politricks and other distractions

As the Sun Sets on the Right to Choose

A pro-choice group was once a client of mine when I was working at an agency. They put out a 25th anniversary book of women's abortion stories and asked me to be part of it. I wrote the following story. They asked for something a little tamer, which is what they published.

Now, a few years later, there's something called the blogosphere, and it seems the media has caught up with the message of the original piece. It's a little dated. A younger woman wrote it, but it's still valid.

It seemed appropriate during this week where women's right to choose is melting away faster than the polar ice caps. If the tide of righteousness that carries the anti-choice movement along succeeds in taking away this right, lots of us will be going down.

-- DC Native

They paint us as hellions, racing to abort a seven-pound, viable fetus from our wombs because it took us too long to decide we didn't want to be inconvenienced by motherhood. Or we forgot to schedule the appointment. They outlaw life-saving fetal tissue research as if we'd support ourselves in the future by making our wombs fertile fields for lucrative fetal body parts. The life-givers and the grave-robbers all rolled into one.

They either don't know, or can't, what it is to have life inside you and not be able to keep it. For a million different reasons to a million different women who never thought they could or would have an abortion, sometimes it is the only choice. A child is not a choice. Certainly true. A child is the rest of your life. It is a commitment to be ready for anything. It is every penny you will ever make, every breath you will ever take, every thought you will ever have. It is opening the door to the unforeseen, often the unsupported, with you as its only anchor in the hurricane that blows through your life. It is the end of your life as yourself and the conscious giving it over to another.

You may be young. You may even be a responsible adult. Your body betrays the potential child inside you before you even know you're pregnant. Your breasts are tender. Your nails become like rock. Your very skin changes texture as the clock ticks by on your decision. You can't feel the cells dividing in your womb, only the shell mutating to another purpose. And every demon that ever passed through your conscience suddenly has you cornered.

One thing it is not: a decision made lightly.

We don't generally have abortions on the way to cocktail parties. We don't have resorts built that offer deals on "abortion/massage/seaweed wraps." Our hairdresser doesn't make us pretty for the occasion.

Many of us do it alone, without telling our friends or families. We pack a bag with a sweater and a box of maxi-pads early on a Saturday morning. It's not a happy day. It's another day of doing the chores that equal taking responsibility for ourselves and for our future children. If we're lucky, we don't have to explain ourselves to anyone. If we're not, we suffer tears and recrimination from others that barely echo the castigation we've given ourselves. One moment of not paying attention, one moment of not taking responsibility, one moment of senseless passion and we become society's target.

You see the signs waving in the distance as you approach the clinic. You hope it's an adjacent store being struck by workers, but you know it's not. You speed up your pace as you head for the door. "Think about Jesus before you do that!! Murderer!! You'll rot in Hell!" They shout disgusting things at you in the name of their Lord. Someone with whom you've had an intimate relationship all your life, but not to their satisfaction.

You sit in the waiting room. The TV blares Saturday morning cartoons. Frank Sinatra croons on the clinic's PA system. Couples murmur somberly together. Women flip through worn magazines. Nothing drowns out the shouting of bitter epithets or of righteous Our Fathers from out on the street. A weird counterpoint finds its own rhythm in the cacophy of this surreal morning. You try to absorb Bugs Bunny and Wile E. Coyote to numb yourself for the longest hour of your life.

They call you in in groups. You watch a video. You have the procedure explained in graphic detail. You learn what sounds to listen for to tell you it's almost over. A certain camaraderie builds as it does any time a group of women collects. Only these women know how you feel, as if you're taking the same life-changing workshop.

You can't hear the madness on the sidewalk from the back rooms. It's there that you change together, as a group, in what's basically a large closet. Someone volunteers to go first. Everyone else wishes you well as you walk out the door.

Finally, you're alone in the room, lying on the table where an unassuming machine waits. The nurse comes in. She holds your hand and asks if you're sure you want to do this. The tenderness in her voice, the caring in her eyes, makes you well up with tears as you nod 'yes.' She tells you that the doctor won't do this if he comes in and sees you crying, so once again you do the adult thing and swallow all emotion. No sense making it harder on everybody than it has to be.

The doctor is kind and quick. The sound you heard about comes with a little cramping and it's over. You go to the recovery room and rest. Your life can begin again.

But you spend the rest of your life angry. Not always at yourself - though that's there too - but you know that was a decision that was right at the time. You're angry at the onslaught of the righteous who never knew you and who never would care to. Those who want to make the most difficult decision of your life even harder because it makes them feel better about themselves. It makes them feel like they're saving lives.

The truth is they couldn't care less about the life you'd give to a child once it's here. They are the people who want everyone off welfare. Who wouldn't vote for state-sponsored day care or health care if their lives depended on it. Who spit when they say the word "feminist" to a single mother who decides to have a baby on her own when the father walks away.

I've seen it in their eyes in the lines of protest outside clinics - their hatred for us. For women who don't do as they say. Who disobey the rules they live by. Most of them have never read the Constitution. Couldn't care less that this country was founded by people running from religious persecution. They want this country declared a Christian state and have us all toe the line of a Jesus they'll define for you.

I don't mind their hatred. It makes me know I'm right. That freedom begins inside each of us and extends all the way out through our skin. The whole body. Freedom of our minds and hearts to rule our bodies. Freedom, even, to make mistakes if that's how they see it. I defy them to live lives of perfect decisions every moment.

But they can't take my freedom away. I'll do what I have to do, as God made me, using the intelligence and strength that was my birthright. And I'll piss off as many of the fakers as I can along the way. Gladly.

posted by dcnative @ 7:32 AM