JOELLA ARAGON

STITCHED                               

Colorful quilts attached to a metal fence with plastic ties at the top flapped in the wind on a sky-blue day. I was attending a quilt show at a park near the ocean in Fort Bragg with my friend, Susan.         

Two steps closer to get a better look at individual quilt blocks, a small stray thread tickled the edge of my nose. The artistry of a Log Cabin quilt symbolizing home and family smelled like apple and cinnamon. I ran my fingers over an Eight Point Star, and God’s Eye in blue. Each quilt told a beautiful story—a reflection of life.

One step closer to look at a God’s Eye quilt, and shadow memories of a black and white quilt blocked together with hate almost fifty years ago, crashed into focus.

###

In the 1970’s, Vacaville, California was home to the Nut Tree Restaurant. It’s still home to green rolling hills in spring and fruit orchards. It was considered the perfect place to raise a family—safe and friendly with affordable housing. It’s where my parents bought their first house near St. Mary’s Catholic Church.

In January 1973, news stories  about the landmark U.S. Supreme Court Decision, Roe v. Wade, had been swirling at Vacaville High School for days. The 7-2 decision in favor of a woman’s right to an abortion fell under the right to privacy. When I was 15, I didn’t understand the full impact of the Roe v. Wade decision, but I would. And soon. 

I was attending Vacaville High School where girls and boys leaned against brick walls kissing. Hormones raged.. There would be a football game that night.

Emotions were popping in my tenth grade Social Studies class when Miss Jones stood in front of us and read excerpts of the Roe v. Wade decision from the Vacaville Reporter. When the school bell rang, girls gathered in small groups to talk about the Supreme Court Decision on abortion.

“My mother said abortion is the woman’s decision,” Nina said.

“A girl who doesn’t insist on using condoms is an idiot,” Patti said.

“Boys should use condoms,” Cheryl said.

“Abortion is murder,” Valerie blurted.

We stared in silence at the ever-popular Valerie. The way she flipped her long chestnut hair off her shoulder made me secretly hate her the moment we met. Valerie was the perfect example of innocence. She wore a purity band on her wedding ring finger and walked hand-in-hand with God. I didn’t. 

Both of Valerie’s parents were passionate Bible people. Her father, a minister, was tall and handsome. Her mother, Iris, was plain. The rims of her eyes were red and swollen.

  ###

One year after the Supreme Court Decision, Valerie’s house was packed with sixteen-year-old girls for a slumber party. To be included in the popular crowd, to be friends with girls like Patti, Cheryl, Susan, and Valerie, was a dream come true.

The truth of it, though, I didn’t fit in.

My mother was blind. Her sense of smell was amazing. She recognized the peppery scent of my skin. She heard the movement of air when I turned pages in a book.

My father was an immigrant from Belize. His heavy Caribbean accent brought more unwanted attention my way--Your father has a funny accent. Why is his hair kinky? Is your father a black man?

If I’m honest with myself, Valerie and I were never friends. I knew she was pretty, while I hid that I was smart. Our connection to each other was never stitched tight.

We were sprawled out on our sleeping bags telling stories about kissing and lust. Lust was an uncontrollable ache between my legs—one I couldn’t describe without feeling shame.  

“It’s your turn, Joella,” Valerie smiled.

“I don’t have a story to tell,” I sighed.

A low chant went up in the room. “Mike Reed!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I insisted.  

“My mom said Mike plays guitar in his church band,” Valerie said.

“He does,” I said.

“Mike’s parents are getting divorced,” Patti said.

“Is he a good kisser?” Valerie giggled.

“I think he is,” I answered.

“You should save kissing for marriage,” Valerie warned.  

###

Mike lived with his father in a condominium next to St. Mary’s Catholic Church. The condominium was ours every day after school.

“I don’t tell my parents anything,” I said to Mike while we were wrapped in sheets in his father’s bed.

The second the condom slipped off his penis, a dribble of sperm ran down my thigh. I told Mike I loved him. He didn’t say he loved me in return.

Two weeks later, I checked for blood on my underwear. I took a bus to Planned Parenthood in Fairfield. My worst fears were confirmed.  

I was desperate when I let myself into his unlocked condominium. When Mike and his father came home that evening, they read my scribbled note on the table, I’m pregnant.

The following day, I watched Mike kiss his new girlfriend in front of her locker. He kissed her the way he used to kiss me.

###

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted. The mood in the living room shifted from teenage storytelling and laughter to shock.

“I’m sure you’ll give your baby up for adoption,”  Valerie said, cracking the wall of silence

“I’m going to have an abortion,” I answered.

“You can’t,” Valerie sneered.

Valerie’s mother stood in the shadows in the hallway, listening.

###

I asked my mother how she knew something was wrong. “I sniffed your dirty clothes in the laundry basket,” she said. She had confronted my sister. My sister told our mother my secret.

My mother told my father.  

My father’s voice cracked with emotion. “You should have kept your legs closed,” he said.

“I love Mike,” I insisted.

“What do you know about love? You’re only sixteen,” he scoffed. “What do you plan on doing with your life?”

“I’ll get married one day,” I answered. “My husband and I will have children.”            

“What happens if you get divorced?”            

“No one would ever divorce me,” I blurted.          

“What happens if your husband dies? How will you support yourself? How will you    support this child!”          

“I’m going to have an abortion next week,” I said.          

My father exhaled a deep sigh of relief then slipped his leather belt through the loops of his pants. “Good,” he said.  

