Woman on the Edge of Time - Marge Piercy [50]
“Fasure, how not? When you grow up, you can stick to the culture you were raised with or you can fuse into another. But the one we were raised in usually has a … sweet meaning to us.”
“We say ‘we,’” Luciente began, “about things that happened before we were born, cause we identify with those decisions. I used to think our history was exaggerated, but I’m less sure since I time-traveled.” Luciente drew them toward the next port.
“I don’t think I want to look at any younger … babies.” The little third-month child the doctor had shown her in the basin. Her stomach lurched. “I don’t feel too good.”
“We’ll leave.” Bee took her arm. “Maybe it’s the filtered air? Grasp, the plasm is precious. Life flows through here for sixteen villages in all, the whole township.”
Outside she took a deep breath of salty air and detached herself from Bee. Claud’s sore delicate pride, like an orchid with teeth. What could a man of this ridiculous Podunk future, when babies were born from machines and people negotiated diplomatically with cows, know about how it had been to grow up in America black or brown? Pain had honed Claud keen. This man was a child by comparison. “You saying there’s no racism left? Paradise on earth, all God’s children are equal?”
“Different tribes have different rites, but god is a patriarchal concept.” Luciente took Bee’s arm and hers. “Our mems, our children, our friends include people of differing gene mixes. Our mothers also.”
“But Bee’s kids would be black. Yours would be brown.”
“My child Innocente has lighter skin than you do.” Bee stopped to admire a walk lined with rosebushes blooming in yellows and oranges and creamy whites. “There’s no genetic bond—or if there is, we don’t keep track of it.”
“Then this kid isn’t really your child?”
“I am Innocente’s mother.”
“How can men be mothers! How can some kid who isn’t related to you be your child?” She broke free and twisted away in irritation. The pastoral clutter of the place began to infuriate her, the gardens everyplace, the flowers, the damned sprightly looking chickens underfoot.
Luciente urged her along. “We’re walking Bee back to the lab. Where I’d be with the rest of our plant genetics base except for you. Bee and I work together. Maybe that’s why we’ve been sweet friends so long, twelve years already.”
“I thought it’s cause I’m too lazy to run from you the way any sane lug would. I never noticed other cores who worked in the same base stuck so long.”
“We’re so ill suited we can’t give up. Connie, apple blossom, listen to me—”
“Be on guard when Luci calls you soft names.” Bee managed to saunter more slowly than they walked and yet keep up.
“It was part of women’s long revolution. When we were breaking all the old hierarchies. Finally there was that one thing we had to give up too, the only power we ever had, in return for no more power for anyone. The original production: the power to give birth. Cause as long as we were biologically enchained, we’d never be equal. And males never would be humanized to be loving and tender. So we all became mothers. Every child has three. To break the nuclear bonding.”
“Three! That makes no sense! Three mothers!” She thought suddenly of Three Kings Day and the Anglo Christmas carol that Angelina had learned off the TV. She could hear Angie’s fluty voice singing monotonously but with a limpid joy in monotony (the security):
We three kings of Oregon are
bearing gifts we travels a far.
Tears burned her lids. Angelina, Angelina, if you had three mothers like me, you’d be dead instead of sold off to some clean-living couple in Larchmont. They said you were lucky to be taken at four. I didn’t understand till I got out what they’d done! Lucky to be taken from me.
Angelina, child of my sore and bleeding body, child of my sad marriage that never fit right, like a pair of cheap shoes that sprouts a nail in the sole. But you fit right. The nurse said I would have to show you, but you reached right for my breast. You suckled right away. I remember