to jane and sarah, on their 30th birthday (2003)
Enough people don't talk about abortion. Too many people don't
listen to those who do.
I'm not talking about conceptually. I'm not talking about discussing
the protection of reproductive rights. I'm not talking about discussing
this woman or that who you knew that aborted or did not. I'm talking
about talking about abortion; intimately, personally. In public,
not in secrecy or with your best friend.
So, I'm going to pick up the mike here today -- despite feeling
vulnerable and a little fearful about it -- as my way of saying
thank you to Jane Roe and Sarah Weddington for what they did for
all of us thirty years ago. For what they did for me ten years
ago. Because I'm tried of hearing people talk about abortion for
whom it is totally rhetorical on any personal level, for many
of whom it is less than that, as it is a procedure they cannot
even have performed on their own bodies because they cannot bear
children. Because we need to stop being afraid to talk about it
in public in a personal way. Because we can talk about it.
In 1993, I had a surgical abortion. I have never had even one
day of regret about that decision, and have had many, many thankful,
grateful days about that decision; about my agency to make that
I didn't have an abortion because I was pregnant due to rape or
incest. I didn't have an abortion solely because of finances.
It would have been hard as hell, and I would have had to have
dealt with welfare and the lot, so it was hardly ideal, and very
questionable in my mind -- if my child gets ill and I can't afford quality medical treatment
easily at any time, how can I parent well? -- but it wasn't impossible. I didn't have an abortion because
I didn't want to ever have children. I didn't have an abortion
because of medical reasons.
I had an abortion because I did not want to bear or parent a child
at that time. I have the right to make that choice, because it
is something which occurs in my own body and my life, both of
which I have inalienable rights to. It is, literally and figuratively,
At the time, I was with a partner I'd been with monogamously for
a good while. After a couple years of condom use, and since charting
my fertility cycles since the end of high school, we'd decided
to use charting as our birth control method. We knew it wasn't
foolproof, but I felt that had I become pregnant, I would want
to bear and parent a child, and we'd discussed it together, agreeing
both of us would like that, so it all seemed fine.
Charting alone, as we say at Scarleteen all the time, day in and
day out, is not the most reliable method of birth control out
there, especially if you get spacy about it, which we had. In
time, I became pregnant.
I was dastardly ill from day one. My usual hyperkinetic energy
was totally sapped, I was puking left and right, I couldn't eat,
I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even lie next to my partner after
a couple of weeks because the smell of him -- even right after
a shower -- made me angry and nauseated. When I took a pregnancy
test, it was just for the sake of having that positive result
visible: I already knew I was pregnant. I also already knew I'd
changed my mind about wanting to be pregnant and have a child
At the time, I ran an alternative kindergarten and preschool.
I worked on my feet a minimum of 9 hours a day, and an average
of about 12, with small children and their parents, all day. I
loved my kids (I miss them all still, I miss having kids around
me, period), I loved running my school, but it was terribly demanding
work. It makes what I do now look like an extended vacation. I
could barely work, feeling like I did physically. I became impatient
and irritable with all my wee students.
I didn't have health insurance. My partner at the time was a great
deal older than I was and I had questions about having a father
for my children who was the age he was (of course, at this point,
I'll likely be the age he was when and if I do have my own, but
so it goes). Our relationship was starting to unravel a bit in
places, and there were extenuating issues as far as the relationship
and our joint physical health and background which were a big
factor. I myself was an "accident," and while I was sure I'd never
hang that over my child's head the way it was often tossed at
me during the worst parts of my childhood, I felt terribly uncomfortable
about even having that as a possibility. I had doubts, being an
abused child, about carrying patterns of abuse on: I wasn't confident
I'd not do it myself yet, even though, given what I did for a
living, it'd never even been a vague temptation. Working with
small children all day, often with no help, I knew what it required,
more than I had a year or two before, and I did not feel I had
what it took to be the kind of parent I wanted to be. I was 23
years old; I felt so young. I couldn't stand how I felt physically
or emotionally. In a word, I had changed my mind.
I knew I had changed my mind because all of the plusses of my
situation -- my partner was a wonderful man, I had a job where
I could work and parent, a couple of the mothers I talked to about
being pregnant assured me it is better to bear when you're younger
-- didn't stack up to the strong feeling I had that it was simply
not the right time; not what I wanted, not what was right for
me or what I felt was right for that child-that-could-be.
I knew, most of all, that I did not want to carry or parent a
child which I didn't want.
I waited the requisite amount of time for the procedure -- a time
period that feels SO terribly long to wait, even if you get in
there the very first day you can. I didn't want my partner or
anyone with me. It was something I wanted to do alone, but I needed
a ride, so one of the mothers from my school came along, but gave
me the space to sit alone, to be alone. I opted to abort without
general or intravenous anesthetic; only a local. It seemed to
me that if it was something I was going to do, it was something
I should be fully present for, in mind and in body. I discussed
all of this in my consultation, and the nurse honored my choices
very plainly and beautifully.
