Do we write off all knocked-up women?

By George Davis

The young woman struggled through university. Her single mom could barely put food on the table for her and her three siblings, all born within a year of each other for different men.

She recalls the days of eating 'so-so' dumpling or 'so-so' rice, with only a little curry powder in the water to change its colour and give an illusion of flavour. She remembers going to primary school with only a weak cup of tea in her belly, where one tea bag was used to brew a hot drink for all five members of the household.

She remembers the embarrassment of grade six when she sometimes borrowed one of her mom's old panties, the blue one with the tear in the front. She recalls having to gather it in a bunch on the left side, fasten it with a common pin and wear it to the library on Saturday because the handful of her own underwear was in the basket for washing.

She smiles when she recalls how she wore her one pair of brown shoes everywhere for the two years of grades five and six, so much so that the bad boys in her class and some of the girls took to calling her 'brown-boot'. But she remembers that she was bright.

She remembers the miracle of high school where she managed to see out seven years from first to sixth form. A miracle, because in all those years, she never had any textbooks, being forced to rely on the library or stay back at school and complete assignments using those belonging to a few charitable friends.

dreading the rain

She remembers her dread when it rained, as she would not be able to wash the uniform blouse to wear to school the next day, and since there was no fridge at home behind which to dry it, she had to wear the sweat-stained garment for consecutive days. Which explains why she stayed far from all physical activity during school, out of a need to keep her uniform as clean as possible, just in case it couldn't be washed and dried overnight.

She remembers the first and only time she fought at school and got suspended for two days. This boy had been teasing her about how her 'one suit' smelled green like 'sinkle bible'. That was bad enough. But then he used ink from his Papermate pen to stain her sleeve, telling classmates the mark would prove it was the only blouse she had. She flew into a rage and nearly gouged his eye, not because he was telling a lie, but because he had blown her cover.

She remembers not speaking much in the latter years at high school. Toothpaste was scarce at home and she never always brushed her teeth. For fear of getting another nickname, this one because of bad breath, she chose reticence.

She remembers failing to attend graduation because her uniform had cried 'enough', thus failing to take her seat in the special row for those with seven or more distinctions in external exams.

reflecting on her life

The young woman reflects on her life. She remembers how, after leaving UTech, she waited two years and four months for an employer to call her and say come. She remembers how her boss outlined the hectic nature of the job and the need for someone who could work long hours, even on weekends.

The young woman breaks her reflection and assesses the present. For here she is four months into the job she has waited so long for, only to discover now that she's six weeks pregnant.

She sits in the cramped second room of her boyfriend's parents' basic Greater Portmore home lamenting her plight. He's not working and has practically given up finding employment after three years of searching. His mother works as a cashier at a wholesale downtown, while his father is a career watchman at an infant school.

The young woman is ashamed to face her own mother, whom she promised to assist now that she's in a job.

Young women like this are everywhere around us. Do we as a nation sympathise with, or strongly rebuke, them for intentionally making their lives tougher?

Selah.

George Davis is a journalist. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com and george.s.davis@hotmail.com.