Tessie D

I had a terrible night last night. I didn’t get any sleep, and then I came into work and broke down in tears in front of Angel. He was so confused, and I couldn’t tell him the real reason why. I just told him that it was about a book I’d read, and he figured it had something to do with reading a sappy, romantic novel or something.

I couldn’t tell him the truth about what the book was really about and how much it gutted me.

I’d checked out a book from the library a couple days ago. I hadn’t had a chance to get over to the library in a few days, and I’d finished what I’d checked out last time–She’s Come Undone–so I stopped by after work. I stumbled on it by accident while looking through one of the displays a librarian put together, “Redemption Stories”: Les Misérables, Crime and Punishment, The Scarlet Letter, The Liar’s Club, Push, Angela’s Ashes, The Book of Ruth.

The cover was black with green, red, yellow, and blue block letters: RIDING IN CARS WITH BOYS: Confessions of a Bad Girl Who Makes Good. It was about Beverly Donofrio’s experiences in the 1960s as a pregnant teenager and young mother trying to make it as a writer in New York City. I was excited to read it and rushed home with it in my purse.

I probably should be ashamed to admit it, but I watched a Molly Ringwald movie, For Keeps, at least twenty, thirty times when I was pregnant and at home with Baby after she was first born. I was desperate for a story… a narrative that helped me understand what was going on. I wanted so badly to see someone else’s happily ever after to believe that mine was coming, too. Despite the same experiences with getting pregnant and having a baby, I’d be okay and rise above it all, too.

This wasn’t that book. Or maybe it was, but I was too devastated by the end of the book to care.

I was doing okay until about a quarter of the way through, and then it started to go dark. Reading in bed, I was horrified. Donofrio had written a book that validated and articulated all the reasons why people were cruel and unkind to me. I’d been blindsided by a narrative and felt more vulnerable than I had in months. I wasn’t just sad; I layed in bed that night feeling gutted and devastated.

Maybe the book was supposed to be a narrative about resilience and rising above, but Donofrio was… terrible. A terrible teenager. A terrible mother. She said awful things to her son. Her family said cruel things to her. She was an entirely unlikeable, unsympathetic character who validated the world’s cruelty. She was an archetype for why girls like me deserved to be punished and gave readers a vocabulary for how to do it. Donofrio was a self-absorbed, reckless teenager who became a resentful mother. Donofrio was cynical and mean, so there was no room to feel any sort of empathy for her. She betrayed other girls like her. Like me. And, for what?

Her book was a megaphone that confirmed the worst fears I’d had about how the world saw me: a person without worth or dignity, and unworthy of love and compassion. I spent most of the night crying, tossing and turning, thinking, “This is what people think about me. What they thought about me.” I was a bad girl who’d done bad things, and I got what I deserved.

I remember trying to buy juice at Wal-Mart with my WIC voucher and the cashier–a short, elderly man with thick grey hair and a sour expression–stopped scanning the groceries, looked over at me, and told me that I deserve grape juice and cereal. Baby was sitting in her carrier in the basket, and I was tickling her toes through her socks. He saw my baby and me, a nineteen-year-old girl, barely more than a child herself, and wanted to make sure that I knew, in that moment, I didn’t deserve food. I didn’t deserve to eat. Because why? I’d had a baby and needed a little help. I deserved to starve for that sin.

I’d say that I deserved to beg, but I’d already done that. I’d already been to the Medicaid office and been humiliated enough for several lifetimes just filling out the paperwork and meeting with the social worker. “So who is the father of ‘this’ baby?” She’d asked. I’d waited for two hours in the lobby for my appointment before being called back. Baby was just a few weeks old and was sleeping in her carrier.

I’d tried not to apply for food stamps.

I’d already done this dance when I applied for Medicaid so that I could see the doctor for my prenatal appointments. I’d figured I’d need help with paying for the doctor’s appointments and that I could apply for government assistance because that was best for Baby. I was surprised by the social worker’s thinly veiled disdain during my initial meeting, “Do you know who the father is?” She’d asked. I’d left that part of the application blank when I’d filled it out while waiting for our appointment.

I didn’t respond.

“You’ll have to disclose the father’s name for the birth certificate. The state will expect him to pay child support.”

I still didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to tell the truth. I looked down at my hands in my lap.

She looked back at her computer and kept typing.

She was wrong. If you don’t put anyone’s name down under “Father,” nothing happens. It just says “<Blank>” on the birth certificate.

“Do you know who the father is?” The second social worker had asked when I finally accepted that I didn’t have enough money for food for either of us. Baby was six months old, and I’d spent all of my savings. I’d already returned all of the baby gifts I’d received over the past couple weeks from Momma’s coworkers and from the few friends who’d come by the house. I’d stopped by Wal-Mart on the way home from the hospital, stood in line with a 2-day-old baby, and returned all of the gifts for store credit to buy baby formula and diapers.

Again, I said nothing and went back to fussing over Baby.

Like the first social worker from months earlier, she just turned her attention back to the computer and started typing again.

So, no, I didn’t like Donofrio’s book.