When You Don't Belong Anywhere

Where do you fit in?

In the late 70s, when I was eight, my mother dated the best man from her second wedding. That man became her third husband.

My town was white. He was black, the only black man I’d ever seen in person and he was now my stepfather. 

Kids and parents gawked. Some muttered their thoughts, others said them loudly. Kids weren’t allowed over. I sat alone at lunch.

In 1995, I met a Jewish man. He was the first Jewish person I’d ever known.

We started dating and were together a little over a year when I found out I was pregnant. 

We had no plans to get married. I’d seen what marrying because of pregnancy did to my own parents and I wasn’t interested.

Being unwed and pregnant was not a popular choice in 1995.

Several months pregnant, I was at my Jewish boyfriend’s office. The receptionist had gone home for the day, so I answered the phone.

“Can I speak with John,” the caller asked curtly. 

“He’s not available, may I take a  message?” I asked with a smile like my receptionist job in high school taught me.

“Yes,” he said, “let him know it’s appalling that he is parading his pregnant slut around. As a Christian I am disappointed and will no longer be doing business with him.”