Dear Governor Christie,
Hey there! Just
wanted to thank you for signing that bill into law, you know, the one that will
unseal confidential birth records and vilify the girls and women who suffered
catastrophic, unwanted pregnancies and had the nerve to think they could keep
that kind of thing secret. Thank you for
exposing us to the public. I realize now
that it’s for our own good. We’re pretty
weak and we cry a lot, so we need a male with a strong arm to put us in our
place. For a lot of us that’s what got
us in the predicament originally. We’re
accustomed to cowering.
At first, Governor, I admit I was a little upset at you and
your people for all the fist-pumping over the passage of this bill. I have always regarded celebrating a win at
the expense of another’s agony as low-class, ignorant behavior. I see now that I must lighten up. I take life much too seriously. I must develop a better sense of humor for
the absurd. I’m working on it.
Which brings me to lemonade and one of your colleagues and
how informed and eloquent she came off when she chastised impregnated rape
victims that they will just have to make lemonade out of lemons. I assume she was chastising any girl or woman
impregnated against her will, not just rape victims. Believe it or not, I do find humor in
this. Same goes for your comments that—and
I’m paraphrasing here—every pregnancy is a blessing. I’m coming to appreciate your comedic
skills. Clearly those who call you a
know-it-all bully are wrong. You’re just
witty, as all politicians must be. Back
in the days before rape was a crime, politicians used to joke that (potential)
rape victims should just lie there and enjoy it. I laughed at that one, too.
As an obedient, private citizen of the State of New
Jersey, please allow me the honor of becoming the
very first woman who endured a catastrophic pregnancy and was rescued by the
confidential adoption process and promised anonymity to submit to your
authority and confess all my secrets. I
promise I will lie still and try to enjoy it. Even as a young girl I realized when I was
beaten. Onto the lemonade.
It’s a sad fact of my life that nobody wants to listen to me
whine about my illnesses, aches and pains, general malaise, and obsessions, or rants
about estranged family members, or complaints about my past. But now that I have you and your people who
actually want to listen to my list of problems and grievances, my
sadness has miraculously lifted. It’s a
wonderful life when you can make lemonade out of rotten lemons. Thank you for this opportunity, Governor.
First, about my personal history. I’ve already written the book, Woman In
Hiding, A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets and Other Evil Deeds. The title says it all, but I’ll send it to
you anyway. This will save all of us
time so I can move on to the good stuff which is my fascinating family history
you and your people are so obsessed with.
I’m really excited about forking over the skinny on my
family heritage for public consumption. Never
before have I had the opportunity to air all this dirty laundry to such attentive
ears. Again, thank you. I know you and your people will be impressed
that I am related to rapists, a pornographer, a pedophile lesbian, drunkards
(sorry, politically incorrect term for alcoholics), drug addicts, sex addicts, thieves,
con-artists, kidnappers, child abusers, sex abusers, physical abusers, elder
abusers, regular run-of-the-mill abusers, predators, stalkers, pathological
liars, and a would-be-murder (unfortunately, the two attempts failed). It would take too much space to go into full
detail here. But do send your people by. I’ll be delighted to provide them with full
names and complete addresses and in the case of the deceased, directions to their
final resting places. I think, as you
do, that every skeleton must be dug up. Plus,
I could use the psychological counseling you’ve offered. Ever since I worked at a state-run mental
institution I’ve been overjoyed by the competence of state social workers. Of course, it took me a while to get over my
fox-in-the-henhouse worry, but then I started thinking about lemonade and
decided that I can trust you and your people.
I think the Valium helped.
Anyway enough about my relatives and more about ME! and my
problems. I confess that I think I might
have Multiple Sclerosis. But it could be
Guillain-Barre Syndrome. I’m not sure if
I inherited either of these conditions, so I thought I should mention
them. I consulted Reader’s Digest
about my symptoms and confirmed them on the internet. The numbness in my foot has nothing to do
with the fact that a board fell on it and the fact that I did not receive
proper attention and sympathy for my pain.
I am glad that you and your people take me seriously. I am sure I am suffering from a dread disease
and not just a bruise.
Also, I am an old lady.
I’ve suffered many diseases over my life. Cancer.
Gout. Diabetes. Heart Disease. Chronic Fatigue. And Polio, just to name a few. I think just to be sure, you and your people
should check “all of the above” on my official medical records. That all of these maladies were figments of
my over-active imagination do not make them any less scary. Reader’s Digest and the internet are
trusted diagnostic tools. I use them
frequently. Recently I had a rash. I was sure it was skin cancer. But I got top-notch advice from one of those
medical websites. Gnat bites! Who knew?
But one can never be too careful.
Currently I am dealing with occasional headaches. According to Reader’s Digest I
probably have a brain tumor. Or maybe migraines. Or an allergy to milk chocolate. Or sensitivity to pollen. But they might be due to aggravation caused
by the aforementioned relatives. I
haven’t had a chance to verify anything on the internet yet. I’ll let you know for sure. But if the brain tumor thing ends the way I
think it will, my husband will contact you so you can update my records. I wouldn’t want to cheat you and your people
out of my five year check in.
Forgive me Governor, because I am so embarrassed to
tell you and your people this, but I realize that I am obligated. I suffer from low estrogen. Which probably explains the mustache. And the limp.
But not the harelip. According to
my family the harelip is a genetic deformity passed down by imbeciles. Again, sorry about the politically incorrect
term, but that’s what my family calls the deformed imbeciles they keep
locked-up in their attics. I blame
flimsy locks for all the inbreeding.
What has me confused, though, are my crossed eyes. I have no idea where they came from. Not that there aren’t advantages to being
cross-eyed. If we were to meet,
Governor, I’d see two of you. How great
is that?
As long as I’m giving an official confession, I better tell
you this: I see ghosts. I always
thought I was nuts. But according to
reality TV, I’m just psychic. I don’t
want to cause you and your people any trouble or force you to do something you
hadn’t planned on, but could you create a slot on your official forms for this
sort of thing? I understand if you
can’t. If you have to, just list me as
nuts. It fits in pretty well with the
rest of my relatives.
One more thing, Governor.
I’m genetically disposed to fat.
I feel so close to you because I know we have this in common. I know my being a fat lady had nothing
to do with cupcakes and bread. That fat
gene was a direct deposit from the rapist side of my ancestry. Oh, did I tell you that I’m adopted? That I’m a spawn of a rapist? Those darn rapists ruin everything, don’t
they? At least my Rapist Daddy could’ve
had the decency to be skinny.
About my Rapist Daddy.
Now that you’ve unsealed those pesky confidential records, I think I
might do some sleuthing around. My
Rapist Daddy is probably…what?...ninety now?
I better hurry if I’m gonna’ find out where all my fat came from, not to
mention my crossed eyes. I’m sure the
old man and his old, fat, cross-eyed children will be thrilled to hear from me. I can’t wait to tell those kids that our
daddy is a rapist.
Good luck to you, Governor.
Congrats on your courage in signing that bill. Don’t worry about all those old ladies
hanging out there twisting in the wind. They’re
half dead anyway. Trust me—like I trust
you and your people—they’ll never know what hit them.
I’ll keep in touch!
Kathleen Hoy Foley
