A System

Part One of Two.

Welcome to Roots & Branches and Memoir-ish Musings by Mel! This segmented prose poem, the subject of which is my South Carolina birth and relinquishment in the Baby Scoop Era, is the first of two parts. (Come back next week - no paywall.) Thank you for your support!

A System

1. The Wounding.

In utero, she’d heard her voice — the gospel hymns, the twang that sprang forth in song to radio, the jukebox honky-tonk, heard her calls, the shouts, felt the rock of laughter when she waited on soldiers and sailors in a Charleston or Greenville bar. She'd tasted the sugar of beer. From beneath her mother’s heart, she’d felt the surge of fear, the grip of dread, and her clutching sobs.

2. A System of Need and Persuasion.

The State had a system for poor mothers, mothers who worked in textile mills, Conestee and Poe, Pendleton and Monaghan — carders and bobbin-winders — women who lived in villages along rail-tracks near mill-dams, waterfalls, in the rented shabby saltbox shanties of millworker daddies and mammas for meager pay. The State had a system for unwed mothers: social workers urged suggested strongly persuaded, give the baby up, the agency will find her a good home, they said. A married couple will want your baby. Give her a better life. In the system, the agency, church, the doctor whose name is stamped delivered, the maternity ward sister-nurses who did deliver the infant say leave her with us, the agency and lawyers take care of the paperwork. All work together for the common good. Families are protected from shame they said, the child is kept from shame. No one will know who you are, they promise. The child will be grateful for father's steady income, a capable mother, a good upbringing, education, nice clothes, plenty of food, a doctor's care — every opportunity where there would have been none. In the Baby Scoop Era, the system seemed seamless. A poor, unfit woman may be strong-armed, urged by the ones in power, the powerful ones, to give up her child, or sent away in disgrace with other unwed mothers if her parents don’t want the bastard. Enough mouths to feed. Plenty of unwanted post-war births. In hard labor, she falls on the steps of the charity hospital. Leaves the baby behind with the sisters. Suppose a couple proves worthy, their skin and eyes match the baby’s, her heritage is something like theirs, her I.Q. won’t embarrass you — we assure a good match. The mother’s medical history might be unknown, her mental health history hidden, if she says she’s in good health, all the better. We only want her to sign the release. Relinquish. Father’s name need not be revealed. Show you can afford a baby, that you are worthy, and you can claim someone's baby by this system.

Photo by gryffyn m on Unsplash

3. Vigilant.

Through a frosty fog, in the pale light, a wet oak branch swaying across the second-floor window catches her alert, dark brown eyes, and she traces its motion through her crib rail. Her left thumb soothes her when she hears another infant whimper. The baby nurse appears, wearing white from head to toe, her long dress falling over her ample frame. She greets each baby brightly, crossing the nursery floor to change and feed each one in turn. “How are you today, Ruth Ann?” The five-month-old coos and smiles while she's changed and dressed in a clean cotton gown, and Sister carries her to the wooden rocker, supports the chubby baby on her warm, white lap, feeds her spoonfuls of Pablum which she eagerly accepts. Sister returns her to the crib, props a glass bottle of warm formula against the cribrail in a rolled receiving blanket, and moves to the next baby. Ruth Ann nurses — vigilant.

4. Someone’s Heritage.

Their families had voyaged, the farmers, spinners, weavers, laborers, pioneer English, Scots, Irish, and German, who came for land and freedom to farm, to pray in peace, yet fought. They all have a heritage, pride, songs, tales, stories, myths, lies, and secrets.

Look for Part two next week! ~ Mary Ellen