Bump, Bump, Bump
Copyright © 2009 by Richard A. Grossman, Ph.D.  ·  All Rights reserved  ·  E-Mail: ragrossman@voicelessness.com
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.  Baby 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.
Voicelessness and Emotional Survival

Bump, Bump, Bump
                                   Pg. 2
Voicelessness and
Emotional Survival