I attended a Roe v. Wade anniversary dinner last night where five speakers acting as “The Voice of Reproductive Choice” shared their stories about the importance of reproductive freedom in their lives.  There was an OBGYN who talked about not being able to find a nurse to perform a first trimester abortion in a hospital setting because of opt-out conscience clauses; a Latina mother with five children who works with Planned Parenthood in her community so that her children will have information about sex, STI’s, and reproduction that she never received; a gay father who affirmed that it “took a village to make his child” and praised the people and legal process that allowed him to make that choice; and a woman who spoke about her pre-Roe abortion. She was 16, and her parents paid a man, recommended by the family doctor, to perform the procedure.  After the procedure, the man requested that she kiss him to show her appreciation.  She said she thought she would have to carry the shame of that day to her grave. But then Roe v. Wade happened, and she could talk about her abortion without feeling ashamed all through the 80s and 90s. She referred to those years as “good times.”  I was shocked that anyone, ever, felt comfortable openly talking about her abortion, but then I realized that I came to political and sexual maturity during the eight years of the Bush administration, when the country saw reproductive and sexual freedom attacked and undermined on every front.  I never considered that these repressive policies might also have repressed the voices of those who exercised what little reproductive freedom they had left.

I am one of those repressed voices.  I’m white, and I grew up in an upper-middle class, Midwestern, Christian home where my very loving and supportive family never talked about sex.  My Church and my community taught me that sex occurred within marriage, and my mother communicated that she hoped I would act on those values.  I didn’t.

I had sex. I got pregnant. Not the first time. I used condoms and the pill with my partners.  I can’t pinpoint the exact experience out of which the pregnancy arose.  There was a broken condom, and I didn’t know that I could get EC at my college’s health center, and I couldn’t find anyone to drive me to Planned Parenthood, so I didn’t get plan B until the end of the 72 hour window.  A couple days later, my boyfriend removed the condom before ejaculating.  I don’t remember how or whether we responded to that situation.

I do remember sitting in the Dr.’s office at my campus health center after learning that my pregnancy test came back positive.  I remember the clinician asking me if I wanted information on adoption agencies and answering with a resounding “no.” I took the pamphlet on abortion, sobbed on the walk back to my apartment, and called Planned Parenthood to schedule an appointment.  My boyfriend and his family wanted me to keep it, but I never considered that option. 

I clicked through my state’s informed consent web pages—which took me through graphics and text explaining the gestational stages of a fetus—in my school’s computer lab because I needed to print and sign the final page, and I didn’t own a printer.  I went to Planned Parenthood for a counseling session and saw my fetus on an ultrasound machine.  The nurse had a hard time pointing it out because it was so small.

On the day of my appointment, my boyfriend was at work and I had already asked my roommate with the car to drive me to my counseling session, which I told her was for “birth control.” I figured I couldn’t ask again or she would suspect something.  So I took the bus, which did not stop at the clinic because the clinic was set back from the road.  If I had walked from the bus stop to the clinc’s driveway, I would have had to pass through the crowd of people standing at the front of the driveway holding signs of enlarged aborted fetus.  I chose instead to walk through the parking lot of a car dealership and through the 25 yards of woods and brush that separated Planned Parenthood’s property from the dealership. 

As the Dr. examined me, I commented that I’d been researching the domestic abortion debate for the last two years as a research assistant, but never expected to have a such personal connection to my research.  He explained the process and effects of RU-486 and I took the first dose under his supervision.  After spending some time in the recovery room, I walked back through the brush and car dealership to the bus stop.

It took me a long time to tell anyone—three years to tell my best friend, and my family doesn’t know, or at least I haven’t told them.  As an advocate for Reproductive Justice, I’m very conflicted about my decision not to reveal my choice.  I know that the personal is political, but the sting of judgment, disappointment, and rejection is so very personal.  I want to have the courage of the woman on the stage last night, but I’m not there yet.  I have started telling people when the conversation warrants it, but I write this entry anonymously, so I’m clearly not completely comfortable outing myself.  At the same time, I’m nagged by the belief that if people could put faces to the numbers of women we are told have abortions in this country, abortion could not be a political issue.  It would be a reality that affects every family, circle of friends, workplace, religious congregation and political party. 

The strength I do find to tell people of my decision comes from my friends and allies in the Reproductive Justice movement who lead by example and are unashamed to exercise their rights and fight for the rights of others.  I celebrated the 37^th Anniversary of Roe v. Wade surrounded by 250 plus supporters of the Court’s decision—and my decision.  They gave me the strength to share my story, and I hope I can share some of that strength with others. 

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 23rd, 2010 at 1:06 am and is filed under abortion, health, leadership, politics. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.