If I occupy Wall Street will you stop trying to occupy my uterus?

What does Occupy Wall Street have to do with abortion? Nothing! Well, at least that’s what appears on the surface from my two visits down there. My first trip to Wall Street, and more specifically Zuccotti Park where the protesters have camped out, was the first week of the occupation. The crowds were thin and the media hadn’t really picked up on anything yet. My second visit was last Friday, when I visited ostensibly to participate in a Kol Nidre service, which occurs the night before Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. It was on this second and most recent visit where I saw the true force of Occupy Wall Street and what it had evolved into.

In the main area of the park there seems to be a fully operational and functional community of sorts. It has been advertised that protestors can access health services, a haircut, library, volunteer sign-up area, massages, life coaches, and a kitchen. Code Pink was down there with signs! There are signs about demanding universal healthcare. There are tons of women! So many signs! Signs with messages about every issue you could think of…except abortion. So where were the signs about abortion? Did I miss them?

How does abortion fit into this protest? Does it need to? Haven’t I said in the past that I see abortion EVERYWHERE??? So of course abortion has to fit in somewhere, right? Wall Street matters...it has to. Not only is this protest about the current state of our economy, government, and politics, but it is about dissent. So many of us who are involved in left-leaning issues have lacked adequate venues to SCREAM CHANT SWEAR SING DANCE VENT COMMUNE about what we’re feeling. As abortioneers, we often hold our feelings in and let them fester. I see Occupy Wall Street as a form of catharsis (at the least) and a significant potential for social change (at the most).

I also think there is potential for abortion to enter the dialogue at these protests. While they are parading around signs that say: “we are the 99%”, what about making some signs that reference “we are the 33%”, which is the percent of women who will have had an abortion by age 45?

Occupy Wall Street has spread to many cities and I’m curious if anyone has seen some awesome abortion or reproductive rights messages at your protests?

And then there are these condoms...

Side note: As you know “vegan” makes up half of this vegan vagina and I was overjoyed to see signs and messages supporting animal rights AND lots of vegan food being donated to those who have camped out. In fact, the protestors are ASKING for vegan/vegetarian food to be delivered!!!

Giving Love to Those Who Stand Up

I'm sending mass love out to this man who stood up to protesters who had been doing their normal yelling thing at his wife as they were walking into an abortion clinic in Brookline, MA this fall. (Yes, the same Brookline, MA where John Salvi murdered two clinic workers in 1994.)
After he walked into the clinic with his wife, he returned outside to confront the protesters and let them know that the abortion they were about to have was because of a fetal anomaly. It was a wanted pregnancy and they were very sad. Watch this video: he's wonderful!

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You can read more about him on The Good Men Project website here. And also on his personal blog, here.

I've read he's been having a hard time and the anti trolls are onto him. He probably doesn't know about us - I sure as hell didn't know about him - but I think we need to reach out. Give him some love. Let him know we understand, that we're sorry he had to go through such shit, that his wife had to go through such shit. That all women who go to clinics deal with this. And sorry we need escorts, sorry our doctors are attacked, sorry that our society is so silent and judgmental. Sorry that not enough of us who have had abortions have spoken out.

Give him some love everyone. I'm giving him my thanks, too. (Because, Mister Man, there aren't enough of you.)

Love,
About A Girl.

Obscenities

At the clinic where I escort, there is just the sweetest little anti you ever did see. Curly hair, freckles, a tender voice. She might be picking posies with a basket on her arm, save for the literature in her left hand and the rosary in her right. She greets all sidewalkers, anti and escort alike, with a honey hello, and bows her head in prayer.

She makes me crazy.

Harmless though she and all the other well-wishing antis may seem, I rarely if ever return their pleasantries. The nod of recognition is more than sufficient. It manages to say "Oh, there you are" and "Back the shit off" with a modicum of effort. Two birds, one stone.

I've been noticing some of the veteran escorts getting mighty friendly with the antis, in a slap-on-the-back, aren't-we-the-odd-couple kind of way. The only explanation I can find is that immersion therapy has rendered them indifferent, if not receptive, to the conversation that occurs on the sidelines. I'll admit that dull moments arise in that four-hour span, and it might be a larf to reminisce over the past 15 years of enmity ("Remember that time you published my picture in your Christian magazine as the 'Gatekeeper to Hell'? Classic!"). I, however, could never go down that road. I will never forget Strawberry Shortcake's true purpose.

