Since it's Super Bowl Sunday I thought I'd share a piece I wrote about my birth and football for my Feminist Theory: Writing the Body course. After reading a brief excerpt of Rebecca Walker's birth story in her memoir
Black, White, and Jewish, we were given the option to compose our own birth stories.
I had already written a version of my birth story for the Feminist Memoir class I took last year, so I decided to write another version, one that was more male-oriented, looking more at my dad's role in my birth. I think most would agree that our mothers are often considered much more in the writing and remembering of our birth stories, because they are the ones physically 'giving birth.' But, it's also important to consider that the day of birth is the first time the father can 'physically' bond with the child outside the mother's belly (I emphasize
physical because they can bond by speaking to the child or feeling the baby kick). The mother is physically and emotionally bonding with the baby as s/he forms within her, but the father is only able to physically bond with the child once s/he emerges from the womb. I hinted at this in my juxtaposition of my emergence from my mother's belly and resting on my dad's 'new daddy-belly.'
"On my birth and football"
I should have known from my birth story that football would forever be a significance when it comes to the men in my life. A significance that couldn’t help presenting itself on my wedding day; my father’s toast ending with a Cowboys t-shirt given to me with the command to “wear it when you’re in our house.” To which my father-in-law started his toast with a Colts “rebuttal.” All I could do was smile to myself, glimpsing my husband’s groom’s cake – a football field with a giant Indianapolis Colts emblem – and raise my glass for a toast to a new relationship with a man and football.
- - -
It was a Monday night and the Dallas Cowboys were playing. My mom started having strong contractions so dad set the VCR before they drove the hour and a half to mom’s OBGYN in Tennessee. They checked her in, but I was in no hurry to make my grand arrival. They walked the parking lot together, mom in her tight Keds, her feet swollen in her shoes, dad rubbing her back and holding her clammy hand. I was their first child so everything was harder than my brother’s smooth, easy delivery. She felt me standing straight up in her stomach, stretching my legs and arms inside her, but I wasn’t coming out until I was ready. When I finally arrived Tuesday afternoon, the one thing they remember most was the scream that erupted the moment I came out. Mom says it was me, yelling, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” and I haven’t stopped since.
I’ve seen the video of the nurses wiping me down, my chubby body shivering – how cold we must feel in that sterile, frigid room, after being enveloped in warmth and heartbeats. One of the nurses began filming then, because I saw mom, worn out but gleaming, and dad’s young face, his dark curly hair and mustache that he would soon shave because it left scratches on my face when he held me. The camera spanned the room, showing the nurses dipping my tiny paws in ink and weighing me, my fat body left on naked, natural display. I lay there, formed and ready to take on the changes of life – small fingers that would grow calluses from years of playing guitar; blue eyes that would turn green, mom swears to match the shade of my name; short tuffs of hair that would turn into stubborn fuzz for most of middle school; strong thighs perfect for swimming. The nurses swaddled me in a blanket and mom says that’s the only time my cries softened, a brief reminder of the comforting envelopment my mother’s belly had provided.
I saw my grandparents and uncle “ooing” and “ahhing,” pointing at me through the glass window – the first grandchild, such large shoes to fill with such tiny feet to show for it. When they finally brought me home, dad put in the taped Dallas game and I napped on his new-daddy belly, comforted by his breathing and the sound of football in the background. Mom took our picture, me slumbering mouth wide open, dad smiling contentedly.
- - -
From that snapshot on, football became a comfort for me, and a connection to the male figure in my life. Later, when I started dating my husband – the only guy I ever dated who watched football – he was amazed at the time it took for me to fall asleep once a game was on. Within seconds, he says, I am snoring contentedly, hushed by the sounds of the commentators, crowds, and ESPN theme music. One day I realized it must have become a kind of lullaby for me - - Sunday evenings with football on after church, mom and me slumbering on the couch, dad quietly enjoying his game. I grew up understanding this male pastime, an understanding that many might not comprehend. I realize most girls wouldn’t be okay with a Peyton Manning poster in their bedroom; they might think that could be a clue of my husband’s “unhealthy” relationship to a football player. But, then again, my dad taped Monday Night Football the day before I was born so he could share the experience of watching our first game together.
