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DETROIT FREE PRESS
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Wednesday, December 27, 2000
METRO FINAL
1E
Photo
MITCH ALBOM
FIRST IN A SERIES ON HEARTBREAKS AND HOPES OF UNSUNG MICHIGAN HEROES
Copyright (c) 2000, Detroit Free Press
DREAMS DEFERRED 2000
ANGELA JO MOTZ LEFT HER BABY IN A CARDBOARD BOX TWO DAYS AFTER HE WAS BORN.
AND FROM HER SAGA, THERE ARE LESSONS PARENTS AND CHILDREN CAN LEARN
Let's start with the act that got her in trouble, then we can deal with what
made her do it. It was just after 7 a.m., and she had been driving aimlessly
for hours. At one point, she had parked outside her high school, where she was
due to graduate in a few weeks. She sat there in the dark. She was 18. Next to
her, wrapped in towels, was the newborn baby nobody knew about. He was two
days old.
What am I going to do? The sun was up now, and her father was due home from
his night shift at the GM plant -- her father, whose disappointment she so
feared, she couldn't even tell him the worst thing that had ever happened to
her.
What am I going to do? She drove through town and finally entered Holmes Car
Wash. It looked deserted. She got out, took her baby and placed him gently
inside a cardboard box. She left the box near a post. Then she drove across
the street.
From there, she watched. She cried. She prayed. Maybe in her mind she saw a
childless couple drive up, find the baby, whisk him away to a good, happy
life. But no one came. Time kept moving. Her thoughts kept racing. Her body,
two days post-childbirth, was a mess of hormones and fatigue, her brain was
dizzy, she hadn't seen a doctor or a nurse, she hadn't seen anyone, she was
late, confused -- what am I going to do? -- and in that one awful moment, she
committed her crime.
She drove away.
You may find that unforgivable. But this is not about forgiveness. This is
about what's going on under our noses, in our own homes, how we lose touch
with our teenagers, how they look like children, but are living -- and
suffering consequences -- like adults.
Angela Jo Motz, you might figure, is one of those sulking teens who had
nothing going for her, she's probably poor, uneducated, no guidance, no
values, she carelessly got pregnant, and just as carelessly abandoned her
baby.
You would be wrong.
"I think people see me as someone who did something so terrible there's no
excusing it," she says now. "But that's not the whole story . . ."
Angela Motz is a stocky young woman with brown eyes and sandy, shoulder-length
hair. She is smart, strong and intensely motivated, a borderline type-A
achiever. She sits in the bedroom of her Lansing home, surrounded by awards
for sports and academics.
This room, full of wicker furniture, is where Angela grew up, talented enough
to start on the varsity volleyball team and hit .300 in softball at Everett
High School.
This is where she did her homework, well enough to earn a straight-A
grade-point average and a top-three rank in her class.
This is where her childhood teddy bear, Bob, still sits on her bed.
And this is where her baby was born.
The baby Angela says she didn't know she was carrying.
Delivering the baby
"I didn't really gain weight, I was wearing the same clothes as before. I
wasn't eating any more food. And I didn't feel sick. I had missed my periods
before, sometimes three or four in a row," she says, "so that didn't really
concern me.
"It was my senior year. I was busy playing volleyball and softball. I was in
the band, doing homework.
"Did I ever think I was pregnant? I guess sometimes. I'd had sex before. Most
of the time we used protection. But maybe this one time . . .
"Anyhow, even if I was pregnant, I thought, I couldn't be very far along,
right?"
Wrong. The baby came on Saturday night of Memorial Day weekend. Not that
anyone foresaw it. That morning, Angela played clarinet with her high school
marching band. Later, she and a friend went to a shopping mall. When she got
home, her father asked her to bake a cake for a picnic. After that, she
visited her grandmother -- a nurse -- who hemmed her prom dress.
If this doesn't sound like a prelude to childbirth, well, that's the point.
"My stomach hurt that night," Angela admits, "but I thought it was just the
food we ate at the mall. I went home. My dad was out. I kept having to lie
down....
"The pain got worse. After that, everything is kind of a blur. They tell me
now I might never remember, that I blocked it out because of the shock. All I
know is at some point I went into the bathroom and I got in the bathtub. And
the baby ...came out, I guess....
"My older sisters have kids, so maybe I knew enough to cut the cord . . .
"All I really remember is waking up Sunday morning, around 10 a.m., with my
baby sleeping next to me ...and I was in total shock.... I was so afraid.... I
couldn't tell my father. I mean, this isn't something you just say to Dad
after he comes home from church...."
