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Continued from the previous post …
One Saturday morning, my mother came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed.
“Sandra,” she said, “You’re pregnant.”
It didn’t occur to me at the time to be anything but ashamed, embarrassed and afraid, but when looking back I know I should have been damned angry, as well.
A few months before this fateful morning, I had gone to my mom for a heartfelt talk. I told her that I was considering becoming sexually active … that’s how I put it. I explained that my boyfriend and I were headed in that direction, that all my friends were doing it, and that I was curious and … well, horny.
I will never forget her response to what was, without doubt, a plea for help:
Sandra, I’ve been doing it for years, and let me tell you … it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
And that was that. End of conversation.
That year, 1968, was the height of the sexual revolution. Our friends were dying in Vietnam. Smoking pot was more popular than drinking, but alcohol was everywhere, too. Grace Slick and Janis Joplin were our heroines, and rock concert weekends were huge events that could not be missed.
It was a time of high passions, everyone cared about everything, music ruled … it was a wonderful, mixed up, beautifully creative and involved time.
And birth control was illegal for anyone under the age of eighteen.
What a set up!
Continued …
