Nine February 1968 #3
“Good evening. It’s so nice to see so many concerned citizens.
” He stopped to clear his throat again. “As you know, historically there have been some unwanted practices related to childbirth that have been happening in and around our town. While these practices may have been welcome in the past, we have made wonderful advances in medical treatment that provide a safe and clean environment where women can labour.” He looked around the room, careful to avoid making eye contact with either of us. Kiju sat still and said nothing.
“We have a guest with us this evening to better explain the dangers of these practices and the advancements that make labour safer for our womenfolk. Please help me welcome Dr. Vincent Thorn.”
I didn’t recognize the man, dressed in his fancy suit, who walked down the centre aisle, took the mayor’s hand and thanked him for the invite.
“As many of you know, the medical field has advanced quite a lot in the last few decades. Giving birth is now safer for both mother and child, as well as being less painful for the mother. There is no longer a need for the . . .” He stopped to consider his words.
“. . . more uncivilized ways of having children that could and does endanger both the mother and the child.”
He looked directly at us. Someone must have told him who we were. The room was quiet except for the nervous shuffling of feet.
“I think everyone will agree with me that progress is welcome, and the safety of the women and children is paramount.”
A few quiet claps.
Kiju stood and the room went as quiet as a tomb. Hands stopped mid-clap, waiting.
“I think that you and everyone else here should respect the ways in which women choose to give birth. If a woman chooses a hospital, that is her right, but traditional birth should always be an option. A woman should be able to choose without fear or pressure.” She spoke softly, and everything she said was a matter of fact.
“And you, a man, think you know what is best for a woman. You who want to deprive her of memory, of the moment she brings life into the world, by knocking her unconscious. It’s cruel, if you ask me. ”
“Ma’am—”
“Please let me finish before you carry on with your bullshit.”
I choked back a laugh. I don’t think I’d ever heard her swear in all my years on earth. It was a shock, and I was delighted by it.
“If a woman chooses to give birth in one of your institutions, that is her right. If she chooses to give birth among nature, where she is held in the earth’s embrace, what gives you the right to tell her she is not allowed? Where do you get your moral authority?”
The room was quiet.
“You have nothing to say?” She looked around the room as people looked at their hands, their feet, the wall—anything except my grandmother. “Well, to me, that says it all. I’m finished now.” Kiju sat back down and placed her hands on her lap.
“Mrs. Paul.” Father Michael was standing now. “I believe that the doctor has a good point. We just want what is best.”
“And a bunch of men know what’s best for a woman? I hardly think so.”
“Mrs. Paul. I agree with the doctor, and I think most of the women here do as well.” Father Michael looked around the room, half-full of nodding women.
“You have corrupted their minds. You have convinced them of something you want. Half of these women have been to my door, for teas and medicines.”
I looked around the room at the women who wouldn’t look at us.
My home economics teacher, the wife of the man who owned the grocery store, and the woman who lived three houses down from ours—they had all been to the house for something to stop headaches, or a tonic to ease a nasty belly, one to end a pregnancy she didn’t want to explain to anyone.
Yet they said nothing to defend my grandmother.
“You keep your practices and I will keep mine. I just ask that you stop trying to terrify our women into adopting your ways. It’s unfair and it’s wrong.” Kiju reached over and took my hand. “I have nothing else to say. I’ve said my piece.”
We stood and started to walk down the aisle toward the door when a woman younger than my grandmother but much older than me slid her thin body down the narrow row of chairs and stepped out into the aisle, blocking our way to the door.
She was tall and bent her back to make sure she would meet Kiju’s eyes.
“I didn’t want to say anything, but you of all people should understand. You let your own daughter die.” She whispered it, but just loud enough for the people sitting on the aisle to hear. A hush fell over the room. I swear that every single person was holding their breath.
My grandmother was a kind woman, not prone to fits of anger or violence, so when she brought her arm up, stretched out her fingers and slapped the woman so hard that the sound of it echoed off the walls, it was all I could do not to either run or start to laugh.
The woman’s head of auburn curls, so neatly assembled and without a hair out of place, was flung to the side and her cheek, powdered with rouge, was now as red as a sunset.
Kiju looked at me, took my hand, and walked around the woman and out into the night air as those inside gasped and moved to help the vile woman.
A three-quarters moon guided our walk home. The wind had settled, and the cool air felt good on my face.
“I’m ashamed,” she said quietly.
“Of what?”
“Of my behaviour. I shouldn’t have hit her.”
“I thought it was great.”
She stopped and turned toward me, her face in shadow. “Aliet, violence, whether with words or hands, is always a bad idea.” Yet there was the smallest smile on her face.
She turned and started walking again. “But boy, did that feel good.”
We both laughed, and I hooked my arm in hers.
“I need you to know.” She stopped to catch her breath.
“I need you to know that I would never have let your mother die. She was my entire life. I loved her more than the moon loves the stars. Her pregnancy was normal, nothing out of the ordinary. If there was something wrong, I would have taken her to the hospital. It was her heart, a condition she’d had since birth, but we didn’t know, no one knew. I would never let her die.”
“I know that.”
“Good, but I had to say it out loud. Throw it out into the universe. Hopefully, she knows.”
“She does.”
“It’s not something you ever get over, losing a child. It’s something that never ends, the grief just comes and goes as it pleases. It’s a greedy thing, grief. You have to sit with it, let it do what it does, and then rise up and keep going.”
I kicked a rock into the ditch and let her talk. Sometimes, when she got like this, I wasn’t even sure she knew I was around. But as we turned the last corner toward home, her mittened hand took my mittened hand and she started to swing until we both had no choice but to smile.