A French Mathematician one day wrote: "Imagination disposes of everything; it creates beauty, justice and happiness, which are everything in this world." Imagination was at the same time my escape and my confinement.
I wish I could say my parents awaited my birth with impatience. But that would be a lie. My mother was less than thrilled with the idea of having yet another baby.
"You kids took away my life," she repeatedly told us after she had a few glasses of her favorite wine. Some say the truth comes out when one is intoxicated; others say that whatever passes the lips of a drunk should not be taken into consideration. I am not sure which one to believe. All I know is that I rarely felt my mother loved us.
It was different at first for my older brother, Jeremy. She felt differently towards him. My mother had high expectations for him. Upon knowing she was pregnant, she had bought a study table, a lamp, a bookshelf, books and a bed worthy of the most intelligent child on Earth.
That was ridiculous, of course. My brother was still in utero. On top of that, it takes years before a child leaves the crib for a bed—and even longer for him to learn how to multiply. My parents did not make any sense.
Or should I say, my mother did not make any sense. I think it was more her idea. My mother constantly reminded us that she was always at the top of her class when she was in school. Success in school was very important to her. Therefore, she hoped her son was going to be just like her—if not better. She wanted Jeremy to be a genius and there was no way it could be otherwise. She set the stage, long before his birth, by creating a studious environment for her soon-to-be-born child.
All that excitement was long gone by the time she was expecting her second child. She showed much more restraint when she learned she was pregnant again—that another creature was living in her womb. I was that creature.
My mother did not prepare a room for me; she did not buy any furniture. She had no hope for me. She expected my brother to be exceptional, but for me she had no expectations. I was her second child. Her infatuation with being a mother was already long gone.
Pregnant and stressed by my brother's unremitting cries, my mother resolved to escape from the four walls of our house and get some fresh air. She put my brother in his stroller and walked down to the waterfall located a few miles away from our home. Along the road where we lived, the trees were bare and the sky was covered with grey clouds. The air was cold and the red, brown, and yellow colors of autumn were sparsely laid on the damp ground.
The waterfall would cover you with a light mist if you got too close. Despite this, its appeasing proprieties always soothed my mother while she listened to the heavy current. Water could be so fascinating and chilling at the same time.
Then I spoke up, disturbing the enchantment of the moment. I made my mother understand I wanted to see the light by paining her hard-heartedly. It was time. My mother was having her first contractions.
She was so undisturbed that I was almost offended. Since she really was not enthused about my birth, she slowly made her way back home, and then decided to go grocery shopping.
For her, there was no point in hurrying for my birth. She even ignored my grandmother's worry.
"You should lie down now," grandmother said when she saw my mother preparing to go grocery shopping.
"You have to go lie down now," grandmother repeated when my mother returned. "Don't bother with putting the food away. I'll do it. Just go!"
But my mother still did not feel the urgency of calling for the doctor just yet.
"Go lie down now!" grandmother insisted when her stubborn daughter began cleaning the house.
"Fine! Just give birth here if that's what you want!" my grandmother finally said. She pulled a sulky face, adjusted her floral dress, and went to sit down at the table with her favorite crossword book.
Her lack of enthusiasm about my impeding arrival was probably the spark that led to my desire for revenge. I decided to take charge of my birth.
My birth was painful and long for my mother. I weighed an impressive ten pounds and four ounces. I also managed to delay my delivery until the following day—October 31th 1952. This was a dark joke I played on my mother, to scare her. It was supposed to be an omen, but she did not understand. No one understood my little joke. No one in my family feared the evil spirits of Halloween and there were no one around to explain it to them. No one believed I was damned and ungodly. They did not seem to care that Halloween was a pagan festival and that October was the month the summer dies, the month when the cold arrives.
They never understood.
It was my first glimpse of light and I was already misunderstood.
But they did give me the name of a saint. They named me Marie. It must have been their joke on me. As if it was not enough to be an eternal virgin, they added a French twist to it by calling me Marie and not Mary. Just so I would not forget my mother's French heritage. I had a constant reminder that I was my mother's daughter whether I wanted it or not.