Chapter Text
1913
Woodrow Wilson hadn’t expected his nation to be a woman.
Or almost a woman, anyway. The United States of America was a girl of about seventeen or eighteen years, younger than all of his daughters. She looked like his second daughter, Jessie, with her blonde hair pinned up and waving, and a sweet, delicate, aristocratic face. The difference shone in their eyes; whereas his daughter looked upon him with deferential interest, America stared at him with the sharp, appraising gleam of a predator. Despite her reserved posture, that gaze pinned him from the other side of the Oval Office, making him straighten his back as she approached.
He had been informed of her existence shortly before their meeting. A five-minute preparatory talk hadn’t been helpful. The Director of the Secret Service had pulled him aside and said, “Mr. President, nations are personified.”
“Excuse me?”
“Admiral Kirkland, for the British Empire. Lieutenant-General Williams, for Canada. General Jones is ours.” The director gave him a docket. “Here are some preliminary reports on the nature of nations and their utility. General Jones will visit you and explain the rest. All you need to know is the general is the United States of America in the flesh and ought to be treated as such.”
Woodrow hadn’t been able to ask any questions before the director handed him two items: a shotgun and a bouquet of blue flowers. Woodrow hefted the items into his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Is this an inaugural gift?”
The director shook his head. “It’s a ritual. Choose one to give to America. It’s a bit like announcing what your intentions are for the country. Every president since Washington has done so.”
“What type of boy wants flowers?”
“You misunderstand, sir. America is not a boy, or a man—America is a nation.”
And, apparently, also a woman. The director must be laughing his ass off. Woodrow hadn’t imagined the small smile at his assumption—and it was just his luck that, after having three daughters, he was charged with another girl to care for. An immortal one, at that. Somehow, the immortal aspect was easier to comprehend than the fact that a woman was a general.
Nation, the director had insisted. Nation, not a boy, or a man. Or a woman? But a nation. Maybe a nation in a woman’s body. Woodrow could comprehend that. Like the personification of America that always appeared in those grand artworks—the spirit of Columbia, the Lady Liberty—and now, with his nation before him, vibrant and shining and beautiful, he could see where the inspiration for all those avatars of America came from.
“Amelia F. Jones,” she said, shaking his hand. Woodrow winced under her grip. “The United States of America, at your service. It’s good to meet you, sir.”
“Amelia,” Woodrow said, testing the name out, “or America?”
“Whichever you prefer. They’re both my names.”
“Forgive me—I’m having trouble understanding how a person can have two. Or how they can be both.”
“Amelia is the name I was christened with,” his nation explained patiently. “Then, I was small, and people called me all sorts of names. Virginia, New England, the Thirteen Colonies—but the name I earned was the United States of America.”
“America,” Woodrow said. The name felt heavy on his tongue. America squeezed his hand lightly. Her form flickered before him. Memories that were not his flashed across his mind, spanning across time and space. A settlement made out of wood expanded into a village, a town, a city. Buildings stretched toward the sky. Wheat fields and looming mountains. The voices of millions of people overlapped before being overpowered by the revving of an airplane.
America let go of his hand. Woodrow blinked as the nation folded itself back into the shape of a woman.
“You really are the nation,” he said.
“Of course I am.” America grinned.
“And you are a woman. Or you have the shape of one.” Woodrow held up his hands pacifyingly. “Please do not misunderstand. It seems like most other world powers are men. I thought my nation would be—well—I am surprised.”
“It’s true. I’m somewhat of an anomaly,” America agreed. To Woodrow’s relief, she didn’t seem upset by his comments. He felt that she understood him completely, and that he had no understanding of her at all. “Most nations are not women.”
“Why?”
“A nation’s primary goal is their people’s prosperity. That involves defense. Making war. Not many civilizations would trust a woman to lead a battalion—or would want her in the midst of a man’s war—so they kill the girls.”
“But you are alive,” Woodrow said.
America’s smile had an edge. “Because they couldn’t kill me. I believe you have something for me?”
“Oh. Yes.” Woodrow took the bouquet from his desk and handed it to America. “I am told I ought to declare my intentions, so here they are. I have no desire to bring you into any large-scale military conflicts. I hope you enjoy the flowers.”
“Blue daisies are my favorite,” America agreed. She cast a surreptitious look at the gun before petting the petals.
Woodrow brushed over the gun. “Would any president truly give this to you?”
“More than you would think,” America said. “If you are lucky, you will never have the chance to comprehend why.”