It wasn't very painful, the abortion: not physically, not emotionally.
The pain was short, an intense shot, and I chanted the alphabet
while holding a nurse's hand. It took an incredibly small amount
of time, far shorter than I thought it would, having heard my
share of horror stories about how much abortion hurts and what
a big mess it is. I was then wheeled into the recovery room, where
everyone else had IVs from their anesthetics still in their arm.
They were groggy. I was very alert.
A girl next to me in her teens came out of her grogginess weepy
and confused. In talking to her, in hearing her story, what had
her traumatized wasn't the abortion. What had her traumatized
was everyone's nonsupport for her choice; a fine one, given her
boyfriend was abusive, a drug-addict, and she had no familial
or monetary support to be pregnant or to parent (as well as no
support to abort or adopt, either -- one was left assume that
the only acceptable answer for her apparently would have been
to find a time machine and undo becoming pregnant at all). A choice
made despite the fact that she said she would have loved to have
a baby just to have someone to ease her feelings of loneliness
and lack of love around her. A choice she didn't doubt at all,
and one made far more for that potential child than for herself.
Her gratitude for my talking with her and supporting that choice
was heartbreaking; I thought no one should have to be that grateful
to a stranger for acknowledging that she knew what was best for
her and her unborn children.
I wasn't traumatized by my abortion. I healed up fine, the soreness
only lasted a day or two. There were some issues to get through
in my relationship, but we dealt with those, and my partner honored
my choices. But I did have many nights of crying afterwards, because
of that girl next to me and all the girls like her who were made
to feel horrible for making the best choices for themselves and
for their babies, those to be and not to be. I cried because I
was angry as hell that women have to walk through hoards of people
shouting misinformation and ugly taunts about choices that are
not theirs to make, from people who withdraw any support they
would give to pregnant women the minute they have their babies
anyway. Saccharine pleas from people who beg women to bear and
put up children to, so they say, adopt themselves -- children
who, unless they are perfect lily-white infants, rarely get adopted,
and certainly not by suburban religious right families who aren't
about to walk around with an armload of chicana or mixed-race
toddlers. I cried because women's bodies, women's minds, women's
choices are not considered rightfully theirs, and because what
we have is so tenuous and incomplete, at that. And more so right
now than it was ten years ago when I aborted.
Not long after that, I learned, via the help of a few herbalists
and midwives in my social circle and a lot of time with my nose
pressed in books, how to perform a reasonably safe herbal abortion.
They aren't as safe as medical ones -- little is, and even childbirth
poses more risks -- but they're safer than backalley surgical
abortions, to be certain. They're certainly safer than coat hangers.
I did not write these recipes down anywhere. I have never shared
them publicly. They are locked in the safe of my head: I memorized
them carefully, meticulously. If ever abortion becomes illegal
again, I absolutely will break that law to help women who need
or want to abort to do so in the safest ways I know how, without
question. It is our right; not SHOULD be our right. It simply is. We have the right to control our reproduction. We have the right
to own our own bodies. It is our birthright.
I used condoms flawlessly and gladly as my birth control for years,
until I stopped dating men. At this point in my life, it's pretty
likely I'll want to bear or parent a child. I tell my partners
this, but I don't make promises. I may change my mind. I am allowed
to change my mind, thank goodness: parenting is not a decision
I think anyone should enter into haphazardly, and certainly not
one I want to enter into unless I want to.
I've noticed that it isn't really allowable to say that you are
both pro-choice and pro-abortion. On some level that's sound,
because in supporting choice, for real, you can't really be "pro"
one choice or another for anyone but yourself. That said and that
supported, I do not feel abortion is any more serious or weighty
than the choice to parent or bear children and put them up for
adoption. I don't care for, though, the idea that it isn't okay
to support abortion as a positive; for the silent edict that you
HAVE to say it's horribly painful (when it often is not), that
it is terribly traumatic (when it well may not be) and that you'd
never, ever, never want to have it done if you could avoid it
(even if you just don't feel that way). Physically and emotionally,
abortion is not any more risky or taxing than either of those
choices. While I have not carried a child to term or parented,
I am close to enough parents, and taught for long enough to know
full well that neither pregnancy nor parenting is a walk in the
park and feel pretty confident saying abortion is the easier choice
of the three. I'm not going to disagree with those who say that
abortion is the "easy way out," fully. I wouldn't say it's easy
at all, but from my vantage point, it is likely in most cases
easier. I have been through many things in my life, physical and emotional,
that were much more difficult, painful and traumatic for me, and
I don't think that is because I am unfeeling, uncaring or inhuman.
I think it is because I don't see, and have not experienced, abortion
as anything to do with a lack of care or compassion, but as quite
I am both pro-choice and pro-abortion for myself, for others who
make that decision. (Which is not to say I support abortion as
a sole means of birth control -- I don't. But I also do not think
children are "just punishments" for failed methods or for not
using a method. They're whole, sentient beings, not punishments.)
I have seen and experienced horrible and/or abusive parenting.
