Fifteen

As a parenting writer, I never understood why there weren't more voices of mothers with teenagers. Sure, they piped up every now and then. In the early years when I was doing Hip Mama, an awesome woman approached me for advice--she wanted to do a kindred zine for teens and their parents. She put out a beautiful issue or two. And then she disappeared. I didn't know why.

Fifteen years ago tonight I was in labor.

Fifteen years ago tonight I was a 19-year-old in a foreign county in labor.

Fifteen years ago tonight my belly hurt and I wanted to act like a grown-up and act like I knew why my belly hurt.

I knew.

Fifteen years ago today I signed for a package in a foreign post office and as I wrote the date, I knew. February 6, 1990, and I knew. This was the last day things would feel the same to me and I wasn't even in labor yet, but I knew. I said to myself: Remember this date because you'll never feel this way again. Remember the way you feel. But I don't remember the way I felt. I only remember telling myself to remember.

Fifteen years ago tonight I promised my unborn baby the world.

Fifteen years ago tomorrow I promised my real and living baby that I'd protect her.

It was a promise I couldn't keep, of course.

For fifteen years, I believed that I could change the world in time.

But I am late.

Tonight I know why there were never more voices of mothers with teenagers; I know why my own mother has been quiet.

Tonight I feel quiet.

Tonight I want to listen.

Tonight I want to tell you what I hear, but the fuck-over is that I don't hear anything.

Fifteen years ago tonight I was in labor.

Fifteen years ago tonight I was a 19-year-old in a foreign county in labor.

And fifteen years ago tonight, I believed--large-hearted--that I would always be able to tell you everything.

I was wrong.

I can't tell you.

Silence is a part of the sound here.