Bump, Bump, Bump
“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming down-stairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it.”
You may remember the first lines of Winnie the Pooh. I read the book to my first grade teacher, Miss Wooley, a heavy set, matronly woman in her 60’s, who at the time seemed ancient to me. That summer she sent a postcard reminding me how much she loved Winnie the Pooh—or as I secretly understood it, how much she loved me. Although it disappeared sometime after I left for college, this postcard, along with Ricky’s Marble Bag, sewn for me by Mrs. Brush, my favorite babysitter, are my two early childhood treasures.
Miss Wooley listened to me. I mattered to her. I felt special in a way that I never had before.
Often I wonder why this is—why Miss Wooley was the first person who listened. But “why” questions are exceptionally difficult, and we often get swayed by our own answers, forgetting that human beings and the world in general are terrifically complicated.
Still, the answer lies partially in bump, bump, bump. Not the beginning of Edward Bear’s story, but the start of my mother’s: her parents took long car rides over railroad ties when she was in utero, trying to induce a spontaneous abortion. They were unhappy about having a third child. Once my mother was born, my grandparents like all decent folk, tried to hide their feelings of being burdened. But these feelings are inevitably communicated and my mother was not fooled. She perceived she had no value, so she spent the rest of her life making something of herself, something of worth. People have asked me how she found out about the abortion attempts. I don’t know. But I’m glad she did, because it helps me make better sense of her life story—and mine as well.
For thirty years later history repeated itself. Not wanting children and having met the quota of two under the terms of her marriage agreement with my father, my mother suddenly found herself pregnant again. No bump, bump, bump this time; car suspensions had improved—and still no chance of a legal abortion. Out I came and no one, not my mother, not my father, not my sister, and especially not my brother who arrived only 18 months ahead of me, wanted me there. Rather than waiting for my delivery in the hospital, my father went out and bought a brand spanking new 1955 Ford Fairlane. An automatic. Light blue, both inside and out.
I learned quickly. I asked for nothing, affected nobody, and evoked as little wrath as I could. Making noise seemed dangerous: for a couple years I literally walked on my toes. I made myself invisible and voiceless.
Then, suddenly, just before I turned six, Miss Wooley asked me to read out loud Edward Bear’s awkward entry into Christopher Robin’s parlor: “bump, bump, bump.”
She listened to every word, and, for a short time, I found a place in the world.