One Autumn morning, she was manning her post on the sidewalk, having made the trip across town bright and early and eager to save lives. She approached the biggest man I'd ever seen to offer him a rosary and some "information" about how he can be a hero. Either he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, or he was annoyed by her failure to realize that he wasn't having an abortion that day, but he was not amused.

"GO FUCK YOURSELF!"

Ouch.

Still, my initial shock was soon replaced by concealed giggles. Now, I would not have screamed that at that girl, mostly because I would never talk to her in the first place. But boy, am I glad he did. Isn't it what we're all feeling, but we just won't say? Isn't it something they need to hear now and then, if not every minute of every day? So I say to all antis, kind and mean-spirited alike:

Kindly fuck yourselves. You are just awful.

Love always,
Anti-Anti

Plug for a fellow blogger: more on fathers

Sparky's had an unexpected travel-related contretemps these past couple of days, but that doesn't mean the pro-choice summer reading stops! I urge you to visit Every Saturday Morning, the blog of a team of clinic escorts in Kentucky, where today Dan has written on the intersection of fatherhood and escorting, and about a confrontation with

disapproving men willing to abandon their daughters during their moment of deepest emotional distress, embarrassment, and fear, and leave them to walk through this gauntlet of hatred with a complete stranger, a man who will be in her life for only a few minutes, but is willing and able to be her surrogate father.

The post is both heartfelt and heart-rending. Dan, thank you for writing about your struggle that day, and thank you for being a pro-choice dad and a compassionate escort. And happy Fathers' Day to you!

Segmentation

Why is there virtually NO cross-learning or collaboration among various anti groups?

I've discussed this before in a previous post, but I can't really let it go. Why can't the antis of every color and creed hold hands in a big circle and sing, sing for our salvation and pray to God to end abortion? Why do anti groups dislike each other as much as they dislike abortion?

Different types of anti groups I've encountered:
-Catholic antis
-Evangelical antis
-Born-again (no pun intended) antis
-Hindu antis
-Atheist antis
-Clergy antis
-Lay antis
-Black antis
-Latino antis
-Non-committal antis
-Well-mannered antis
-Grumpy antis
-Antis who have abortions
-Antis with signs
-Antis with literature
-Antis who protest
-Antis who pray
-Antis who stalk
-Antis who murder
-Antis who believe in forgiveness
-Antis who believe we will all fry
-Antis who do not align themselves with those antis, the ones who make a mockery of true anti-ism

Enough already!

Maybe spend some time together feeding the hungry and talking about how pleased God would be that you've reached out to your fellow man. Why do you have to diverge on this issue? I've often thought about how effective the anti movement would be with just a little mutual respect and elbow grease, plus at least one well-educated person in the bunch (perhaps someone who knows marketing?). Then I remember: antis are nuts. They are unable to form healthy and meaningful relationships. They just don't know how! They think that the louder they yell, the more loved women feel. Even within religions, they just can't stand one another. Take this example:

A grumpy anti and a soft-spoken priest are protesting at the same clinic. Priest was youngish, bright-eyed and eager to start doing God's work. Grumpy was a veteran with a gruff voice and quivering jowls. Priest was not amused by his hollering; he only wanted to pray for the women and their dying babies. He inched away slowly at first, then took giant steps towards the other end of the sidewalk, leering at Grumpy all the time. By noon, as Priest prepared to depart, he put his hand on Grumpy's shoulder, made sure he looked him in the eye, and asked, "Do you really think you can help these women by screaming at them?" It was a genuine, reasonable question.

Priest never came back.

Surely I don't need to be writing this post at all. Right?

"It's time to stop treating us as two equal sides in a reasonable debate. Let's get it clear -- they are the perpetrators and we are the victims. Any discussion of how to de-escalate the situation should take place within the anti- abortion community. "We do not have anything to bring to the table," said Convisser. "We are not willing to say it's O.K. to shoot every sixth doctor or woman."

Recently I attended a conference all about abortion. It was pretty awesome. I met providers of abortion care, advocates for abortion access, researchers of abortion medical protocols -- and even some fellow abortion bloggers!

Speakers included lawyers who prepare court cases defending the right to abortion from encroachment by state legislators; counselors whose experience assisting abortion patients stretches back to before Roe v. Wade; and the women of the Chicago Abortion Fund representing their efforts at grassroots advocacy for patients by patients, which was incredibly cool.

