Nineteen and Pregnant in 1969
If Amal wanted to smoke weed in her Lincoln Continental, I was there with her. If she wanted to go out to a bar and dance until three in the morning, I’d go, even if I had to get up for an 8 a.m. class. If she wanted to drive out into the desert with the stereo playing full blast and lip sync to “Born to Be Wild,” I’d sing along with her, ecstatic that she chose me to be her friend. She could come to my room day or night, and I’d drop whatever I was doing. We’d lie on my bed and I’d listen to her tales, problems, and dreams, and wish I could touch her.
Alone in my dorm room, I’d put Barbra Streisand on the record player— “How Does the Wine Taste?” Just beyond her fingertips, just out of reach, she saw so much, she could not reach, she mustn’t touch. What might the fruit be like? Would it be lovely? A little frightening? I wondered too…
On my nineteenth birthday in March 1969, I blew up my life. Victor had decided we would go to a swanky restaurant to celebrate. I wore
