My Dream

January 20, 2009
By Anjelica Scaletta, Chester, NY

“So help you God?”

“So help me God.” Cheers, applause, hugs, kisses. I had watched history in the making, even if history was a little fumbled. I almost cried. I almost cried in the only room in the school with cable hooked up, slightly packed with students, teachers, administrators, all gathered to watch the same thing. Eight years ago, I had watched the same ceremony. I was seven, young, uneducated about politics. I remember working on a project about Amelia Earhart. The TV in the kitchen was set to one channel that never changed what it was showing. It looked important. I know my mom didn't approve of it. She had wanted the other man, Al Gore, to win. All I knew about him was that he had been the Vice President to Bill Clinton. That much I knew at that age. It was all I really knew.

Now though, I watched the same thing, this time though, I was sixteen, educated, mature. I knew what it meant to support a candidate. I knew why some voted for one and some for the others. It was a whole new world this time around. Instead of some man repeating things with one hand on the Bible, it had a significance. This man would be the leader of our country for, at least, the next four years.

Walking to my next period class, I began thinking. So many firsts, so many leaves turned, so many. I thought of how I would feel if I were up there, taking the oath, pledging to a country of millions that I would help them no matter what the cost. I would go the distance for them. I thought about how I would address them should things go wrong, or should things go extremely right. How I would cope with the pressure of being Commander-in-Chief. And then I remembered I couldn't.

I can never be President of the United States, even though I've been told numerous occasions that I should. I'm not a leader, but put me into the role, and I will assume it with grace. I may stumble along the road, but overall, I will take charge. Nonetheless, I still could never be President. Not because of all the stress, not because of your life being under a microscope, not because of your day being filled with worry over what's happening next. No, none of those. I can never be President because I am adopted.

I was adopted at two months old. I remember nothing of Colombia, the country where I was born. My first memory takes place somewhere in my Nonna's basement apartment, where my parents and I lived for the first two years of my life. Yet even though I've spent 194 out of 196 months of my life on American soil, as an American citizen, I am still unable to even run for candidacy.

Becoming President is a dream that many people have as a child. I never had the opportunity to have that dream. Why should I be penalized by the government for being adopted? Why should I be denied a dream? Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had one in a time where men like him were kicked off to the side and regarded as no higher than dirt by many. I am sixteen years old and I have a whole life ahead of me, am I not allowed to dream? I live in my dreams everyday, creating characters, worlds, “historic events,” everything. Yet, when I wish for something so simple, to be able to run for President, I cannot be granted my wish. How does that make sense in a society where TV personalities announce their candidacy on television and attempt to run for President? That is something I may never understand.

But I digress. To President Obama, I wish the best of luck in the next four years. As the new leader of our country, I hope that you will do what is right for this country. Help us live up to our name -- The Land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave -- once more. Help us to restore the foundation that is cracking beneath our feet. Help us and we will help you, that is all we ask as a people.

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