At First

At first, it was the light bulb. It glared into my eyes from the center of the ceiling all evening as I lay in my crib. I was alone. Once, when I had been at a grocery store in my stroller, I had heard my mother explain to someone that I was being raised very scientifically, according to the book. I got fed every eight hours.  I’m not sure the book said I should get changed only every eight hours, but that was the practice, with some smelly exceptions. My bum stung and burned all the time.

When I was in the womb Mother told many people that I had to be a boy because she refused to have a girl. When I finally made my way into the world, and the doctor told Mother I was female, she sobbed and swore. The doctor offered to put me back.

I should mention that I have a very long memory. I remember way before I was in the womb, way before I was on this planet—so many lives, so much vivid detail, so many words. The words are important. They came with me into this life.

Terror came when I cried. Many years later, my father proudly explained his theory to me. I could be taught not to cry by simply preventing me from crying. He would hold my tiny ankles in one hand and my wrists in another so that I couldn’t move at all, and my mother would put her hand over my mouth. My nose was entirely clogged from crying, and the pain in my arms and legs was subsumed by the panic of being unable to breathe. She did move her hand and let me gasp for breath every now and then, but not nearly often enough. I thought they meant to kill me. Perhaps that’s what they did to unwanted girls. They left the room when it didn’t work and I kept crying anyway. They would try again later.

In the daytime, I was in my stroller at the machine shop my father owned. My mother worked there with him. Every eight hours, she fed and changed me. She slapped me when I cried. It never made me stop crying. Perhaps, it made her feel better? “Stop that! You’re just being emotional,” she told me.

Eventually, I had a playpen to stay in at the shop. In time, I learned to pull myself up and stand. Crawling and walking were not options—it was playpen by day, crib by night.

But there were words. I had been gifted a mother who was erudite. She eschewed baby talk and spoke to me as if I were a university graduate. I pleased her and got attention by trying to talk. She insisted upon correct pronunciation and good grammar. If I couldn’t speak correctly, I should be quiet. But she taught me! Words were the joy of my life. I believed they were the key to my survival—and so they have proven themselves to be in later life—but then they got Mother interested in me, actually seeming to take pleasure in my company and smiling when I got a word right. Thank God for words and for a mother who would teach me them.