Take My Hand(82)

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“In North Carolina between 1960 and 1968, of the 1,620 sterilizations that occurred, 63 percent were performed on Black women—”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“And 55 percent of those were teens!” Dr. Robard shouted.

“Objection!”

The judge slammed down his gavel. “Order. Everyone needs to settle down. This is my courtroom, not some circus.”

The numbers! Robard had the numbers.

“Your Honor, the witness is merely answering my question about statistics,” Lou said.

“Those statistics are broader than the scope of this case,” protested the defense.

“Counsel, I will overrule a portion of your objection. Though the numbers from the 1960s are irrelevant to the current legislation, any statistics concerning the previous year or two are directly relevant and will be allowed. In addition, Miss Robard, you will answer only to the question asked. This is not a zoo. Have I made myself clear to everyone?”

I did not like the judge’s reference to a zoo. And he had addressed the doctor as Miss Robard. I supposed we could count ourselves lucky that he had not called her by her first name, as many white folks did with Black women. I wondered if this was the bias Lou had been concerned about. Maybe the judge’s professionalism was all a ruse to pretend impartiality. We were setting ourselves up for heartbreak by believing in his fairness.

“Proceed, Counsel.”

Lou spoke softly. “How large are the recent numbers, Dr. Robard?”

“Our findings show that HEW’s numbers are grossly underestimated. Our research reveals that over the past few years, nearly one hundred fifty thousand low-income women from all over the nation have been sterilized under federally funded programs.”

I put my hand over my mouth. All of this had happened under the government’s watch. I didn’t want to even try to guess the total number of underage sterilization victims. She’d mentioned 55 percent were teens in North Carolina, but now everything melted together in my head and all the numbers merged into one outraged thought: How dare they? Our bodies belonged to us. Poor, disabled, it didn’t matter. These were our bodies, and we had the right to decide what to do with them. It was as if they were just taking our bodies from us, as if we didn’t even belong to ourselves.

I needed some air. I had to get out of there, but I didn’t want to disturb the proceedings. Not desiring motherhood had once made me wonder if something was wrong with me. I’d tried to make peace with that after my abortion, believing with all my heart that there was a scientific basis that could explain every facet of human nature. But I had exercised a choice, something that was being denied these women.

“No further questions, Doctor.”

As the doctor walked past me, my insides gurgled as if a volcano might erupt right into her path. I waited for the judge to dismiss court for the day, but when I went to find Dr. Robard in the lobby she was already gone.





FORTY-TWO





Lou rested his case at the end of October, and court temporarily adjourned. He had worked hard, but no one could be certain it was enough. After I left the courthouse, I just wanted to eat a sandwich and go home to bed. The lunch I’d packed that morning was still in the sack on the back seat of my car.

When I arrived home, all the lights were on, the living room and dining room all lit up. I figured Mama was on one of her cleaning binges. Every now and then she would get a bucket and start cleaning the whole house, throwing out stuff and rearranging furniture. Sometimes the cleaning surge ended in her painting the walls. Other times she quit halfway through and Daddy and I had to put everything back. Yet when I stopped to think about it, she hadn’t done that in a long time. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time she’d cleaned the house.

In the kitchen, I could smell the scent of gardenias. Company.

“Daddy?” I called out.

“Back here, baby.”

I took an apple from my lunch sack and walked back to the den. My aunt Ros was sitting in Daddy’s chair. He leaned against the bar.

“Aunt Ros, when did you get here?”

Wrapped in endless layers of fabric, Aunt Ros was the queen of draped clothing. She had once bragged she did not own a belt, and I believed her. She shared Mama’s high cheekbones, thin frame, and long neck, but the likenesses stopped there. Unlike Mama and her trademark red lipstick, Aunt Ros never wore makeup or high heels. And she picked her hair out into one of the biggest Afros I had ever seen.

“Your daddy has been ignoring me for weeks, so I decided to come down here and see what was going on for myself.”

“I didn’t see your car in the driveway.”

“I took the bus.”

I perched on the edge of the barstool next to Daddy. Mama sat on the floor, her legs crossed, picking pink polish off her fingernails. It did not appear she had washed up before coming into the house.

“Civil, you’re a nurse. I’m a psychologist. We both take care of people. You see what’s going on in this house. You know it and I know it.”

“What’s going on?”

“You mother stays out there in that studio all the time. She’s even sleeping out there.”

It was true. Mama was sleeping out there more and more, but it didn’t happen every night. At least, I didn’t think so.