You know who else was there? Security guards, lots of them, and police officers with explosives-sniffing dogs. Not because they were called in to investigate something, just, you know, every day of the conference as a routine precaution. There was a panel staffed by First-Amendment lawyers, criminal prosecutors, and law enforcement experts. It was all about how to respond to violence and harassment against abortion clinic staff and patients, and what threats are and aren't actionable. You could tell some of the abortioneers in attendance were relieved by the rare chance to talk about what they were enduring and to be around others who understood.

Curious what sorts of activities have been documented? Or what threats aren't actionable (or whether it depends on a particular judge's mood on a particular day)? You might be surprised. You'd definitely be disgusted. No matter what your political stripe, I'm pretty sure you think of yourself as a decent person who wouldn't stalk people, threaten harm to their families, kill their pets and destroy their homes and workplaces in order to get what you wanted. You might even go so far as to say, "Hey, that sounds like, um...terrorism?"

Or would you?

Does your movement accept someone who firebombs women's clinics? How about someone who bursts into them with a shotgun and murders whoever he sees first? Someone who conceals explosives underneath an overturned flower pot, maiming a nurse and killing the security guard who stops to straighten it?
Someone who burns down a doctor's house and barn, killing horses and a dog and a cat? Someone who shoots a hero in the fucking face in his fucking church?

How about the people who visit clinic builders' neighbors with photoshopped fetus posters or greet nurses by name at the door of their own homes? The people who park outside my friend's apartment building night after night, or the ones who followed my patient as she drove home from her appointment? The ones who line the sidewalks outside of clinics and jeer, insult, shove, and elbow pregnant women and their partners and their mothers and the people helping them get inside the clinic? Who say creepy but just-vague-enough shit to clinic counselors as they walk in to work, on the phone at work, in the mail at work?

Not the same, you say? They're only expressing their concern and compassion for the innocent? Protected free speech? I wonder what you'll say when yet another one of those "sidewalk counselors" is added to the list of those arrested for harming born, life-living women and men.

I hate that I have to choose between talking about this so that everyone will know, or reassuring my parents and siblings and partner and best friend that I'm fine, my clinic is fine, we have police-caliber security staff and bulletproof glass and a relatively quiet neighborhood populated with relatively friendly businesses. But those ARE the options, because quitting this work is not an option.

I'm fine, my clinic is fine. I just need to: take a different route to work each day, live in a walk-up, never be a homeowner, not shop online, marry a police officer, not have kids or pets, never be famous, not write about my school or my neighborhood or anything about my family, not tell people I meet about this wonderful blog for fear they might connect the dots. You want to talk about common ground? I'm doing lots to meet you there. What are you doing to prevent my murder?

A Protester's Morning Prep

I’ve talked about protesters before and how I often feel frustrated by them. Recently, as I looked out our bulletproof window, fixated on our local protesters, I daydreamed about how they must prepare for their day at the abortion clinic. I imagined Jude, a loud, black haired, fair skinned woman rising out of bed, her alarm clock waking her early. After her instant coffee, she sits at her Formica table and paints her fingernails a bright, blood red. Her cat jumps on her lap and suddenly, she wants a cigarette, but quit years ago and quickly crosses herself. She proudly eyes the signs placed near her doorway, ready to be hauled to the back of her large, gas guzzling SUV. Jude wishes she had someone to help her carry all the signs to her car.

Jude realizes some of the signs are fading and she may need to find new, large photos of aborted fetuses. As she picks up the phone to call Mary, one of her cohorts, a smile crosses her face because Mary must still have some old pictures of chemical abortions. “That will do the trick,” she thinks. As suspected, Mary does have very “raw” looking photos. “The more grotesque, the better,” Jude brightly tells her. Mary excitedly starts telling Jude that she thinks abortion rates are going down because when she called the clinic yesterday, pretending to get her granddaughter an appointment, the clinic had appointments available for today! They agree to talk more about it after Mass, where they’ll meet the other protesters.

Jude hears the weather alert on television and learns it will be very cold. It’s disappointing news. Whenever it’s too cold or too hot, the others complain and don’t want to walk very long. She doesn’t understand why they can’t be as dedicated as she is. Thumbing her rosary, she makes her goals for the day. She must stop at least two women from killing their babies. Quickly, she ran to find more pamphlets.

Outside the Cathedral, they all meet and Mary has very gruesome pictures, indeed. Jude feels giddy and decides she’ll carry the largest. She took aspirin with her coffee and is certain her arthritis won't kick in for a few more hours. Others brought extra signs to place on the windshields of their cars. The advertisement willd be great.