So Angela, whose mother moved across the country a few years ago and whose
siblings were all gone from the house, stayed hidden in her room. The baby did
not cry. When her father came home, he yelled, "You up there?" and she yelled
back, "Yeah!"
Maybe you're saying, "Come on, how could he not know?" Well. How many times
have you yelled up to your teenagers' rooms and they grunted back and on you
went?
Angela cleaned the infant. She breast-fed him as best she could (this, too,
she based on memories of her older sisters). On Monday, Memorial Day, her
father was gone to another picnic. She cried some more, prayed some more,
slept some more. Then she surrounded the infant with pillows, put some soft
music on her CD player, and went to softball practice. Softball practice?
"I didn't want anyone to suspect anything," she says.
Even Everett's softball coach, Jeff Cheadle, admits he saw no signs that she
had just given birth. "Angela fielded ground balls," he recalls. "She did
drills. I even made them take a lap and she ran it right along with the
others."
What about the baby's father, you ask? He was a guy Angela had dated for a
while. He was older. He was away. She didn't tell him. She didn't tell anyone.
She couldn't, she says. She was too worried about disappointing people. That's
the flip side of achievement. Sometimes kids do bad things because they can't
fathom not being good.
For two days and two nights -- the length of her parenthood -- it was Angela
and the baby, alone.
"Did I love my child?" she says now. "I feel like I did. But you know, most
parents, they have a long time to make the connection. They say, 'I'm gonna
have a baby' and they can build up to it. With me, it just sort of
happened...."
She pauses.
"There's not a day goes by that I don't think about him . . ."
Finding the baby
One million teenagers get pregnant each year in the United States. And each
year, around 100 infants are abandoned at birth. About a third of those die.
In most cases, the mothers feel alone. In some cases, they truly are.
A few hours after leaving her baby, Angela drove back to the car wash during
lunch. The box was gone. Her heart was pounding. The radio said nothing. At
school, she listened again. Still nothing. Finally, just before her softball
game, she ran to her truck, dressed in her uniform, and turned the AM dial.
Then she heard it: A baby had been found at 7:20 a.m. -- just minutes after
she'd driven off.
Somehow, she walked back to the field and took her spot at first base. She
batted. She fielded. Everett won the game. But there was a new game for Angela
now: waiting to be caught.
It didn't take long. By Wednesday, plainclothes police were at her school.
Apparently, while Angela was in denial about her pregnancy, others --
including some teachers -- had wondered.
When the officers first questioned her, Angela feigned ignorance. But they
kept saying everything would be all right. "He's a beautiful, healthy baby,"
they said. "He has 10 fingers and 10 toes...."
Something about that sentence snapped her. She began to cry. She told them
everything.
And from that point, Angela Motz's life unfolded like parallel lines from
different universes: She went to her prom, she went to graduation, she got her
diploma. She also went to court, surrendered to authorities, was booked,
fingerprinted, and charged with child abandonment, a 10-year felony.
Many of her classmates ostracized her. Many of her neighbors couldn't
understand. Fortunately, in this case, the judge, prosecutor and attorney
agreed: The infant had been taken care of, he was left where someone could
find him, no malice was intended. And, given Angela's age and clean slate, she
was allowed to plead guilty to a misdemeanor, fourth-degree child abuse, and
the Holmes Youthful Trainee Act could apply. Angela would not have to go to
jail. If she followed her probation rules, eventually her record would be
expunged.
As for the baby? He went through foster care and was quickly adopted. Angela,
now a college freshman, is in touch with the adoptive parents through e-mail
and has even seen photos of her son. The name she picked for him -- which she
wishes to keep private -- was used as a middle name by his new parents. "He'll
always be mine," Angela says, "but when I signed away my rights, I was doing
the best thing I could for him...."
As for her father? He told Angela he loves her, and has stood by her through
it all. He is still "stunned," however, at both the pregnancy and the fact
that Angela had been having sex since she was 15.
But then, that's what this story is about, isn't it? We think we know our
children. We think good grades and varsity letters are enough information. But
those are merely facts, punch holes on a data card. The heart requires deeper
examination.
"What is the lesson in all this?" Angela Motz is asked.
"If you're in trouble," she says, "don't be afraid to tell the people who care
about you."
She cries a little. She has finished her story. This time, two lives were
salvaged. Next time, we may not be so lucky. Talk, please, talk with your
children. It's the offense of love, and the only defense we have.
Contact MITCH ALBOM at 313-223-4581 or albom@freepress.com. Catch his radio
show, "Albom in the Afternoon," 3-6 p.m. weekdays on WJR-AM (760).
THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION MAY DIFFER SLIGHTLY FROM THE PRINTED ARTICLE.
COLUMN;ANGELA JO MOTZ