Birthright

Seventy years ago, the American democratic system saw its end. The two parties became polarized to the point of implosion where perpetual gridlock tension called for relief in a common, singular voice. That’s when my family stepped in, forging the first American Monarch.

The nation is known as Aerdok now and it's made up of territories that used to be called: Canada, United States, and Mexico. Those names are faint memories now like Inca, Maya, and Aztec were to me in my last life.

Lorelai doesn’t know I’m here. Then again, why would she? She's never had sex a day in her life. This isn’t all that surprising, even for a twenty-nine-year-old woman. No one today has sex anymore. It’s avoided, out of fear. Even those in the most trusting relationships refrain, for safe measure, because no one wants to lose their genitals from poor judgement.

All procreation is accomplished in petri dishes, test tubes, and fertilization clinics. This has made the unplanned pregnancy obsolete. The amount of planning that goes into childbearing today requires the utmost attention from both donors therefore one is always aware, if not hyper-aware, when a child is on the way. Just not my mother.

I find it difficult to conceptualize Lorelai’s belief in immaculate conception. She’s not really the maternal type either. So, when she does find out: I’m sure that will be the end of me. But for now, I’m here, looking at a line of men, outside, one of the many dosing facilities across the country.

We’ve been doing this for two months now. Every day a different facility, in a different territory. Mom does well to blend in. She wears the same outfit no matter the weather: black turtleneck, charcoal tights, and a smoky linen pashmina making her silhouette peripherally indistinguishable. In her satchel, there’s a camcorder and tripod in case she gets the opportunity to interview with one of these men to show her mother.

If I were to be born I would one day be Queen. My mother is a third-generation royal of the new bloodline and next in line for the throne. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, the late Queen Bodelai, was the first Queen of Aerdok. Well, really America, but then she changed the name quite early on as she snatched up all the territories, a name-change seemed fit and the Aerdokian Monarchy was born.

Queen Bodelai was a fair queen. So fair, that her regime was responsible for the Mixed-Race Act; the decree that eliminated race from the Americas by outlawing same-race relationships. Everybody today is mixed race save for the oldest generation, such as my grandmother’s, the reigning Queen of Aerdok.

If Queen Bodelai was fair, her daughter is just. When Lorelai was born, sexual assault across the nation had been at an all-time high. The Monarchy’s done well to reduce the sexual assault offenses across the nation, as well as the inmate population in prisons.

Today, these, once criminal, psychologically disturbed, individuals walk the streets as casually as the neighborhood baker. The rationalization of this reality is the A + B = C factor of the Weapon-Removal Strategy. That is: the removal of sex-offender’s penises and testicles, even arms and hands, if the ruling seems fit. No wonder why petri dishes are so popular.

Amputees are the scarlet letters, hanged woman and yellow Stars of David of this age. In that sense, not much has changed since my last life. It seems every civilization needs this for some reason. You know, an unmistakable, nothing-but-clarity, without-a-doubt way to distinguish between the good and bad people.

No matter how much time goes by this has been the common thread throughout all my lives. At least this time I won’t be in the category of the hunted. That’s good. It’s been my luck to be the hunted, having lives as a witch, a Jew, and adulteress at the utmost culturally unfortunate times. That stuff really does something to the soul, you know? So, it’s possible I might catch a break this time, being born a woman and all might work in my favor. I hope. Really, you can never know.

Mom sat us at a picnic bench near an exit window of the dosing facility. We’re waiting for someone to stop close enough for her to talk to. And then, luckily, Stew stumbled over in distance of an ear-shot.

Stew Dunner is in his late sixties. He’s one those offenders who lost both his arms which is a shame because he used to be a mechanic. And as a mechanic, Stew was good, honest. Save for the times he overcharged customers. Which, he only did when he was in a pinch; which, towards the end of his career was more often than not.

It was the usual effects of social decay: drugs, alcohol, yada yada.

Stew owed money all over the place by that point. In an unfortunate issue with a kingpin, Stew raped a woman while the pin and his pawns watched, in exchange for drugs. Not long after that, Queen Bodelai died and my grandmother took the throne.

Her first call of duty was a decree quite catastrophic. According to the Queen, sexual assault cases are much too complicated for trial. She declared one accusation sufficient for ruling. The decree, so simply stated:

“Castration be the punishment for all men accused of sexual assault”

Nauseated from the morning dose Stew spreads his legs, recalibrating his body with his head between the knees. We watch. He doesn’t love that.

"Enjoy the show?"

"Wait! Can I ask you a few questions?”

“I didn’t do it, okay? Whatever you think I did”

“I want to know what you think is happening to you”

Stew's never been asked to consider this.

