{"id":8089,"date":"2020-04-04T20:13:47","date_gmt":"2020-04-04T20:13:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/?p=8089"},"modified":"2020-04-04T20:13:47","modified_gmt":"2020-04-04T20:13:47","slug":"not-ready-for-the-real-world","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/not-ready-for-the-real-world\/","title":{"rendered":"Not Ready for the Real World"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u00a0<\/strong><\/span><\/h4>\n

Every act rewards itself, or in other words, integrates itself,
\nin a twofold manner; first in the thing, or in real nature;
\nand secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature.
\nMen call the circumstance the retribution.<\/span><\/h4>\n

Compensation | Ralph Waldo Emerson<\/span><\/h4>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/h4>\n

The world ‘out there’ is a foreign place. I’m confined to the bungalow. I\u2019m far removed from what’s happening in the news. I hear bits and pieces of reports coming from the bedroom clock-radio in the young widow’s bedroom. All I know is that the weather is warming, Easter is coming, and I yearn to be in the sun. Outside in the backyard with the two-year-old, I carry a laundry basket to the clothesline. Like back home, one small fenced yard connects to the next. looking left or right makes no difference. I see a tall tree leafing out red, a short gravel drive leading to a small garage, a single car, a picnic table, and a clothesline. Pinning small pairs of pajamas with wooden clips is an easy action I can take. I notice the movement two doors down. I stop pinning and stare through the cover of the cotton prints. Wait. Who is that? Oh no. Now what?<\/span><\/h4>\n


\n<\/strong>I recognize M from the dress shop and quickly realize that I am within her line of vision. She knows me. I adore M! She is a member of the management team at the dress shop. \u00a0She is older and I look up to her. I hear her light-hearted laughter drift across the open space above the woven wire fences. She helped me learn the ropes when I started at the shop. I could trust her to be kind and to direct me so that I learned well how to assist customers. Seeing her now is a shock. Seeing her means I must stay indoors. I\u2019m in hiding. Mom needs me to continue pretending. I’ve obeyed and written every two weeks. At dinner, she can mention that a letter came today from Chicago.<\/span><\/h4>\n

I watch ripples push across my belly. A foot. A fist. I write my first journal entries on the lined loose-leaf paper that mom gave me. I write to the baby. I want the baby to know that I am not abandoning, not walking away. I want this new baby, boy or girl, to know that \u2018when I give birth to you, I will be reborn. I will begin again. I will work hard to be the best artist.’ <\/span><\/h4>\n

I say aloud, \u201cIf we ever meet, I want to make you proud.\u201d<\/span><\/h4>\n

I\u2019ve had a dream to be an artist since second grade at Orchard Elementary School. The teacher describes the school play. It will be the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. <\/span><\/h4>\n

She asks for a volunteer. She needs someone to help paint the bears; Father Bear, Mother Bear, and Baby Bear. She also needs someone who will paint the furniture and the three bowls of porridge. <\/span><\/h4>\n

My hand jumps up into the air! I\u2019m frightened and excited. She chooses me. I\u2019m shown the coffee cans filled with bright creamy colors and each color has its own gigantic brush. She places the large cut-outs on the floor of the auditorium stage. \u00a0I paint tall trees and the front of the cardboard house where Goldilocks lives. The smile on my teacher’s face says it all. I\u2019m doing a great job! I love school! I love painting! I\u2019m good at something!<\/span><\/h4>\n

From then on, I see myself as an artist. Dad doesn\u2019t like it when I\u2019m happy. Sometimes he gets mad, mocks me, taunts me, tells me that I\u2019m stupid. He says, “Who do you think you’re kidding? You’re so stupid you have to go to school! Look at me. I never went to school and I turned out great.” I don’t know sarcasm. I think he knows things about me that I don’t know. He must. Coming in the back door from work he tells me that he saw a friend of mine. He says that my friend said that I wasn’t fit to live with the pigs. He laughs in my face, “I told them that you were.” It makes no sense. I\u2019m stupid. Meant to live with the pigs. <\/span><\/h4>\n

I don’t know what or how to think.<\/span><\/h4>\n

Hollow. Empty. Numb.<\/span><\/h4>\n

Weeks go by, inching toward my due date. <\/span><\/h4>\n

It happens. <\/span><\/h4>\n

Late. I\u2019m startled awake, my nightgown and sheets sopping wet. I stand beside the rainbow arching over the twin bed. What to do? Toothbrush. Underwear. Robe. I clutch the small bag and make my way downstairs. <\/span><\/h4>\n

I stand in the corner of the living room.<\/span><\/h4>\n

I\u2019m in front of the young widow\u2019s bedroom door. I\u2019ve never stood here before. I like her a lot. She’s tired. I love how much fun she makes with her girls. She\u2019s very pretty. She dances when she comes home. She\u2019s tired but she plays Motown records and twirls with her happy girls. I don\u2019t want to be a bother.<\/span><\/h4>\n

I’m afraid. Nervous. I need to get to the hospital. I knock. I hear her turning over in her sleep. I knock. She says, “What is it?”\u00a0 I say, “Please. M, can you take me to the hospital, I think my water broke. I think the baby\u2019s coming.” She sounds asleep-irritated, says, “It’s late! I’m tired! Call a cab! Leave me alone!” <\/span><\/h4>\n

I stand outside her door, alone <\/strong>in the dark living room. I\u2019ve never called a cab. I can’t call mom.<\/span><\/h4>\n

I lift the kitchen wall phone receiver in a panic. I dial my best friend\/apartment roommate\u2019s parents\u2019 house. Her mom whispers into the phone. \u201cWhat on earth, Donna, it\u2019s the middle of the night! Why are you calling?\u201d She really doesn\u2019t want me to have anything to do with her daughter, home now for summer break after her first year away at college. A beautiful college preparing for a beautiful life as a beautiful human rights lawyer. I\u2019m a bad influence. I\u2019m trouble. I got myself pregnant. I have no reason to speak to her daughter. Never again.<\/span><\/h4>\n

\u201cI need help. I need to get to the hospital. Right away. Could J drive me?\u201d<\/span><\/h4>\n

She is quiet. I\u2019m shaking and my legs are wet. She says, \u201c J and dad will come to get you, where are you? What\u2019s the address? <\/span><\/h4>\n


\nI stand on the front porch of the bungalow watching the moths dart under the streetlights, the lightning bugs float up out of the grass, everyone sound asleep inside. <\/span><\/h4>\n

I don\u2019t see any of them again.<\/span><\/h4>\n

<\/h4>\n

<\/h4>\n

<\/h4>\n

<\/h4>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0 Every act rewards itself, or in other words, integrates itself, in a twofold manner; first in the thing, or in real nature; and secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the circumstance the retribution. Compensation | Ralph Waldo Emerson \u00a0 The world ‘out there’ is a foreign place. I’m confined to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[36,193,99],"tags":[194,294,290,293],"class_list":["post-8089","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-artlife","category-creative-life","category-donna-iona-drozda","tag-creativity","tag-healing-art","tag-memoir","tag-teen-pregnancy"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"aioseo_notices":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6htPT-26t","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8089","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8089"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8089\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8097,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8089\/revisions\/8097"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8089"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8089"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.donnaionadrozda.com\/lifecycle\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8089"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}