Like every Friday, they arrive outside the clinic, en masse, slowly picking up their signs. It’s windy and cold; John immediately starts hacking up a lung. He’s getting over bronchitis. Jude rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses and digs her hands deep into her black coat. Sighing, she loudly reminds them all that the terrible weather is just god’s way of punishing the sinners about to enter the clinic. All nodding, she begins passing out rosaries to each of them. All ten of them huddle closely in a circle and pray for the sinning women about to abort their babies. They pray for the abortion clinic workers to come out of the darkness and find new jobs. They feel just and pure and righteous. Jude leads the prayers and firmly instructs five to stay in front of the clinic and the other five to go to the back of the clinic. As they walk off, she yells, “Remember! If you see a car coming, pray loudly and quickly get in front of the driveway. We might save her from killing the innocent today!”

After a few hours, Jude begins thumbing her scarlet rosary; she stares at all the cars in the parking lot. Her eyes burn. “How could this town be filled with so many wicked women,” she wonders in disgust. Frowning, she angrily shoots a look at the newer protesters complaining their arms are hurting. John’s cough gets irritatingly loud and Mary says she’s dizzy. Grace suggests it’s Mary’s low blood sugar. Jude knows what they want: lunch. She’s dissatisfied. She still has 10 pamphlets and 15 little plastic babies left. No one changed their mind. The staff completely ignored her yells and pleas to find new jobs. Even on their smoke breaks. She clenches her sign. A red nail is chipped. It’s been an unsuccessful day. After prayer, she barks they can all meet at the new restaurant that just opened up. Her treat.

Through the window, I watch them pack up their bloody signs. Pamphlets dropped by clients, blowing away in the wind.

A Letter to My Local Protesters

"There are five people you meet in heaven, each one of us was in your life for a reason. you may not have known the reason at the time, and that is what heaven is for. For understanding your life on earth."
-the five people you meet in heaven

Sometimes I imagine that if heaven (if I really believed in one) included five people who affected your life (like in Mitch Albom’s novel), there might be five of the local “peaceful” protesters looking at me. There are things I’d want them to know. Things I’d want to tell them about how their protesting affected my life. This list is not exhaustive:

1. Your rosaries and hail marys don’t make you a nice person.

2. I see you and my blood pressure rises several points past boiling.

3. When I see you, my jaws clench, my fingers tense, my head pounds, my stomach turns in knots, and I get scared.

4. Despite your old age, I don’t trust you haven’t got a pistol behind your sign, ready to blow my doctor’s head off. Or mine.

5. When I have to walk past you or see you, I think of my child. Hope today isn’t the day someone decides to shoot me, leaving my child without a mother.

6. When you stare at my co-workers and write down their license plate numbers, I want to follow YOU home.

7. For years, you have hurt women, causing them pain and anguish. I see them. They cry. Are angry. Feel judged. Yet you have no place to judge her.

8. Because of you, when I leave the clinic, I look both ways exiting the door.

9. Because of you, when I leave or arrive at the clinic, I speedily get into the false safety of the building or my vehicle.

10. Because of you, when I drive home, I check my rear view window to see if I’m being followed.

11. Our doors are a little tighter. Our windows shut harder. Our curtains drawn darker.

12. Because of you, we can’t have normal glass. We have bullet proof glass.

13. Because of you, we have panic buttons.

14. Because of you, I may get a home security system. And I live in a very nice little neighborhood with no other need for a home security system.

15. I really think I hate you.

16. I want to spit on you when I see a woman weep (who was raped by her father; or found out her wanted pregnancy has anencephaly; or who just got her lights shut off because she can't pay any bills, let alone keep another baby; who can die for our country in battle, but is about to get court marshalled if her country finds out she's pregnant; or who slept with the wrong guy on the wrong day and realized she really wants to finish school and make something of herself; or who might even be your daughter or sister or niece or granddaughter) after listening to you scream at her, judge her, beg her not to have an abortion. FUCK you for hurting her.

17. I watch my colleagues and doctors and nurses get tense and nervous and scared because you exist outside our building.

18. You’ve stripped from us basic things: the ability to hire staff without questioning if they're anti spies; the ability to walk freely to and from our cars; the ability to do our jobs in safety free from fear.

19. You’re a terrorist.

20. I really think I hate you.

21. Your hail marys and rosaries don’t make you a nice person.

22. You are not a nice person.

23. You're quite awful, really.

24. Oh yeah. I hate you.