IVANKA
An imagined monologue spoken by Ivanka Trump.
“I remember these slow Sundays as daddy’s little girl. At the altar, I gave my prettiest, Presbyterian smile, ready to receive the Lord. And daddy was so proud, like the hyacinths that sprung from chalices. Facing the congregation, I waited for that smirk, for the right corner of his mouth to go rogue. Daddy was only the second-most smug; the man upstairs always beat him, so he spent the rest of life trying to cheat God.
On the walk home, down 5th Avenue, Erik was always first to loosen his tie, eager to step out of the Ralph Lauren noose. Daddy used to say that if I were the eldest boy, my neck would’ve looked so pretty, hanging in fine wool. My left hand, small and sweaty, was always wrapped in his right; I would nudge him on the shoulder, cuing him to cower down, away from mom and Erik and Donald: Daddy, can we have pecan pancakes? And so he told mom to pick up my roasted pecans from Balducci’s. Her eyes, caked and flowered with kohl, gave him an ugly yes. I never knew if it was a look of pity or a woman held hostage.
But now, from time to time, when I sit at my vanity, I see her eyes, captive on my face, which had the trappings of his. I see that set of sunken cheeks, once hidden under cat eye glasses, exposed by paparazzi flashes, noticed by a younger me as we walked to Choate, noticed when she kissed my forehead goodbye.
I never liked that slick, lippy imprint, right between my brows. But I think, what I hated more, was that it was a branding. A reminder that we, Ivana and Ivanka, were creations of Daddy — beautiful and very much his.”