Angel,
Just over three years have passed since I said goodbye to you. I didn’t expect to feel you leave me, but I somehow did. It was hard. It was scary. But I had to.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you a life, Angel. I’m not even sure if I know what life is myself. Since we can never meet each other, I’m writing this letter so that I know you were real. Part of me is convinced that it never happened, and that I just made it all up in my imagination. I know deep down that isn’t true and never will be, so let me tell you my story.
My name is Rebecca—Beck for short—and I would have been your Mama. I’m seventeen years old now. My favorite color is green, like the pine trees that lined the forest of my old home. Three years ago, I was exploring those forests all by myself. As I paced through the dirt trails, the sun slowly sank deeper into the branches until it was gone. Alone in a dark forest, I was scared, and I kept screaming, until the Evil Man took me away. I stopped screaming then, but the fear pulsed through me like waves. I don’t remember much about the Evil Man; I just know that I hate him, and I never want to see him again. You don’t need to know about him, but you should know that there are more of him out there, and there’s plenty more girls like me, too. I was found eight days later in the forest by policemen who kept asking me my name, except it seemed they already knew it. They said, “Is that Beck Moore? Can it really be her?” And indeed, it was me, though I wasn’t the same Beck as before. Before, I was just a teenage girl who went to school and played the guitar. After the forest, I was a teenage girl who happened to be pregnant with you.
Life after the forest was dull. I didn’t want things to change, but it seemed the people around me forced them too. Everywhere I looked was met with a glance of disgust or pity, even shame. I’m still trying to understand why. An innocent child turned to a sinner in the eyes of those that claim to be accepting and loving to all. Angel, this world is filled with people like that. People who fail to see past what they know, constantly dismissing their chance to learn and open their mind. They are brought up believing that what they think is the truth, despite the lack of factual evidence and the overwhelming presence of ignorance. Truth is not learned, it simply exists. People who think they know everything are really the ones that know nothing, and I was surrounded by those people.
Even my Mama didn’t look at me the same. I was all alone, except for you. When Mama found out about you, she cried for days. I didn’t know why at the time, but I think I understand now. You see, Mama went to church every Sunday, she prayed before every meal and every sleep. She taught me to do the same. When you were discovered, Mama was torn between me, her living daughter, and you, my unborn child. How could a teenage girl be forced into raising the child of her rapist? Well according to God, the state of Alabama, and Mama, I had to do just that. I don’t think it was a fair trade, but as Mama says, “Life isn’t fair”. What she really meant was, “You don’t have a choice”. But unbeknownst to me at the time, I did have a choice.
One day I was sitting in church when a woman by the name of Nancy walked over to me. She greeted me with kind eyes and a smile. Angel, the thing about Mentone, Alabama, is everyone knows everybody’s business. A life of privacy is nonexistent here, and so Nancy asked, “What are you thinking for a name?”, as she pointed at my belly. I was taken aback. That shouldn’t be a normal question to ask a fourteen year old girl, let alone to ask with such confidence. In fact, that isn’t a normal question for a girl my age. I should be gossiping about boys with my friends and getting ice cream on the weekends, not thinking about baby names. Even more disturbing is the fact of how you came to be. It seems that everyone was like Nancy: just avoiding the topic, as if talking about it will spread a disease. They all pretended everything was just dandy, and I grew sick from the falsified support. I began to question the morality of having you, and the consequences. For one, you would grow up without a father. In fact, your father would have been the Evil Man, which means there was a high chance that I could grow to resent you. Angel, I would never wish that upon you, or anyone. The more I thought about you, the more consequences I began to see. Is it morally acceptable for a child to have a child, and is it wrong to force her into such? I can’t even understand my own life, so how can I give life to another being? I was all alone with these thoughts, and even felt guilty for having them. The questions flew around my head every night, circling and spiraling, and I was struck with pain and guilt.
Time passed slowly but seemed to fly by somehow. Before I knew it you were two weeks old in my tummy, said the doctors. My Mama came to every appointment and sat in every time. She spoke for me, too. I was an outsider to my own body. I felt like a prisoner; locked up behind cell bars as I was forced to watch my life be determined by others. I didn’t like this feeling, no one would. I highly doubt anyone enjoys being told what to do all the time with zero consideration for their own thoughts and opinions. I began to resent my own life at a mere fourteen years old. Despite this, I never once resented you, Angel. I know it’s not your fault. It took me years to understand that it wasn’t my fault, either. But for a while, I blamed myself for what happened to you.
