Life as the President’s Daughter
1809 had been an interesting year for the prestigious country known as America. I never paid much attention to politics, not many people my age did. That was the year my father became the 4th President of the United States. It had also been the year I had turned 17, which many people deemed as the year I finally stopped acting so awkward and grew out of my lanky figure. I had long auburn hair, a crooked nose, fairly tanned skin and bright grey eyes. I never saw beauty when I gazed into a mirror, but my short, outspoken mother liked to reassure me as often as she could. My father, James Madison, was never home because he was very busy with politics and such. He had a small office in the little home we lived in (before moving into the white house) and all I heard was a quiet, repetitive tapping on his typewriter all night long. He was a hardworking man, but when it came to raising me he was extremely distant. My mother pretty much single handily raised me in Chicago, Illinois. I saw my father once a week at Sunday dinner, and he sat very quietly and asked me how my week had been. Life at home was very bland and boring, and school was very similar. I enjoyed working hard but not on the subjects we were doing. I wanted to travel the world, but dreaming of leaving this small town was unrealistic and pointless. I was to grow up, marry a rich man and then spend the rest of my life raising my children and tending to my home. None of that intrigued me. I loved writing, which I believe I got from my father. My father went to Princeton University and was an extremely talented writer.
I had three best friends, and that was it. Cynthia Ross, Jamie Rickre and Lilia Joe were their names, and I had met them through school. Cynthia was an outspoken, spunky red head who fell in love with every cute boy that would pass her. My mother wasn’t fond of Cynthia, because Cynthia had an adventurous mind set and was considered a free spirit. She was my favourite person on the planet; I wonder where she is now. Jamie and Lilia were both very quiet, but came alive at night. We would have sleepovers once a month and they would go crazy. But the rest of the time they just lingered on, both very dull. I still enjoyed their presence, and so did my mother. In this town, the quieter you were, the less trouble you would get in and that was that.
The school year would linger on, and every subject had always come very easy to me. The school I went to was very small, but I never complained. What got me through the day was the sight of James Richardson, the most beautiful man alive. He was in Grade 12 and would pass me three times a day in the hall. He was tall, had a full head of gorgeous brunette locks, bright green eyes and a smile that would light up the room. One day, after the news came out about my father winning the election, he had actually talked to me, simply congratulating my family and such, but it was the greatest day of my young adolescent life.
A lot had changed that cold year of 1809, and whether it was for the better or for the worst is a question I will never be able to answer. I was constantly in the public eye, which had been something I had never got used to. People before my father had been elected had never paid any attention to me, so when people started noticing me and talking to me more, I was utterly freaked out. The transition was very difficult for my mother, she had loved the little house we had and her job was to take care of it. When we moved into the white house, my mother didn’t have to clean or prepare food anymore, and it broke her heart. It was strange having butlers, waiters and cleaning, definitely wasn’t the conditions I ever thought I’d live with. I miss my mother more then anything, she was the greatest women I knew. She always encouraged me with every aspect of my life. I was offered to be home-schooled from there on, but I enjoyed the quaint little high school I went to. I did very well so why change up my system. I got a whole new wardrobe, and had to attend events and public speakings with my father, who I saw even less due to him being the president.
I believe my father was a good leader, he got a lot of recognition for everything he did, but I never truly saw his decency until the day he died. It had been a quiet day in June of 1986, I laid down next to my dying father and in that moment viewed him as a real human being. He wasn’t thinking about work, or money or politics. He was simply passing away, and I had never seen him in such a light before. That was when I grew respect for him, and hoped I would grow up to be the kind of person he was.
As I lie on my death bed and write this story reflecting my childhood, a sudden thought hits me. Growing old had turned me into a bitter soul, and I stopped appreciating the little things like I had when I was young. The simple flowers and small animals that ran in the neighbourhood could make me smile, but now everything had turned to grey. Whether it was from a series of unfortunate events that lead me to this belief system or just growing old and the bitterness that followed with that, it didn’t matter. As I approach my last breath of bitter sweet life, I understood what my father whispered to me the moment before he died. He had said a mere three words to me :”Always stay beautiful.” That was the moment I realized my father did have a heart, and did care for me. I look to my amazing daughter standing upon my bed watching me slowly write this out in my journal and I say the exact same thing to her. I needed to make her feel as loved as I had when my father had said that to me, and in that moment, I feel my heart slow down and come to a stop, and everything I once knew and saw dissapears to a soft black.
