Dear Mr. President Barack H. Obama (can I call you Barry?),

I wanted to write you a letter because I've been feeling a little disappointed.

You see, Mr. President, I am a college student (as you once were not so long ago, possibly to your disbelief). I currently am enrolled in a course titled "Foundations of American Politics," and I absolutely love it. You most likely took a similar class, because I read on Wikipedia that you earned a degree in Political Science from Columbia University. Did you know that Columbia University was originally named King's College? And that Alexander Hamilton shares your alma mater? I learned that in my American Pol class; we are slowly making our way through Ron Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton. As I annotated my way through the pages, I was suddenly inspired to write you this letter.

It would be in your best interest, Barry, to read this biography. I find it quite fascinating. Perhaps you have already read it, because the musical that it inspired made a big splash on pop culture this year; if you consider yourself a good president (I'll leave that discretion up to you), then hopefully that means you care about what is of concern to the American people. I’m sure you care, right? So not only do I better understand the formation of this great nation but now I benefit from a greater appreciation of the men who outlined the storyline for the novel that is the United States of America.

It'd be really cool if this letter gets to you. I sort of feel like I'm writing a wish-list to Santa: my wishes materialized with hopes that someone with magical powers will read this, but really only my mom will bother to read it. It's just a shame because this nation was designed of, for, and by the people. In today's world, I could write a letter to my state senator or representative—maybe he or she would take pity on my plea or even see a good PR opportunity in inviting me to spend a day at the capital; but after that, my letter would die like so many other bills on Capitol Hill. So when my generation has things to say, we turn to "open letters" on platforms like "Odyssey." We desperately hope that it becomes the article of the week to take the internet by storm—or more regretfully, that it might incite a riot (as opposed to the peaceful assembly permitted by the First Amendment). Where is the motivation in writing a heartfelt letter, Mr. President, when dramatic flair seems to be the only means of change? As I read about Hamilton’s navigation from illegitimate orphan to the most influential politician in America, I admire his use of words, of letter-writing, of persuasion by pen.

The men (and truthfully their incredibly supportive wives) who penned the Constitution, drafted letters to Congress in wartime to ask for money, and kept the Union together in an unfathomable manner: no Twitter, no Facebook rants, no Instagram “shoutouts,” no national primetime TV news coverage of their raids on the British enemy. Words used to matter. Now words are just letters painted on posters, taped on sticks, and thrust into the air. The words might mean something in their general representation of the movement, like #BlackLivesMatter, but it’s the scenes and actions that are getting the attention—not the words on their picket signs.

My mother used to tell me that “it’s not what you say; it’s how you say it.” She’s right now more than ever. It feels like today I could stand on a rooftop and talk about brushing my teeth and I’d cause a scene because people are always looking for drama, for something to post on Snapchat stories. They don’t care about the words that leave my lips, just the retweets that blow up their notifications.

Mr. President, I just want to know when what I have to say will matter again. I want to know that this time and money I’m spending to get a college degree will be worth it, that I can follow my passion of writing without being scared. I sit in my American Pol class in pure awe of the sweet professor (who worked for the Reagan Administration, quite interestingly), of his knowledge, and his sheer joy in discussing the political philosophies and risks and sacrifices that made this nation possible. I want to do something big like Alexander Hamilton, to let the words pour from my fingertips and let my words matter. I want to wholeheartedly serve this nation, to boldly turn down monetary compensations for my service in a valiant act of patriotism, to speak and be heard. I want others to know I’m not writing just to waste my breath, that I’m here for the real deal. I have more to say than an “open letter to my childhood self” or a roof-top speech about my morning routine; I am ready to change the world but this election makes me think all hope is lost.

I wonder what you think of this election. Do you think my generation has any reason to have hope? I’m normally the first one to promise that there is hope, that voting matters, that you can be the change. Watching Trump and Clinton debate last week made me feel otherwise, and then I grew more disappointed at the stale, two-party system that forced Johnson to answer questions from college students in a rushed manner later in the week. I wanted to hear what Johnson had to say, to give this man who has pledged four years of service as one of the most important people on the globe a chance to be heard. For Heaven’s sake, he is giving a lot of resources to this nation and we can’t even pay him the respect he deserves by just listening to what he has to say? In a political environment that isn’t even friendly to a third party candidate, why should I expect it to be friendly to an 18-year-old college kid just trying to find hope in her future? Am I wrong to worry we’ve returned to an aristocratic-dominant government where meritocracy means nothing?

If meritocracy means nothing, then I made the wrong choice. I thought I could attend a non-Ivy school and still end up in the leather chair behind the desk in the Oval Office. It’s a shame that the place where I feel comfortable and blessed with opportunities isn’t that magical door I worry I need to place me in the right room with the right connections. Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t a girl who cries watching documentaries about the Department of Labor (seriously, I cried because I actually found the graphs, like, beautifully fascinating and deeply meaningful) make her way to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue by her own merit? When will it be so that the message of our words will be the first and last of our intentions? When will it be so that we speak our minds for the sake of what we have to say and not for that chance at our 15 seconds of fame?

I know it’s hypocritical of me to post this letter to you, because I know everyone is thinking I wrote it to you in hopes that it goes viral on Facebook and that your Chief of Staff’s secretary’s secretary’s friend will share it over drinks after a long week, and you’ll be briefed about it next Wednesday. You’ll say, “find this girl,” and I’ll magically get an email requesting a meeting with the President. That’d be cool. But I’m not writing it for that, I’m writing it because I have something to say and as my President, my last bit of hope rides on believing that you care and you listen. Write back, or don’t. I’m sure you’re busy.

Best,

Lydia