Crimson in the Wings.

Photo by Mustafa Omar

Recovering memories is low-key embarrassing. Similar to a fill-in-the blank exam with scrambled words in the word bank. Despite having all the right answers in my memory, somehow I still end up at a disadvantage. Vulnerable. At the mercy of the ‘most right answer’ - whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. 

How would you respond if your daughter called with the question, ‘was I pregnant?’ hanging from her lips. That ‘family business’ Kanye rapped about… does that equate to this? Because your lack of interest in answering my questions is holding me hostage. Why does it seem everyone else knows, but won’t answer me? Like the answer is right in front of my face and I keep filling the incorrect word into the blank.

I recollect my pads overflowing. Crimson caught in the wings - I remember. The pressure in my low back. Confused, because my periods never used to be so heavy. Annoyed that they lasted longer than their normal three days. To soothe my irritation, I shuffled through my mental notes from the health class lesson. ‘Periods are different for everybody,’ our teacher, a man, claimed. I have never been able to hide my skepticism. Because, like, what would he know about periods?  I pulled at another straw from my memory, ‘if you look close enough, you can see the unfertilized egg.’ So, I did. Yeah, I looked. My ‘unfertilized egg’ was larger than the ‘smaller than a dime’ size he declared we would find. ‘His dumb-ass didn’t know anything.’ That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Now, when I think back to those who grew up around me, I hold their image in my mind’s eye to find the answers my family hides. What did they know? Did their whispers acknowledge the presence of that child? Did they know who fathered that baby? Did they notice the growth in my belly? Did my village choose the child that was in front of them rather than the one who made it's home inside me? That same village go on to say, ‘Wow! You’ve come such a long way.’ 

I want to hurl a, ‘yeah, no thanks to you’ in their face. Forreal though, like, it always seemed so strange that people were overly excited by how much I excelled. On one hand, they would say, ‘we knew you had it in you.’ On the other hand, their body language revealed that, well, maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they knew about the baby and thought that was all that was in the cards for me. Despite all the challenges mixed with potential, during those times, I would talk myself out of jumping from that second-story window. Not to die. Just to escape. To get away from my personal hell.

One time, I did. I trekked like, five miles under the street lights. I purposefully walked on the main streets, through the projects, for my safety. Eventually, I made it to my childhood best friend’s house. Just to be turned away. I still don’t know why her parents wouldn’t let me stay. 

When I retold this story to my therapist, eyes heavy with empathy and compassion tinting her full cheeks red, replied, ‘would you send a child back home if they journeyed to your house in the middle of the night?’ I took a moment to consider the possibilities. To reflect on what could have made them tell me ‘no’ that night. At 13 or 14, I attributed their refusal to her parents’ sternness to a fault. Unyieldingly strict, even though they called me their daughter's 'favorite friend’. Being a favorite should offer some leniency… right? My therapist broke my silent internal quarrel with another gut check, ‘do you know how many adults failed you?’

These adults, no. They were perfect in my eyes. They lived in a country club that I didn't qualify for the membership. How could they fail? Who? Me? My inner thoughts began to be spoken aloud:

• Who says happy mothers day to the girl who carried babies before carrying herself across the graduation stage?

• Who says happy mother’s day to the girl who carried a fetus, but has no baby to show for the experience?

• Who says happy mothers day to the girl whose child’s father is in her family?

Without skipping a beat, she challenged me - Are you asking because the ‘the girl’ in this scenario deserved the treatment she received?

After that heavy period, there was a subsequent medical visit. A family doctor, a pale-skinned woman with bouncy curls pulled back in a low pony, chastised me for not getting adequate sleep. She gloated about the environment her girls are growing up in. How lucky are the doctor’s children who get to go to bed at 9 pm?

Honey, this is not an apples to apples comparison. One child lived the nightmare of passing a pregnancy in the bathroom of her childhood home. While the others, the doctor's kids - whom I imagine have bouncy curls too, probably drift to sleep behind a locked door in their own bedroom. I wish I could go back in time. I would hold my breath until that doctor’s eyes met mine. Then breathe out the question: “how old was your daughter when she was first gang-raped?”