I have had students and seen children with injuries and scars
from abuses that have nearly incited me to direct physical violence
myself (Ever seen a kids mouth that's had a lighter held to it?
It isn't pretty). I have seen the effects of bad foster care all
too often; I had a partner in life who was one of that systems'
victims when it fails. We have, here in the US, the highest child
poverty rate of all the industrialized nations, and one of the
highest infant and child mortality rates (and those have gone
DOWN since abortion was legalized -- to boot, antiabortion states
spend LESS money on child welfare and women's reproductive health
than pro-choice states, almost as a rule -- Schroedel, Jean Reith,
2000). I have seen women whose lives, self-image, self-worth and
families have been eaten nearly whole by her feeling obligated
to bring children to term due to the dogma and wishes of others.
These are not small things, and while I feel I understand the
value of actual life, I do not think it can be separated from
quality of life -- not for the women who might bear those children,
not for those children. Is it guesswork? To a degree; to far less
of one in some cases. Are there people who make all of these choices
carelessly or thoughtlessly? Yes, there are. But there are people
who make careless choices in driving their cars and take or injure
fully realized lives daily. We don't talk about taking away the
right to drive because of this; we don't even consider it, and
being able to get to the mall in five minutes is far less an intrinsic
and important right than reproductive choice is.
I feel confident saying that most women who do make these choices
do so with both great thought and great compassion. I think we
can be good parents to both our born and our unborn, and that
in some cases, abortion is doing just that. I have no doubt it
was in my case. I feel more able to someday be a good parent to
a child I bring to term because of my choice then; I know I can
make hard choices for both of us when need be.
I'm not going to get into my political experiences or feelings
with this subject today. I don't want to discuss, today, the entire
academic argument about reproductive choice, the gender issues,
the religious issues, et cetera. In my mind, all of that is secondary
because abortion truly is something that cannot be discussed in
any general way. Choice, yes. What those choices are or may be?
No. Because each and every reproductive choice is different, is
personal, is everything except general. I wanted to talk about
one of my choices.
Especially today. Because I had my surgical abortion, coincidentally,
on the 20th anniversary year of Roe Vs. Wade, and now it's been
ten years since. It's hard to say what things would be like if
I had made a different choice, but really, it's not relevant.
Our whole lives are those Choose Your Own Adventure books, and there are so many different ways any of our innumerable
choices could have taken us had we made them differently. We'll
I do know that I'm grateful as all hell to Jane Roe and Sarah
I'm grateful to the Supreme Court at the time who made choices
themselves, landmark choices, to protect mine and that of all
women in this country. For making a decision a terrifying number
of young women in this country don't even know was made because
they don't even know abortion was once -- and could still be again
I'm grateful to the doctors, clinicians and nurses working to
provide abortion over the years who have put their lives at risk
to do so, or worse, died due to "pro-life" and antichoice terrorism:
all to give me full ownership of my body and my uterus, to save
women's actual lives and to allow for a means to preserve the
quality of those lives and the lives of children. (One in five clinics who perform abortion services experienced
severe anti-abortion violence in 1999, including death threats,
stalking, bombings, arsons, blockades, invasions, chemical attacks,
bomb threats, and arson threats. Less of these cases have been
prosecuted in the past few years than in years previous. - Feminist
Majority Foundation, 1999 National Clinic Violence Survey Report)
I know I'm scared to death, given the way things have been going;
given what has been getting chipped away in tiny but grave fragments
when it comes to women's bodies, health and reproductive choices,
all too quickly. I'm scared not just because of the potential
loss of safe, legal medical abortion, but because of where that
logically leads: to losing our right as women to choose, use and
access various means of birth control, to losing sound reproductive
health services, especially for those of us who are low-income,
to losing our right to choose sexual partners of any gender as
nonmarried women. I'm scared and I'm terribly angry that in this
day and age, women are still seen by many, even by other women,
as baby factories. I'm tremendously scared of losing my right
to be a whole person, and at this point, I think that fear is
more than valid.
I don't suspect that all my readers will feel the same way I do,
or that they have had identical experiences. Some may end up disliking
me for things I've said today, or respect me less, or stop reading
me altogether. I have every reason to believe we have a great
diversity of thought on this matter. I'm okay with all of that
and I honor that, save that that diversity is on a personal level,
rather than about taking away my right, and the right of all women,
to own their own bodies. That I am not okay with. That I do not
accept, I denounce. That I will fight and protest for as long
as I have to, and I'll win. We'll win, no matter how hard it gets.
I know that in my bones, these bones that are so inarguably mine.
Regardless of how everyone feels, I'd ask that you do your level
best to read these personal stories when you find them, to listen
to more than the academic or rhetorical. The absence of these
stories does, in my mind, aid those who'd take our choices away;
who feel we aren't strong enough, wise enough, thoughtful enough
to make them.
Claim your birthright. Tell your stories. Listen to others. With
your whole heart. Be brave. Jane and Sarah were. So can - so must -- we be.
© 2003, 2004 Heather Corinna. All rights reserved.