Commencement
Jane Otto
Word Count 1652
Much as I admired girls in my high school class who were voted “Brainiest” or “Girl Most Likely to Succeed,” the truth is, I wasn’t remotely interested—as my father would have put it—in knuckling down. I was crowned “Best Legs” by the Class of ’69 and gifted a pair of L’eggs, the pantyhose sensation of the moment, packaged in a large plastic egg.
My classmates’ awards predicted a judge and a pediatrician. While not prestigious, mine referenced my focus throughout high school. Starting in tenth grade, I’d roll up my pleated skirt after drop off; in summer, hasten a caramel-colored tan by mixing Mercurochrome with Baby Oil. In some ways, “Best Legs” foretold the defining moment of my adolescence, even though I was anything but “experienced.” I was the girl with nicknames like “Bones” and “Slim” who longed for curves and a boyfriend. Small wonder then, when the lifeguard from our public pool paid attention to me; offered a ride on a stallion—all chrome, with a saddle soft as a horse’s muzzle. My father’s warnings—No motorcycles! Think of your teeth! All of that dental work, down the drain—were drowned out by roaring desire.
The lifeguard evaporated as quickly as he had appeared. Six to eight weeks later, I’d honed a skill for which there was no award. I’d mastered holding off vomiting so that no one would suspect I was pregnant. When the bell signaled the end of a period, I’d make a bee-line for the girls’ bathroom, claim a stall, flush the toilet, unleash breakfast, bile, lunch, more bile, and so on throughout the day. Home Economics became my favorite class because there would be food. Over tuna noodle casserole, our teacher informed us that we were “in training to become perfect wives.”
As my classmates counted down the remaining days of high school, I was trained on the calendar, counting backward to the first day of my last period. Even this simple calculation was complicated because I weighed less than a hundred pounds. I lacked the body fat necessary to produce estrogen, so menstruation was anything but regular. At night, flashlight beneath covers, I poured over my mother’s copy of “The Better Homes and Gardens Baby Book,” an authoritative place for expectant mothers when doubts and fears arise. I had plenty of both and only more confusion as I read that actual mating takes place in the fallopian tubes. I was pretty sure that actual mating had taken in my vagina after drinking too much Ripple at a party over spring break.
The diagram of a woman’s reproductive system only confirmed my bewilderment. Ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, and vagina looked like pages from “Popular Mechanics.” It takes 28 days to complete a menstrual cycle, three days for an egg to progress from ovary to fallopian tube, three to five days for an egg to travel the three- to five-inch distance from tube to womb. I read, re-read, counted backward and forward to gauge the timeline from egg to embryo. Whether my breasts were tender and swollen because I was pregnant or about to get my period. Whether brown circles were surrounding my nipples or just bad lighting from the flashlight. Whether my terror and dread were the result of the miracle of life, or like a bride, sick at the mere thought of being pregnant.
A month or so before graduation, my mother was on to me. At dinner, I’d eat more than my dad and both of my brothers. Before we’d finish cleaning up the kitchen, I’d have hurled lamb chops, asparagus, mashed potatoes in the bathroom nearest the kitchen. Afterward, as I foraged in the pantry, considering marshmallows, Triscuits, and canned tuna, my mother said to a sink full of dishes, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pregnant, but I know that’s not possible.”
“It’s possible,” I say to the pantry.
+ + +
Because abortion was neither safe nor legal, my parents arranged for me to remain in hiding with my godparents until the baby is born in December. I’m the envy of my classmates; even my mother’s friends swoon in response to my graduation present—a two-week trip to New York. In no time, family and friends are told that I’ve landed a job as an au pair for a Park Avenue family. I’ll be needed through the end of the summer. My planned sojourn was never mentioned so as to avoid speculation—fingers calculating the number of months between June and December.
In truth, while I’d been sent away to swell and wait in the summer that was marked by the Manson murders, “The Moonwalk,” and Woodstock, I was in demand as a babysitter. Mothers of small children that I watched became my guides for what was to come: stretch marks, raging pain, leaking breasts, and a body that would never be quite the same. A dog-eared copy of The Lamaze Method for Painless Childbirth was passed along with the recommendation that I learn how to breathe sooner, rather than later.
