Storyline: I grew up knowing that my maternal great-grandmother was a midwife. Although her story excited me, it was way more exciting to tell it.
Her
brown-skin belly was swollen like a vertical watermelon. This was her third time being with
child. She was having strong pains and
could feel the discomfort way down in her back.
She had spent the last few hours like this so she knew it was almost time
to give birth. As she tried really hard
not to push, she wondered if the midwife would get there before the baby
arrived. The midwife opened the door and
walked quickly toward her bedside. Aunt
Fannie was a short stout dark-skin woman with gray eyes. Eyes the color of hot coals and the kind you
see on old folks. You could see her
thick gray hair peeking through her tattered head wrap and she wore an old
discolored striped shift-dress that had its own history.
It
was January 16, 1915, and Aunt Fannie was more than 80 years old now. Her body was beginning to wear down but she
loved her work and never missed a birthing.
She wasn’t classically trained.
She had learned midwifery helping to deliver babies in the slave
quarters. She was known by the town’s
people as the most trusted midwife in Barbour County, Alabama. At a time when the races were segregated in
the south, she had delivered all the black and white babies in the county since
she was 22 years old. Everyone knew she
had a passion for bringing life into the world and that is why the town’s
people called her God’s assistant.
Aunt
Fannie’s first words to the mother were, “Are you ready honey? We bout’ to bring this baby into the
world.” The mother looked up at Fannie
with sweat pouring down her face and wishing that this was already over. At that moment, she knew that they were
equally matched contenders. “Yes ma’am
Aunt Fannie. I’m ready,” she said as she
scooted her bottom toward the end of the bed preparing to give birth.
