International Fiction Awards, and American Fiction Awards. A story from her collection, Shoes Hair Nails, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. In 2012 she published Because My Name Is Mother, a chapbook of essays linked by the reminder that every mother is a daughter, too.
Batterman applied the Page 69 Test to Just Like February and reported the following:
Just Like February is the story of a girl’s love for her charismatic gay uncle and her coming of age in the ‘80s. As the idea for the novel formed, I asked myself how did we get from the sex/drugs/rock ’n’ roll ’60s to the sex as death ’80s? Rachel, the young narrator, emerged as the voice of a time of profound innocence lost.Learn more about the book and author at Deborah Batterman's website.
A reader who lands on page 69 would find Rachel reflecting on a telling conversation with her best friend. It’s July 4th, 1976, which happens to be her birthday. She’s at a Bicentennial celebration with her parents on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Being the only child among adults gets her thinking about her best friend, Laura, who had begged her to come to her family’s barbecue. There would be other children, “stupid little cousins and the Brat,” in the words of Laura.She never called her one-year-old sister, Ricki, by her name, just complained a lot about how much better life was before the Brat. She hated the baby drool and the baby talk, made fun of the way her parents clucked at the Brat all the time when she was an infant. “You don’t want a baby in your house, Rachel, believe me. They turn your parents into chickens, clicking their tongues, making strange noises all the time. And when they’re not clicking or clucking, they’re oohing and aahing at every stupid little thing she does.” She pinched her nose. “The Brat can stink up a room like nobody else, then smile, like she’s proud of what she’s doing. If you had a younger brother or sister—and believe me, you don’t know how lucky you are not to—you would understand.” I told her I did have a “brother,” but he died. Of pneumonia.There’s no page 69 without page 68, and a quick peek reveals that Rachel’s mother recently had a miscarriage. As the discord in her parents’ relationship grows, her affection for an uncle who opens up worlds to her takes center stage in her life.
When she asked me his name, all I could think was, Baby Baby Baby. “Bobby,” I blurted out. “His name was Bobby.”
“So you know what I mean.” The conversation between two seven-year-olds doesn’t go much further except for Laura to repeat, “You don’t know how lucky your are, Rachel. No babies, no brats.” A perfect segue for Rachel to take in the adults around her, especially her grumpy father.
--Marshal Zeringue
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