Alice B. reviewed The Inconvenient Child: An Abandoned Australian Child Struggles to Survive and Find her American Father on + 3563 more book reviews
MY GRANDMOTHER wanted me dead even before I was born.
`Abort it. Adopt it. Drown it. Just get rid of it! That evil child is never coming into my home.'
Her vile words were revealed to me by my cousin a few years ago, after a couple of bottles of chardonnay.
Evidently, my grandmother had gone on to say to my horrified mother, `You will ruin your life. A good and decent man will come along one day and want to marry you. But that will never happen if you keep this devil child. No man will ever want you! And besides, what will the neighbors think?'
She had just heard what was to her, an appalling confession from her youngest daughter: that she was pregnant with me, the illegitimate child of an American `colored' man. My grandmother convinced my mother her life would be ruined if she kept this devil child: I was evil and the sensible thing to do was to get rid of me. And so my mother agreed. Well, almost.
I WAS BORN IN SYDNEY, Australia, on November 2, 1948, three years after the end of World War II, in Crown Street Women's Hospital. I emerged with chocolate-colored skin, brown eyes, soft black curls, huge lungs and a spirit I believe was blessed by God himself. Fortunately, He also bestowed on me the gifts of strength, determination, persistence and willpower to guide me through the next grueling years of my life.
There were no celebrations when I drew breath on that hot All Souls' Day. No baby shower or nervous father pacing impatiently in the waiting room. No tears of joy or relatives and friends rushing to visit with bouquets of flowers and teddy bears. I came into this world quietly and secretly. Few knew of my arrival and fewer still thought I was special.
In fact, the doctor and nurses must have stared in astonishment when they delivered the tiny black baby to the fair-haired and delicate young woman with ivory-colored skin. I imagine my mother would have considered this moment her greatest humiliation.
Later, back in her ward with the other new mothers, the nurse placed me into her arms. No doubt the embarrassment and shame was almost too much to bear as she took in the shocked expressions on the faces of the women in the other beds. What an incongruous sight, she would have thought. Blue eyes and blond hair, and cradling a tiny brown-skinned baby. And to make matters worse, she didn't have a husband by her side! Where was that man? He had promised he would return. He'd promised her love and marriage. When he came back everything would work out, she was sure of it. They would be married. She would be his wife and he would take her to live in America. Wouldn't he?
I was born into a hostile environment because of the color of my skin. Not only was it unacceptable to be born illegitimate in Australia in 1948 but to be born brown or black as well was unforgivable. In my mother's defense, frankly she had few choices. A backyard abortion was far too dangerous, not to mention illegal and extremely expensive, and adoption was just not an option. In that era, `colored' babies were not wanted by anyone, full stop.
Ignoring the whispers and sniggers surrounding her that hot November day, my mother stared into my little face. She knew the road ahead would be almost unbearable but she realized she had to try to take care of me. She had no choice. However, she couldn't take me home to live with her at her mother's house, so she decided she would find people to look after me, somewhere. And so I became my mother's secret.
My existence was to become the family's shame; one of those family secrets known by most but never mentioned.
`Abort it. Adopt it. Drown it. Just get rid of it! That evil child is never coming into my home.'
Her vile words were revealed to me by my cousin a few years ago, after a couple of bottles of chardonnay.
Evidently, my grandmother had gone on to say to my horrified mother, `You will ruin your life. A good and decent man will come along one day and want to marry you. But that will never happen if you keep this devil child. No man will ever want you! And besides, what will the neighbors think?'
She had just heard what was to her, an appalling confession from her youngest daughter: that she was pregnant with me, the illegitimate child of an American `colored' man. My grandmother convinced my mother her life would be ruined if she kept this devil child: I was evil and the sensible thing to do was to get rid of me. And so my mother agreed. Well, almost.
I WAS BORN IN SYDNEY, Australia, on November 2, 1948, three years after the end of World War II, in Crown Street Women's Hospital. I emerged with chocolate-colored skin, brown eyes, soft black curls, huge lungs and a spirit I believe was blessed by God himself. Fortunately, He also bestowed on me the gifts of strength, determination, persistence and willpower to guide me through the next grueling years of my life.
There were no celebrations when I drew breath on that hot All Souls' Day. No baby shower or nervous father pacing impatiently in the waiting room. No tears of joy or relatives and friends rushing to visit with bouquets of flowers and teddy bears. I came into this world quietly and secretly. Few knew of my arrival and fewer still thought I was special.
In fact, the doctor and nurses must have stared in astonishment when they delivered the tiny black baby to the fair-haired and delicate young woman with ivory-colored skin. I imagine my mother would have considered this moment her greatest humiliation.
Later, back in her ward with the other new mothers, the nurse placed me into her arms. No doubt the embarrassment and shame was almost too much to bear as she took in the shocked expressions on the faces of the women in the other beds. What an incongruous sight, she would have thought. Blue eyes and blond hair, and cradling a tiny brown-skinned baby. And to make matters worse, she didn't have a husband by her side! Where was that man? He had promised he would return. He'd promised her love and marriage. When he came back everything would work out, she was sure of it. They would be married. She would be his wife and he would take her to live in America. Wouldn't he?
I was born into a hostile environment because of the color of my skin. Not only was it unacceptable to be born illegitimate in Australia in 1948 but to be born brown or black as well was unforgivable. In my mother's defense, frankly she had few choices. A backyard abortion was far too dangerous, not to mention illegal and extremely expensive, and adoption was just not an option. In that era, `colored' babies were not wanted by anyone, full stop.
Ignoring the whispers and sniggers surrounding her that hot November day, my mother stared into my little face. She knew the road ahead would be almost unbearable but she realized she had to try to take care of me. She had no choice. However, she couldn't take me home to live with her at her mother's house, so she decided she would find people to look after me, somewhere. And so I became my mother's secret.
My existence was to become the family's shame; one of those family secrets known by most but never mentioned.