There was a time when I stood in line at the grocery store waiting for Mama. Behind me, two of my classmates were whispering; snickering. Their cold glares struck my eyes like spikes as they laughed shamelessly. I heard one of them say that I was “ruined” and that I’ll never be able to get over what happened. Their words lingered in my mind for days. The more I thought about this small interaction, I realized they were right. I wasn’t going to just “get over it”, I needed to process it, understand it, and make my own decision of how to deal with it. Between the thoughts that kept me up at night and the comments from my judgmental peers, I developed an urge to take control. I didn’t want to be a bystander anymore; accepting what was considered “normal” in Mentone without giving any thought to what I wanted. Through those girls’ cruel intentions, I was able to start learning about my options, and that maybe I didn’t have to be a prisoner to my own life anymore. Maybe I could decide my fate, and yours.
So began my research. I discovered the truth about abortion- an evil word in Mentone- and that I didn’t need to be afraid to take charge of my body; of my life. I read about things like “pro-life” and “pro-choice”. I developed an understanding of what it meant to bring a child into the world, and the realness of doing so. I also learned how incredibly biased Mentone is; the people here only view one side of things, and tend to disregard any consideration of another way of life. I guess that can explain everyone’s reactions to you, including my own mother’s. You see Angel, I began to realize that just because I didn’t want to have you didn’t mean I was evil. It didn’t mean I was a murderer, or a sinner. I was a fourteen year old girl who was scared, and not ready to raise a child. A child should be wanted, not forced. A child should have a life that can be filled with love and acceptance, not resentment and regret. You, Angel, are simply just my angel, and nothing more, nothing less. I deserve to make my own decisions, and I deserve to have the rights to my body, as should every woman in this world. We all deserve choice.
Someone who also believed in these ideals was my Aunt Mira. I barely knew her, since her and Mama disagreed on essentially everything and she moved to New York when I was just about six years old. Mama always talked about her, but not in a nice way. It always puzzled me how Mama could preach love and kindness through God, yet turn around and curse her own sister’s name. This kind of reminds me of everyone in Mentone. They preach God’s love and acceptance, but only if you agree with them. How is it possible to say “Jesus loves all” with such confidence while shamelessly shunning out anyone who isn’t white, straight, and Catholic? This is one thing about the church that I tended to dislike. That mentality is full of hypocrisy and hate, not love. This is precisely why Aunt Mira left Mentone and why I decided to call her and ask for her help. I knew she would be supportive and more understanding than anyone I ever knew in Mentone. Thankfully, I was right. Two days later I was on a flight to New York with all my belongings, shaking with fear but filled with hope. I was ready to take control of my life.
That was three years ago, and I’m still living with Aunt Mira in New York now. I love it here, Angel. Everyone is so expressive, so unapologetic. No one knows anyone’s business. I make my own decisions and lead a humble life as a barista at a local coffee shop. I even went to Spain last summer with Aunt Mira and had a beautiful time. I saw amazing architecture and tasted unimaginable flavors of food, and I even saw a bull race. And I am able to do all these things, experience the world as a true teenage girl, because I was brave enough to unlock that cell and let myself explore my life for what it is. You, Angel, are still in my thoughts, but I know I made the right decision when I decided to choose me over you. Mama calls me evil, selfish, and full of sin, but she just doesn’t understand. No child deserves to be forced, whether that refers to you or me. Whatever religion, ideas, beliefs; everyone deserves to be seen as their own person, capable of leading their own life.
I hope one day, when I die, I get to meet you. I hope I can show you this letter, and I hope you understand why I made the decision I did. I think you will, Angel. You will see how much opportunity you gave me. You are the reason I moved out of the small, hopeless town of Mentone, and the reason I learned so many new things. I learned to grow, to love, to exist, to live. Because of you, I am starting to understand myself as a human being, and what it means to live freely as a woman. I am liberated, I am strong, and I am not a monster because of what I went through. I am Rebecca Moore, and that is my story.
With Love,
Your Mama