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Apr 19, 2004 (Dedicated to all those women who took similar paths, especially those who were lost along the way, and most of all, to Melissa Michelle, my oldest daughter. You are my heart and soul.) My husband asked me after the birth of our daughter, Ella, in 1999, how I could stand the pain? How did I endure it without screaming? I just laughed it off with some joke about women being stronger than men, but inside I knew the truth. The beatings I survived as a child were much worse. I learned the art of taking my mind and soul to another place so as to survive the belt buckle or broom handle; whatever Mother found handy. At the age of fifteen, I became pregnant. I hid the pregnancy until my second month when Mother burst into my room and informed me I would see a doctor because my ongoing sickness. The exam room was cold. The paper sheet spread across me was all that stood between the doctor and me. It only took him a few moments to expose my secret; disgusted, he removed his gloves and threw them on the metal table. The year was 1973 and pregnant fifteen-year-old girls were still shocking. He called my mother into the exam room. The moment became still, real, and I realized that I had lost my chance of ever convincing Mother to love me. “Your daughter is pregnant. I would guess she is nine to eleven weeks.” He stared at me over half glasses, condemning me with his look. “You can take her to New York City. It’s the only place in the country where it’s legal.” “How much does it cost?” Mother looked at me as if she already held the belt, swinging it back and forth. “A thousand dollars.” “I guess it’s the only way to save our name. Give me the information.” In front of me stood the two people deciding my baby’s future, a doctor lacking compassion and a mother who beat her frustrations into her only daughter. Somewhere deep inside my chest a voice stirred, screaming at me to fight with all my power. “No! I don’t care if you beat me to death, Mother. You can’t make this decision.” I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I was the one who would decide. “You’ll have to hurry, time is running out.” The doctor clicked his pen up and down. “If you don’t do what I want. I’ll make your life hell.” But, my newfound strength owned me. One night—I’d like to say it was because I was brave and I could see the future, but the truth is I was just a sad little girl trying to play being a woman—I decided I wanted to give life to my baby. I spent the next six months fighting one battle after another. I hid the identity of the father, not to protect him, but to keep my freedom. Marriage would only be mistake, a new prison replacing the old. The school board in the county outside of Atlanta where I lived tried to push me out of high school, citing I was not a good influence on the other girls. I fought to finish the year with the help of one teacher, Mrs. Vassar, who stood before the board with me. Her contract was not renewed the next year. I learned how a strong woman stood up for the rights of others. On September 20, 1973, after seven hours of labor, my oldest daughter was born. She was beautiful and the first good thing to come into my life. Full of youthful determination and dreams, I planned our life together. Many predicted my failure, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t fail many times. But, each time a failure knocked me down; I struggled back onto my feet, brushed myself off and moved forward. At the age of eighteen I escaped my mother for good after I gained decent employment and my high school diploma. I earned my liberal arts degree when I turned thirty, and found my childhood passion for writing only became stronger with age. Twenty-two years and two weeks after the birth of my daughter, I looked into the eyes of Morgan Leigh, my granddaughter. She stared at me with big eyes, and my world converged. In that moment, with that tiny bundle in my arms, I knew all my struggles, the beatings, the heart- breaking moments, the bruises in my life, brought her to me. I was part of a new legacy, one that taught the women in our family to be strong, to go for what they wanted. My granddaughter’s birth allowed me to believe in my decisions, in my survival. At thirty-five, I found myself, held her in my arms, and gave her the love she deserved. I came back to my mother last year when I was forty-five. Three years after the birth of my fourth daughter. She had lost her power, shriveled in a wheelchair, struggling with kidney disease. She never acknowledged my success as a woman of consequence. She never saw the small army of strong women I lead. She died without truly knowing her daughter or granddaughters. ------------ About the author Ann Hite: My formative years were spent in Atlanta, Georgia during the sixties with my extended family, who believed the south was a country of its own. From this lethal combination was born a writer, who to this day finds the characters from her family’s past creeping into her prose. It’s the stuff that makes writing interesting. My short story, Gabriel’s Horn, appeared in the January issue of The Dead Mule, a small southern literary magazine in business since 1995; Appaloosa Wind appeared on December 24, 2003 as the featured story in The Fiction Warehouse, a small literary magazine out of California; Shelter Belt appeared in the March/April issue of Skyline Magazine, an up and coming literary magazine—it’s an actual glossy that makes money— out of New York; Borrowed Time appeared in the March issue of Poor MoJo Almanac, a small literary magazine out of California. Mister Snake Gets Religion will appear in the late spring issue of Cold Glass. The Taut Rope will appear in the may issue of Long Short Story. I studied creative writing under Jane Hill, author and former Senior Editor of Longstreet Press and Atlanta author, Emily Ellison. My writing has appeared in case history form with BP Oil, where I am a technical writer. Visit Ann's website or email: annhite@bellsouth.net Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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