Stephen Miller Is the Enemy of My Dreams

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I am a peaceable person. By that I mean I avoid conflict and also I’m quite lazy. People generally appeal to me. I can see their good side. I sometimes have fleeting antagonisms: toward a waitress I feel is being too performative in her friendship with a coffee shop regular, or that woman on the subway eating a plum really loudly. But in general, I have a smiley face and at the risk of sounding bonkers, I make friends with almost everyone I come across. What I’m missing, I’ve come to realize after a summer of cookouts and heart-to-hearts and hiking trips, is an enemy.

Until I secure a worthwhile enemy, I cannot consider myself a successful grown-up. It’s sobering to consider why it hasn’t happened yet. Am I not important enough? Am I not fierce enough?

Every heroine must have an opponent who makes her better, stronger, nimbler than before. Who shall propel me forward on waves of bitter animosity? Crucially, I live in a chaotic time where people like me, people who usually bumble along unbothered, have to step up and stand for something. It’s not a hardening of the heart so much as a sharpening of the spirit.

So recently I closed my eyes and looked around on a deep level for who’s bothering me. All my life I’ve been mystified by and envious of people with a clear sense of purpose combined with an undeserved sense of confidence. Then I have pet hates — ones that have bloomed so abundant in this country of late, namely racism, the demonizing of immigrants, and white people lashing out at progress because they somehow feel victimized by it. Out of this checklist, a phantasm emerged, and as it took shape I saw it was none other than Stephen Miller, waving at me cheerfully as he stepped into view. It’s funny, isn’t it? Sometimes what you’re looking for has been right there all along, shouting over women on cable news shows.

Mr. Miller is one of President Trump’s senior advisers on policy, and he served as his hype man on the campaign trail. On Friday, it emerged that in May, he drafted a letter firing the F.B.I. director James B. Comey, but the letter was too problematic to use. More recently, you could catch him haughtily disrespecting the Statue of Liberty and, it seems likely, hastening the end of DACA, the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, the most humane and sensible piece of immigration reform in decades. He wears skinny ties. He has a loud voice and quiet eyes. His obsession is immigration and how scary immigrants are. He blames us for everything.

This country has practically militarized borders, but Mr. Miller insists that “uncontrolled migration” is responsible for plummeting wages and overcrowded schools. He skips over the fact that migration is strictly controlled, technology has taken jobs away from Americans far more than immigrants have, overcrowding in schools is caused by a plethora of factors, and crime rates are lower among immigrants than among people born here. Like his boss’s, his lies are so brazen it’s almost impressive.

I think he’s The One. Mr. Miller and I both spend our time thinking and learning about immigration. I am an immigrant and make a podcast about immigration, but he goes many steps further. He helps create our nation’s immigration policy. He was a big proponent of the first travel ban. You know, the grotesque one that tried to block Syrian refugees forever. I understand that he is stronger than I am, not physically, I’d imagine, but politically.

I do not know him personally and he doesn’t have a clue who I am. Perhaps it’s self-aggrandizing of me to choose him, but a real enemy should be a stretch. He is clever and works very hard. He has immense privilege. I watch him closely. I wonder how healthy it is, this new fixation on my enemy. Then I recall hearing animal experts say that getting a second cat, even one that your first cat despises, is a good idea. That’s because the second cat gives the first cat something to think about, and this mental stimulation is a positive thing; it can even extend the cat’s life. I’m that first cat, getting tougher, more focused, maybe a bit immortal. “Miller,” I think, “where are you now? What are you doing? Are you using my litter box again?”

Mr. Miller seems to enjoy animosity, so perhaps I shouldn’t give him what he craves. I remind myself that he was once a chubby little baby, with balled-up fists, looking out from his stroller at lights and shadows. Even today, he’s really just a guy in a little suit he has chosen so carefully that it breaks my heart. I wonder why he wants everyone to speak English all the time — did his parents force him to watch too much “Dora the Explorer”? I wonder how he squares his great-grandparents’ fleeing Belarus, running for their lives to America, with his repeated attempts to shut out the equivalent families of today.

Recently I’ve been following the social media hashtag #undocujoy. It’s a space where undocumented immigrants show up smiling, celebrating birthdays and graduations, despite the fear instilled by this administration. I scroll through the images and I’m delighted. “Miller would really hate this,” I think.

I’d much rather he wasn’t in the White House, but having him as my enemy gives me clarity. While he’s over there, destroying, I’ll be right here, creating. The math on how best to live is simple now. We need to protect one another and value each person equally, and anyone working against that? Well, he will have to face me.