While good-natured and generous, my godparents were almost as foreign as the coffee-colored Linea-nigra that stretched from the “south pole” to my navel, dividing my abdomen into two hemispheres. My godfather, too mortified to make eye contact with a pregnant teenager, barricaded himself behind the New York Times. My godmother, a dietician, specialized in roast chicken that looked and tasted anemic; cottage cheese suspended in lime Jell-O; and vegetables steamed beyond recognition. I spent all of my babysitting money on anchovies, pork rinds, and Sicilian salami.
Because my view of labor and delivery was largely informed by The Secret Storm, I was terrified that my baby would come as fast as a half-hour segment of a soap opera. Following a sharp pain, I could potentially give birth on a living room floor. My monthly visit to the obstetrician confirmed that “first babies take their time,” but I’m also informed that I won’t be allowed to give birth in the local, private hospital because I’m not married. In our weekly phone call, working damp and molting tissues, I ask my mother in a high-pitched voice, “What will happen to me?”
By November, she has found a place in Denver for girls who are in trouble. It is one-stop shopping, with housing, wholesome meals, counseling, placement services for adoption, and even a private hospital. However, transferring me at this very late—and obvious—date has to carefully handled. On the off chance that I might cross paths with someone from our town in rural Colorado, a flight from JFK to Denver is booked for 12:10 a.m. “To be on the safe side,” a platinum blonde wig and oversized Jackie-Oh! sunglasses are to be worn until I arrive at the Florence Crittenton Home. Once ensconced, letters written to my grandmother and friends must be stamped and sent to the Postmaster General in Port Washington, New York, “so they bear the ‘right postmark.’ So we keep our story straight.” At JFK, I buy postcards with landmark scenes of New York City. This correspondence will mark my first foray into writing fiction.
+ + +
My roommates—Charla, Michelle, Lynn—and I refer to the Crittenton Home as the Home for Wayward Girls. Our suite is a gathering place, in part because it included an enormous closet of castoff maternity wear. Every newcomer files through our room to pilfer through hand-me-downs. The clothes rack starts with a black, moiré bathing dress that harkens to our grandmothers’ era, traveling through decades of outfits to a hot pink and avocado green paper dress that shrieks “now.”
Our rooms are also closest to an emergency exit, which lacks an alarm and opens out onto Colorado Boulevard. Each night after lights out, the door is propped open with a shoe. Each night a pair of girls scurries across the boulevard, intoxicated by danger; the taste of contraband—Coke, ‘fries, and roast beef sandwiches with “horsey sauce.”
+ + +
When I go into labor, my roommate, Lynn, and I take the elevator up to the hospital. She is my coach. For the last month, we’ve been training for a painless birth. Armed with my well-read book, lollipops, and a brown paper bag for panting, I’m determined to be fully present for labor and delivery. This goes against protocols at the Home. During orientation, new arrivals are told that everyone receives general anesthetic; that we won’t remember a thing. When I’m met with resistance, and reminded of the rules, I inform the staff that I refuse to be drugged. If I can’t have a natural childbirth, I’ll go back downstairs and drop a dime into the pay phone; I’ll call an ambulance and go to a public hospital; if anything happens to my baby or me, my parents will sue.
This, of course, is a lie.
In the end, after eighteen hours of labor, I’d do anything for the drugs. I’m given a “saddle block,” and in no time, two giant shoe horns pull my baby from my body. It is as though he is a Giant Sequoia being unearthed from the lower regions of my body. He is huge; eight pounds, three ounces.
Two days later, my mother came to the Home. We visit the nursery and hold my baby, who is perfect; peach-colored and curled like the frond of a fern. On seeing him and holding him, my mother says, “He’s beautiful. We have to take him home.”
All I can imagine for myself is a future born out of a bassinet in my pink room across the hall from my parent’s bedroom. I tell my mother that I have been through enough, and that I just want to be normal. I want to go to college like other girls my age.
The next morning, I went to court to sign away my baby. All I remember are the judge’s black robes and wing-tipped shoes. This was an ending. This was my beginning.
Jane was raised in Colorado and grew up in New York City. She recently completed a memoir in verse entitled “At the Home for Wayward Girls.” Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in Nimrod International Journal, PANK Magazine, The Journal, and New Southerner, among others. Jane enjoyed a long career in the non-profit sector. Currently, she provides pro bono services for organizations serving people with disabilities. Photo credit: a photobooth in downtown L.A.