The Birthing Tree

1968 felt like a blustery day when Susan and I, despite my being just twelve years old, made a pact to pursue higher education together. Our minds were filled with visions of a bright future, with Susan's passion for the Women's Liberation Movement and the Royal Commission on the Status of Women dominating our discussions. She was not interested in men - at least, not yet.

In our conversations, I was notably absent. Yet, in my imagination, John was there, quietly working on his homework, or sitting on the bleachers with his friends during lunch breaks. Susan's mother, a frequent visitor, would bring tea to help alleviate the "women's troubles." The first time she visited our modest home, Susan inquired about my ancestry, mistaking me for an Indian.

"Half, I think," she guessed, flabbergasted by the unfamiliar things she found in my home. I admitted that I didn't know who my father was, and surprise rippled through her, prompting her mother to intervene. Despite the incident, Susan and I remained inseparable, bonding over our shared heritage. Our friendship blossomed further in school, where we were always by each other's side.

Susan possessed striking dark hair and skin, a result of her Greek ancestry. To me, an Indian, and a dark-skinned person, regardless of origin, seemed to share a similar experience. My longing for companionship often led me to interact with families who had recently arrived. I would offer assistance in various ways, be it holding a baby, reading with a child, or stirring a stew.

Yet, no matter how hard I searched, I never found anyone who resembled me. As I grew older, this feeling of being an orphan, with an unknown father, loomed large over me. I tried to push these thoughts aside, but as October approached, drawing everyone's attention, I found myself consumed by thoughts of belonging. When John finally arrived, I looked forward to his arrival, scanning the vehicles as they pulled up, hoping he'd arrive soon.

In that year, it was John's father and younger brother who came, but John was absent. Disappointment washed over me. A teenager, I was still a child, particularly when it came to my feelings. I convinced myself that John no longer liked me, perhaps due to our letters or a kiss on the cheek at New Year's. As I walked home, my mind wandered, fabricating something out of nothing.

By the time I reached the house, I had convinced myself that John didn't come because he no longer liked me. The dream of John that morning tempered this feeling, but not entirely. Kiju later expressed her disappointment as another family decided to deliver their baby in the hospital, away from the family under the birthing tree.

She shared her concern about the hospital practices, feeling like a fool for holding onto the past. I tried to comfort her, but the sadness remained. Indeed, under the birthing tree, the cycle of births continued, year after year.