Two days later, I hissed at my mother. “Make your own tea. I’m tired of being your servant!”

“Don’t ever speak to your mother with disrespect,” my father yelled.

 Snap! His leather belt on my arm. Like a wrestler on the mat, I jumped on his back. If he collapsed from a heart attack, I wouldn’t care.   

 ###

A few days after the slumber party, Valerie called. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you in my bedroom.”

When we arrived, Iris stood at the sink washing dishes.

When she opened her bedroom door, the room was pitch black.

“Come in,” Valerie whispered.         

“Turn on the lights,” I insisted.

“What’s this?” I gasped in horror when the lights came on. Black and white photographs of fetal body parts formed a patchwork quilt on her bed.   

“It’s what an aborted baby looks like!” Valerie hissed in return.

I tried to run. She blocked me with her arms.

“If you go through with an abortion, you’re a murderer,” she screamed.

“You’re trying to guilt me into changing my mind.” Droplets of my spittle landed near the corner of her eye. “There’s no way you did this by yourself!”

“Murderer! Murderer!” Valerie shrieked.

With the heft of my shoulder into her chest, I shoved her out of my way. In the bedroom across the hall, her sister sat on the edge of her bed mumbling prayers.  

Fury ripped away any trust and faith I had left. How dare they act as if they knew what’s right or wrong for my life.

As I slammed their front door, Valerie’s mother screamed, “Murderer!”

### 

The longest set of stairs I’ve ever climbed led to the Planned Parenthood clinic in Fairfield. Walls were covered with grime. Tattered posters depicting frightened girls were splattered on the walls.

A nurse called my name.

“Follow me to the exam room,” she said.

“Wrap this around you,” she said, handing me a green medical smock.

The doctor walked in with a frown on his face. John Denver glasses were perched on his nose. His eyes were deep blue.

“Lay down on your back,” he demanded, “I need to examine you before your abortion next week.”

He banged my knees with his stethoscope. “Spread your legs!”

He banged my knees harder.

“You know how to spread your legs, or you wouldn’t be here.”

I opened my legs and held back my tears.

###

When I got home from the doctor’s appointment, my mother and I sat together at the kitchen table sipping hot tea. “This is my fault. I should never have told you I had an abortion last year,” my mother sobbed. 

“How could any of this be your fault?” I asked. “I remember when you told me, but you never said why.”

“The doctor reminded your father and me that you’re all growing older and would soon leave the house. He said I shouldn’t be alone with a toddler. If the baby opened the cupboard doors under the sink, guzzled Clorox and died, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. He recommended an abortion. Your father and I agreed.”

I rested my head against her shoulder. She ran her fingers through my hair and kissed my head. None of it was her fault. Not her blind eyes, not my pregnancy. 

###                     

It’s been almost fifty years since I walked down that dark hallway into Valerie’s bedroom. She was grounded in her beliefs when she was a teenager. I was grounded in mine.

It’s March 2023 and abortion is still a battleground of opposing views. On June 24th,  2022, the Supreme Court overruled Roe v. Wade, eliminating a woman’s constitutional rights to an abortion. Secret recordings are used in private conversations in restaurants then used in court. Death threats and assaults are in the news on a regular basis. Abortion is banned with no exceptions for incest or rape in Arizona, Texas, and Kentucky.

I love California. South Lake Tahoe is to the east of me. Mammoth Lakes is 3 hours away. We have top museums and the Golden Gate Bridge. The cost of housing is nuts. The cost of gas is out of control.  I’m proud to live in California where abortion is legal. I love this state. I’m not leaving.

###

 It was our 40th high school reunion. Hundreds of orange and black balloons floated towards the ceiling. “Get Down Tonight,” by KC and the Sunshine Band blasted over loudspeakers.

Valerie and I walked towards each other with fury in our steps.  I was intent on getting my anger off my chest—What were you thinking? Did your mother force you to cover your bed with a quilt stitched with hate?

We slowed down our strides. Nothing I could say or do would change the past. Forty years of anger wasn’t healthy.

I’ve had a life filled with purpose—teaching children how to read, working for the teachers’ union, singing in choirs. My life has been filled with twists and turns. Each experience, good or bad, transformed into life lessons.  

The swirl of fresh ocean breezes brings me back to the beauty of quilts made with love. The colorful cloth, the shapes, the threads, the patience, the friendships, the stories. I love the way a quilt comes together, reflecting the patterns of life.

As I buy a quilted mask, a cup of coffee and a chocolate-covered donut, I realize I’ve become a quilter of a sort, unraveling, and healing the past, picking out seams and altering patterns, to create this colorful quilt that has become my life.

__________

JOELLA ARAGON IS A RETIRED ELEMENTARY SCHOOL TEACHER AND A RETIRED LABOR UNION REPRESENTATIVE FOR THE CALIFORNIA TEACHERS ASSOCIATION. SHE SPENT MUCH OF HER CHILDHOOD TRAVELING TO DIFFERENT COUNTRIES AND TO DIFFERENT AIR FORCE BASES IN THE UNITED STATES WITH HER  FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, AND SISTER. SHE SPENDS MUCH OF HER RETIREMENT LIFE WRITING ABOUT GROWING UP WITH A BLIND MOTHER, MENTALLY ILL MOTHER, AND HER IMMIGRANT FATHER FROM BELIZE. IT’S THE LESSONS SHE LEARNED FROM WATCHING THEM MANEUVER DIFFICULT TIMES THAT INSPIRES HER WRITING.