When we got home, Lorelai’s lady in waiting informed us of the Queen’s summons, multiple summons. Apparently, she’s been trying to get face time with the Princess for the better part of the day. My mother quickly changes into well regal attire but is interrupted, half-dressed, when the Queen barges in, having waited too long, in her opinion. Her attention intermittently shifts from her point to the heart-shaped locket around Mom's neck.

“Where did you get that?”

“Your safe”

“I know, that’s where I keep it but how did you-”

“I was rummaging”

“You must not do that, that is not your business”

“What else do you expect”

“Stop it Lorelai! All of it. What is it you think you are you looking for? Just stop it!”

Lorelai is looking for answers as to why she feels so different from the rest of her family. Her father is of Jamaican descent, and her younger siblings appear to be of Jamaican descent, but Lorelai does not appear Jamaican and finds it hard to believe, no matter often my grandmother assures her: “Jamaican is in your blood.”

If I were to be born, I would not be part Jamaican. My mother’s instincts are on par despite the Queen’s efforts to deny of her this intuition.

I wish I could tell my mother the truth. That, ten weeks ago, the Queen arranged Lorelai’s marriage to my father, Innel Jasperson, a local lord of the Jasper territory, formerly eastern Canada, who grandmother believes will make a marvelous King one day.

Unfortunately for my grandmother, Mom doesn’t want to be queen nor would she like an heir to the throne. The truth is Lorelai wants the throne to end and plans to abolish it.

Another similar fact from life to life is this: mothers and daughters tend to adamantly disagree with one another.

The Queen is determined to maintain bloodline power and ensure their reign. Which is why, eight weeks ago, while my mother slept, grandmother sedated her and inseminated her with my father, Innel’s sperm; resulting in the successful pregnancy that is me. As to why I am here and why my mother is about to throw up.

Princess Lorelai runs us to the washroom to vomit. Assuming it’s a symptom of her perpetual panic attacks, often induced by my grandmother.

Coldly, the Queen continues, calling from the quarters:

“I know you’ve been leaving the palace. You cannot do that, especially now, it is not safe for you, for any of us, to be out there.”

Between hurls, “Perhaps if you were less wretched you wouldn’t feel that way.”

“Lorelai! You will not go into the city anymore! That is an order!”

“Are you even remotely aware of the destruction you’ve caused?”

“Our world is the least destructive it’s ever been because of me. You should be grateful, for never having to live in the vulturous world I grew up in.”

Lorelai emerges from the bathroom wiping her mouth with a plush purple hand towel and nothing more to say. The Queen gives her a kind, yet ultimately creepy, smile.

"What?"

"Looks like it was a success"

"It wasn't"

"No, no-"

Lorelai, looking puzzled, catalyzed the Queen’s confession: “You’re pregnant my dear. Congratulations”

It’s dusk now. Back at the dosing facility for evening call where Stew just received his second dose. Familiar with his after-pill ritual, Mom offers some water from her canteen, but he refuses.

“How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy. The second shot is dizzy”

“Everyday?”

“It’s the sedative. It helps with sleep. I’ll be out in a few hours.”

“Can I walk you home?”

Stew lives five blocks away on the third floor of tenements reserved for amputees. It’s hot because it’s July and the tenements lack air conditioning and, in their simplicity, only have one window, that faces another building made of the same concrete. This makes it feel like a human microwave.

The studio apartment is small. One room. There’s a sofa, a table and chair, and something resembling half of a kitchenette. He has nothing to offer Lorelai except his story which he’s agreed to share in an interview. Lorelai takes a sip from her canteen while setting up the camera and tripod on the dainty table provided by the state.

“What would you like to know?”

“How did your life get you where you are today?”

Stew tells Lorelai about his addiction and about the kingpin and the series of events. It’s hot. Lorelai, sweating at this point, prompts Stew to continue while removing her top layers. Stripping down to an undershirt, the Queen's locket is showcased around her neck. This gives Stew an obsessive pause.

“What’s inside your locket?”

Unsure, Lorelai opens it, revealing a photo of a white rose. The same white rose that jolted Stew’s memory thirty years ago. You see, his grandmother had a white rose garden. As a child, he helped prune them every autumn.

The woman that night, that cost Stew his arms and manhood, wore a locket whose clasp fell open, and there, inside, was a photo of a white rose. This memory catapulted Stew into a simpler time before addiction owned him. The same rose image moved him to run away that night, without the drugs thus cutting the show short for the kingpin.

“You’re Princess Lorelai,” he says. My mother laughs this off daring not reveal herself.

“I know it’s you. This is all my fault. And I barely remember any of it. Except for your locket. It was your mother, that night. No one expects a princess to be walking down a street like that, ever. But it was her. When the papers said she was pregnant, I was in rehab. I knew, or I thought, maybe, you were mine. I'm surprised she kept you. No, I'm glad. You're alive. I'm sorry. Will you tell her I’m sorry? Please?”

My mother stopped breathing, so I might not be born after all.