The news cascaded through the town in a torrent.
We thought she was barren—Oh, my Lord, how abhorrent!
“God is good! God is great! It’s a miracle!” they exulted.
“We prayed for the Sandersons, and now this has resulted.”
The birth of a baby was cause for devout celebration
Because the purpose of marriage is, of course, procreation.
“It is every child’s right to have one father, one mother.”
Through our children, it’s how we judge one another.
Ballgames, academics, concerts, recitals…
Parenthood confers status and entitles
Us to brag about Junior’s exploits and feats
But always so humble as to conceal our conceit.
We’ve had our own childhoods, but we’d like to have more.
Vicarious experience allows us to enjoy three or four.
“Emma took first in gymnastics, William won his debate,
So I guess, since I raised them, that means I am great!”
Back to the Sandersons, who were excitedly expecting
A little bundle of joy who they’d spend life protecting
From tears about slights, failures, hurts, and contusions,
And the pain of small-town cliques and exclusions.
The Ladies’ Auxiliary of the Methodist Church
Was the community’s conscience and given to besmirch
The character of others who weren’t tightly aligned
With the standards and morals of church women refined.
“We’ll throw Mrs. Sanderson a shower she’ll never forget
To commemorate the treasure from her loins she’ll beget.”
They decided upon cookies and who’d bring jello salad
And sent invitations to those whose membership was valid.
“Your presence is requested in the church social hall
Right after services. We’ll have us a ball.
Share with others, like Catholics, but respect our intent.
No atheists or Jews. This is a Christian event.”
Mrs. Sanderson, twenty-seven, the new mother-to-be,
Was thankful and delighted to be the object of glee.
She accepted the shower of gifts and attention
And ate mystery-meat sandwiches with nary a mention.
A fortnight later, Mrs. Sanderson sat on the couch
And said to her husband, “I think I can vouch
That the baby is coming. We should head for the doctor.”
Despite all preparations, the intense pain was what shocked her.
She breathed and she labored for thirty-six long hours.
She forgot all about the gifts, and the cards, and the shower
Given by Methodist women, so kind and benevolent.
She screamed “What the fuck?!!!” and words more irreverent.
Finally, baby’s head crowned, and she gave one more exertion
To bring into the world this exquisite little person.
Exhausted and sweaty and ripped stern to stem,
She asked, drained and bone-tired, “Is it a her or a him?”
The doc’s expression was quizzical as she raised her left brow.
“Is that an answer you’d like to know now?”
The Sandersons were puzzled by the doctor’s response.
“I think she or he can be whatever they wants.”
The Sandersons requested no visitors and begged a reprieve
From the onslaught of well-wishers who wanted to receive
Good news about the baby: Happy and healthy? What sex?
The townsfolk couldn’t apprehend truth more complex.
After several days, their curiosity grew unbearable
And the Methodist women brought gifts cute and wearable.
“We’ve brought you onesies in blue, pink, and yellow
Because we didn’t know if it was a girl or a fellow.”
With reluctance, the Sandersons let the women into their home
Even though they would have preferred time left alone.
“She’s so pretty! He’s so handsome!” The compliments they lavished
Until Mrs. McMenamin demanded the truth, unabashed.
“Tell us, Mrs.Sanderson, is it a girl or a boy?
We’d all love to know. Stop being so coy.”
Mrs. Sanderson paused for a moment, then Mr. Sanderson replied:
“It’s not up to us. It’s for shim to decide.”
“Shim? Shim?! We have no context for that!
We want to know, simply, Is this a this? Or a that?”
“Ze is not a binary, but, in fact, ze contains multitudes.
Ze reflects God’s grace, compassion, and pulchritude.”
Their world had been shaken, their sensibilities affronted,
The Sandersons the Methodist women confronted.
“What-what will you do? This is most controversial!
We’re an upstanding community! Not an IKEA commercial!”
Mrs. Blather stepped forward and in a tone clipped, crisp, and curt
Said, “I’m sorry to tell you, but your child will be hurt
By your misguided notions and ridiculous decisions.
What your child needs right now is a well-considered incision!”
The dim-witted Mrs. Holstein asked, “Is this like being ambidextrous?”
Mrs. Bose promptly shushed her and explained, “No, this is reckless,
Unconscionable, and wrong. It’s not like I run around doing genital checks,
But I’m alarmed and aghast that you won’t choose a sex!”
The pompous and haughty Mrs. Callanan huffed
“When that child gets to be school age, things will be tough.
We can say, ‘don’t mistreat others, be kind, The Golden Rule.'”
Without a hint of irony, she sighed, “But kids can be cruel.”
Mrs. Daniels piously stated, “God makes mistakes,
And He expects us to correct them, for goodness sake.
That Fitzsimmons baby was born with a condition so heinous.
Poor thing was born with an imperforate anus!”
The women nodded and ahhhhhhed in collective assent
There was a solution, if the Sandersons would consent
To corrective surgery—some snips and some stitches—
To remedy the Almighty’s unfortunate glitches.
Mrs. Sanderson shook her head vigorously and exclaimed, “Wait a minute!
We’re not talking about a derriere without a hole in it!
Our baby is healthy and doesn’t need surgical corrections.
Take a look at your consciences and your own imperfections!”
Finally, weary with the church women snide and derisive,
The Sandersons were bold, resolute, and decisive.
“We’ll embrace the Lord’s abundance with gratitude overflowing.
If you’ll collect your belongings, it’s time you should be going.”
The Sandersons packed up their minivan and left the town behind
For a place more progressive, accepting, and of open mind.
But does a place exist, outside our imagination,
Where we cherish ALL children as love’s astonishing creations?
‘Twas a long time ago, in a place sadly misbegotten.
In a time, I admit, is from memory forgotten.
The baby was me, and in my heart of hearts
I know I’m a whole person, not just the sum of my parts.
©Anthony Weeks 2017