From Grade Marks to Stretch Marks

I have a 3.97 GPA. I have never consumed alcohol or smoked. I have never lied to my parents. I aspire to become a high school English teacher. I am your typical prudish, American girl. With one exception.

Flashback to three hours earlier. I stand in my boyfriend’s dorm. I look into his eyes.

“Let’s make a baby,” I say.

I press play and Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” serenades us while we get down to business. He retrieves duct tape from under his bed while I pull out a helmet from my bag. I swap my Saint Rose sweatshirt, leggings, and floral combat boots for an oversized high school volleyball sweatshirt, some stretchy pants and comfortable loafers. I set the helmet in place as my boyfriend circles around me, wrapping the tape around my midsection. I feel as if I am being fitted for a corset. The duct tape alters my breathing. But there is no turning back now.

So this is what it feels like to be fake-pregnant.

The weight of the helmet and duct tape is not equivalent to the weight a pregnant teen has to carry around the entire day. I practice sitting down on a chair before I go to the bus stop. Seeing as the only baby I’ve ever carried to term is a food baby from the Olive Garden, I need some practice. With one hand on my back and the other on the desk for support, I descend onto the chair.

I can’t help but think that as a future educator, I will be working with students who are pregnant. The teen pregnancy rate of the area where I intend to teach, Dutchess County, was reported as 2.1 percent in 2013, just below the rate for New York State (2.6 percent).

I wobble towards the CDTA bus stop outside the UAlbany dorms on Western and Partridge. It’s 12:30 p.m. on a Saturday. I relax. The bus won’t be crowded, I think. How many people go to the mall this early?

My back begins to hurt as the bulging helmet forces me to stand up straight the entire thirty-minute wait. Why aren’t there any benches at this bus stop? Ridiculous.

The bus finally arrives and I feel a rush of anxiety. The bus is crowded. My eyes dart around, desperately searching for an unoccupied seat. Nothing. The bus begins to move and I am left with no choice but to clutch onto the slippery pole next to me. It feels like I’m holding hands with all of the sweaty palms that have grasped this before me.

I am going to feel so terrible when someone offers his seat up for me, I think to myself. I will feel like such a fraud.

Don’t worry. I didn’t feel like an imposter for the simple fact that no one offered their seat to a young, pregnant teen. The initial fear of betraying a kind stranger now turns into anger.

Are you kidding me? No one is going to give up his seat for a pregnant girl? Why is that guy on crutches taking up two seats? And what about Mr. Man Spread over here? Hello? I am pregnant! Move over!

Maybe CDTA is to blame. While they have a sign posted on the windows encouraging passengers to offer their seat to the elderly and individuals with disabilities, they somehow forgot to include pregnant women.

Cue unwanted stares in three, two, one. Typically if someone is staring at me, I will look at him blankly in the eyes and sternly say, “Don’t look at me.”

I don’t do that now. I am out of my comfort zone. I am pregnant.

I enter the mall and it’s a nightmare. I want to stop each person who stares at me and hand her my resume.

Look at everything I am involved in. I am a tour guide, a tutor, a coach for students with special needs. I juggle three jobs and I have already mapped out the next 10 years of my life.

My goals and achievements do not matter to the strangers I pass in public. No one stops to ask me anything about my pregnancy. The exaggerated stares and open-mouthed gasps while sauntering through Albany communicate much more. To them, my accomplishments stopped mattering the moment I became fake-pregnant. The majority of the stares I receive are darted from the eyes of middle-aged women. Men and teenagers do not seem to be bothered or shocked by my protruding belly. At one point, I pass by one of my college professors. I look her way, but if she saw me, she didn’t make a point to say hello.

Although I am posing as a pregnant teenager, the constant stares, the occasional point, and the shocked expressions make me feel devalued, as if I am unworthy to be walking in the same vicinity as everyone else.

Not only did posing as a pregnant teen induce uncomfortable back pain for the rest of the day, I also became nauseous from pole clinging on the bus on my way back home. Although the physical discomfort I endured is not equivalent to the discomfort that a pregnant teen faces, it definitely helped me transition into character.

But the worst was yet to come.

I collect cans and bottles so that I can redeem it for cash. I dig through recycling bins to retrieve bottles and I am not shy about it. And don’t get me started on loose change. I am constantly looking down on the ground in search for coins. I saved $65 in a year from picking up abandoned change. Anyway, on the waddle-walk home, I saw a dime at the bus stop. There was no way I was leaving that little guy behind.

Just as I was developing a plan of action, a teenage girl bent down and stole my dime. She stole it from a pregnant lady. She just stole my dime. I saw it first.