she’ll like fantasy worlds about magic and dragons. I hope she’ll share things she finds with me, and ask me to share my favorites with her, like I did with my dad.
I try to only bring stories into our home that I think I could in good conscience share with this theoretical little girl. I want her to be surrounded by stories about women like Rin, like Yennefer, like Emily Kaldwell and Furude Rika. I want her to be surrounded, all the time, by Ada Lovelace and Harriet Tubman, Mary Wollstonecraft and Hedy Lamarr.
I’ve also always known that the stories in our bubble can’t be where things end, because there are bigger stories, cultural ones, that she’ll hear no matter what I do.
I’ve always thought I could arm her to deal with that.
But right now, I find myself doubting if I can.