Entitlement

She looked up at me with absolute bitterness as I walked in the door.

The book was in her lap and she was crying.

"What's this?!" She demanded.

Although I loved reading such beautiful poetry and prose from literary geniuses, the upcoming drama tournament was the only competition to hold an "original prose" category. Not only would we be judged by our ability to convey the emotion of the text, we would be accountable for actually writing the piece ourselves.

I recognized the black hardcover of my prose book in her hands. Her tears were staining the pages and smearing my notes.

I took the opportunity to exorcise some demons - an anger, near hatred, I had been harboring. Although embarrassed by the events leading up to my pain, I would conveniently change the names to protect the innocent (me). As a 17 year old high school student, I would never be able to stand in a room of my peers and own the moment as a part of my life.

I was more nervous than usual as I approached the front of the class. The judge smiled pleasantly at me from her position in the back of the room. I opened my black hardcover prose book and began reciting the narrative. It was not necessary for me to follow along but I intentionally glanced down at the words from time to time in an ironic effort to distance myself from them. I didn't want to appear as if I knew the story 'too well':

The pain crept into my abdomen with a wild ferocity. I clinched the sheets and closed my eyes. Uncontrollably, my body squirmed from side to side. It felt as if I were dying.

Once the contraction eased, I glanced around the labor room and immediately caught sight of my mother. She smiled at me and sat down next to my bed. My pain was only just bearable and I was as irritated as I was uncomfortable. Another contraction began and I tensed.

"Honey, it's alright. This is your baby being born." My mother's words were annoyingly drawn out and her voice seemed constant. Tremendous frustration swept through me. It felt as if my nerves were raw and exposed and my tolerance for conversation was nonexistent. Before I could calm down, I heard her again. "It wasn't that long ago that I was giving birth to you....." I opened my mouth to speak but was only able to produce a barely audible whisper. "Please be quiet, mom."

"I know exactly how you're feeling, dear", she continued and, this time, I exploded. "Give it a break, mother! Christ!" She looked surprised at my tone and got up from her chair. My friend Melissa took her place by my bed. She spoke in soothing words and stroked my arm repeatedly. "Don't! I don't want to be touched or spoken to....I don't want to be looked at or breathed on!" Melissa realized I was in active labor, smiled knowingly and crossed the room. My mother left.

Pain only intensified with the time that seemed to be dragging by. Hours later, my mother returned to the labor room. Had she been drinking?! I took a good look at her. Even several feet away, I could see the glassy setting in her eyes and detect the hint of liquor.

She came toward me and began speaking in slurred speech. Her mouth was having as much difficulty forming the words as her tongue was delivering them. I can't remember which hurt more - the astounding pain that seemed to jab me like clockwork or my family and friends witnessing the worthless sight of my drunk mother.

The nurses began preparing me for delivery and I felt as if they couldn't get me there soon enough. They wheeled my bed across the room, past the faces of onlookers staring at me as if I were a freak in a carnival side show. When I reached my mother, I mouthed the word "leave." Even in her state, I knew she had caught my hasty attempt to rid the situation of her.

Now, my body seemed to be involuntarily pushing the baby out. I was out of control and defenseless. They told me not to push yet and I pushed. This was my moment of becoming. It was my step into responsibility, my diploma of adulthood. They placed this incredible little life in my arms and I realized he was a stranger to me. He was just as terrified of being thrust into the world as I was of being appointed his mother. All the pain, all the work and discomfort had come to equal this precious child and it seemed more than worth the unconditional love that replaced it.

Eventually, the baby was taken to the nursery and I was wheeled back to my room to recover. I was weak and tired but I was just as ecstatic and proud. Friends from school were waiting and gathered around my bed to congratulate me.

It was then that I turned to see my mother in the doorway.

Everyone's laughter was stifled by her appearance. Every eye watched as she shoved her way to the purse she had forgotten earlier. (Oh, please leave. Please just go.) She stopped at the foot of my bed, a drunken smirk hung on her aged face. Quickly, I tried to take control - my face broke out in a huge smile. "Did you see him, mom? Did you see the baby?"

"No", she spit. "I didn't SEEEE the baby and I don't really care to be standing here looking at YOU!" Her voice was loud and bounced off the hospital walls, echoing down the hall. A few nurses gathered at the door to see what the problem was. My face felt warm with embarrassment. She wasn't done.

After a nice, dramatic pause, she capitalized her performance with, "I hope you and your bastard child have a nice life!" Then, in a raging stupor, she staggered out the door - taking my dignity with her.

I made eye contact with the judge once more before returning to my seat. She knew. An hour later, I avoided her face as she presented me with a first place trophy.

She stood and hurled the black hardcover prose book at me. I raised my arm in self defense and then bent to retrieve it from the floor. She accused me of "profiting from her illness" and then told me to get out of her sight.

I went to my room and placed the book on my shelf, next to the trophy I more than earned.