Theater | The First Time

Dominique Morisseau: The First Time I

Imagined I Was Pregnant
By DOMINIQUE MORISSEAUAUG. 21, 2017

Dominique Morisseau Credit Photographs by Nathaniel Wood for The New York Times

Choosing one’s words carefully: something every writer must do. This scrutiny can fatigue the people in our
lives. “It ain’t that deep, Dominique,” I’ve been told by loved ones. But not to my kind of brain. It’s all very
deep.

Growing up, I used to think in “novel speak.” My mind would narrate my actions as if I were reading my own
life. Because I had always wanted to be a writer, I liked the idea that someone would one day read my thoughts
and every misunderstanding about me would be vindicated. I was certain that my thoughts were far too deep to
be comprehended, and I would someday be persecuted for them.

Then it happened. The first time I had to choose my words carefully. Eight years old. Second grade at Bates
Academy in Detroit. And somehow in my grand imagination, I thought I was pregnant.

Now I had no idea how one got pregnant. But that was inconsequential. I was convinced that it was very real,
and that I better do something about it — fast.

It occurred to me in the middle of a reading lesson in Mrs. Hardamon’s class. Typically, I loved this class. Not
because Mrs. Hardamon was particularly sweet. She was a tough woman who expected a lot from 7- and 8-year-
olds. Talking when you were supposed to be doing your classwork, for instance, could mean you were put in a
corner or forced to change your desk, possibly placing you next to your second grade arch enemy.

But I loved Mrs. Hardamon’s class, because we had lots of free reading time, and I was deeply into mysteries.
Encyclopedia Brown and the Choose Your Own Adventure books were my jam. Mrs. Hardamon had us reading
beyond our grade level, and rambunctiousness was not tolerated. Second grade was no place for games.

On this fateful day, my stomach was hurting something awful. In hindsight, it was probably gas. Or an upset
stomach mixed with gas. Whatever the case, my stomach was moving. What in the hell is moving inside of my
stomach? OH. MY. GOD. I’m pregnant!

This, I thought, is what it must feel like to have a baby moving inside of you. I should say that my mother, at this
time, was also pregnant. I had placed my hand on her belly and felt my baby brother moving inside of her
numerous times. I figured pregnancy must feel like whatever the hell was moving around in my own stomach.
And I immediately started sweating bullets trying to contemplate how I was going to get out of this mess.
I couldn’t tell anyone. I knew that much. I had never, up to this point, considered how babies were conceived.
All I knew was that if I stayed in school, did my homework, finished all of my reading assignments, and obeyed
my parents and every other adult in the world, I was not supposed to get pregnant.

So, I raised my hand. In the middle of the reading lesson. Mrs. Hardamon was sitting at the front of the class.
The rest of us were following along in our textbooks as Kristalyn read aloud. (Side note: I had a rivalry going on
with Kristalyn. During a black history performance, Mrs. Hardamon gave Kristalyn the part I wanted and made
me her “understudy.” I was still not over it.) So when I raised my hand during Kristalyn’s turn to read, Mrs.
Hardamon gave me the side eye. As if to say, “Dominique’s being a hater again.”

She called on me, “What is it, Dominique?”

“I need to go to the office. I’m not feeling well.”

Mrs. Hardamon was skeptical. Was this an excuse to play in the halls, as one was apt to do when bored with the
reading lesson? “Describe how you’re feeling.”

OH HELL. This was the moment of truth. Did this woman expect me to tell the entire second grade that I was
pregnant? I would be stoned. Branded with the scarlet letter “P.” And the most stressful thing about it? I had no
idea how I got into this situation! You sit down for a reading lesson and poof — you’re preggers. I wanted to
scream “I didn’t do it!” But that almost always meant that you did. So I thought to myself, describe the feeling of
pregnancy without actually indicting yourself. Choose your words carefully, sister.

“It feels like…” I hesitated. “…something’s going to burst from inside of me!”

I waited nervously for her reply. Also, I wasn’t sure how long it took for the baby to drop, but my stomach was
moving furiously and I might go into labor right on these desks.

Mrs. Hardamon got the picture. “Go! Take the pass.”

I was out of there!

By the time I got home to my parents, I had been nursed and given Pepto-Bismol and told everything would be
O.K. in the morning. I never did tell them I believed I was pregnant. As long as I could get away without
exposing myself, I would. My words had spared me social persecution. And fortunately, Pepto seemed to be the
cure for young pregnancy.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the cure for the 12-year-old foster girl in my neighborhood who I later discovered was
really pregnant. By then I was 14 and still just as baffled. I knew I’d never be able to find the words to explain
her situation to myself or anyone else. There would be years of neglect and abuse and trauma trapped inside of
that tale and it was the sort of mystery that would remain unsolved for generations.

I always hoped that somehow the right words would soothe whatever went unhealed in her world and in my
own. And that someday I would discover a language to defy any limitations, for myself, for the people in my
neighborhood, and for all the second graders out there in need of magic words to get them out of the deepest
troubles. It is the ongoing quest of my writing career.

Dominique Morisseau
The playwright’s latest work, “Pipeline,” is at Lincoln Center Theater through Aug. 27.

A version of this article appears in print on August 27, 2017, on Page AR4 of the New York edition with the
headline: … I Imagined I Was Pregnant. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe