By Jane Lazarre
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It had been one thing to understand racism and to hate it as I saw it affecting people I had come to love. It was quite another to imagine my own child having to struggle against the world in ways I had not experienced until I was past twenty. Love for my baby filled me, along with a new anger at a world in which I had felt myself to be a stranger, in which I lived only as a result of the greatest exertion. Having felt slightly apart all of my life, it was not any quest for social acceptance which my baby's racial identity threatened.
I could no longer see clearly but I felt James's arm. I wanted him to think me strong, grown up. like him. Not like my tired, confused self, my inner strength almost broken from the pressures of maternity. On the delivery table, I had lost the faith that I would live. I was afraid to touch my vagina or my anus-knowing that my hand would return dripping with my own precious blood. "Hemorrhaged on the delivery table," I could hear the doctor say as he emerged from the room. Iron clamps covered most of my forearms.
It was odd not to have to worry about birth control. It should have freed me, I told myself, to a sexual abandon hitherto unexperienced in my life. But, unfortunately, floor-to-ceiling mirrors faced our bed; whoever designed those mirrored closet doors had a more supple body than mine in mind. All of my life I had struggled to see my body as being beautiful even though my big breasts always seemed so ungainly when compared to the subtle. boyish chests ornamenting the New York Times Magazine every Sunday.