Abortive Clauses
I had every intention of waxing poetic on viewing If/Then, and the crossroads of life, decisions we make, the allusions we have . . . of course, I first saw Anthony Rapp and Idina Menzel in Rent a millions years ago. One of the last showings of the original cast. That March, in 1997, they stood on the street with the AIDS Equity buckets. I danced a jig with Jesse Martin, bought a ribbon from Anthony Rapp, and my friend Adam kissed Idina on the cheek. On Instagram I waxed about then and now. Yet, while so many things come back to the idealism, radical nature, and even smidge of Riot Grrl Feminism with Mauren in Rent this modern show had a moment of modern discourse all too close to home. In a parallel story, the lead female had an abortion. Yes. Right there. I sat there, wrapped in a show waxing many elements of my own emotional roller coaster du jour, and I saw how elements of my writing haunt my waking and sleeping dreams.
I've been writing a lot on feminism lately. Okay, I do that a lot. Though, these days I'm killing myself with some archival grants and a book completion. Yet, in the course of things all this rebal rousing reminds me, in more ways than not, of the near Riot Grrl Feminism of my youth. Of course, I wrote a piece for the Curvy Sewing Collective, waxing a little poetic on the '90s, and . . . a commenter used Riot Grrl. Indeed. Grunge and flannel, birks and Docs . . .
The '90s ended, but those lessons and markers of my youth did not necessarily fade. In many ways, I was always the woman I am now. I was always the one to scream for justice and stand up for a good fight. Norma Rae moments, coloring the fabric of this life, come with humor and distinction. In 2004 I marched on hot August day through midtown, at points I was certain my soles were going to melt to the concrete and asphalt, and at day's end I was exhausted. Yet, I was invigorated.
The RNC Protest didn't change the outcome of the election, but my voice was heard. Then . . .and now it still bellows.
I was so young back then . . . and in those days I firmly believed procured rights were safe. Yet, as we all know, only a young 20-something will think such notions as laws change, rights fade, and assaults of gender and religion surface and resurface. On the anniversary of Roe v Wade the US House of Representatives passed a bill restricting access and ability to seek abortions. Shit. Just shit.
Why should we care? Even if you don't agree with abortions? Well . . . abortive medicine isn't always about abortions. It's no secret that in 2007 I had a fibroid the size of a grapefruit. Yea. Good times. I named her Erma. In that regard, the medical procedure to remove that bitch falls under abortive technology. I've never had an abortion, but if we continue to let legislation continue on the path that it is people like me would be dead.
You don't have to like me. Look at your sister. Your daughter. Your best gal. Now, let that fester.
Of course, prohibiting abortions does more. In a rape culture that one in five are sexually assaulted every year we need Plan B and abortions. Why? Really? Please don't tell me that it is God's will and way to test a woman with A) being raped and then B) living with a pregnancy.
Even more jaded, and real, on 22 Jan 2015 a woman was narrowly pardoned in El Salvador on murder charges. After having spent SEVEN years in prison for . . . having a miscarriage and being wrongfully accused of having an abortion. There aren't many things that make me cry. That story, as I read it last night among a long and painful bought of insomnia, tore me in half. Good lord. The United States stands to revert to this type of narrow minded legislation if we are not careful.
Read one of my favorite Women's Lib Mags for some numbers on Rape in America, not to be confused with the phrase "living in America." Women who seek Plan B and abortions are not morally weak, inferior, or unstable as so many of our popular culture icons would attest. Instead, accidents occur. Condoms slip. 99 percent is only 99 percent. The one percent happens.
We regulate our bodies for work. We regulate our bodies for shared space, social design, and even relationships. The choices on how we regulate those should be ours, and ours alone. No, men . . . just as you can suggest I shave down there you can suggest I take a pill or not. The final decision on how I treat my lady parts is mine. Mine and mine alone.
That girl, dying in an August heat wave, still resounds. Her and I were never hard core into the Riot Grrl music scene, but those meet ups, politics, and actions molded up with a design that will not fade. Somewhere I've got a faded, and probably rusty, women's unite pin. I certainly have a "This is What a Feminist Looks Like" tee, that I unabashedly run in. She, and I would hope legions of symbolic sisters, will rally and continue this fight. Abortive clauses, or not, in 2015 we sadly still have to demand and fight for our gains. Equality is not a given. It is not won.
I've been writing a lot on feminism lately. Okay, I do that a lot. Though, these days I'm killing myself with some archival grants and a book completion. Yet, in the course of things all this rebal rousing reminds me, in more ways than not, of the near Riot Grrl Feminism of my youth. Of course, I wrote a piece for the Curvy Sewing Collective, waxing a little poetic on the '90s, and . . . a commenter used Riot Grrl. Indeed. Grunge and flannel, birks and Docs . . .
The '90s ended, but those lessons and markers of my youth did not necessarily fade. In many ways, I was always the woman I am now. I was always the one to scream for justice and stand up for a good fight. Norma Rae moments, coloring the fabric of this life, come with humor and distinction. In 2004 I marched on hot August day through midtown, at points I was certain my soles were going to melt to the concrete and asphalt, and at day's end I was exhausted. Yet, I was invigorated.
The RNC Protest didn't change the outcome of the election, but my voice was heard. Then . . .and now it still bellows.
I was so young back then . . . and in those days I firmly believed procured rights were safe. Yet, as we all know, only a young 20-something will think such notions as laws change, rights fade, and assaults of gender and religion surface and resurface. On the anniversary of Roe v Wade the US House of Representatives passed a bill restricting access and ability to seek abortions. Shit. Just shit.
Why should we care? Even if you don't agree with abortions? Well . . . abortive medicine isn't always about abortions. It's no secret that in 2007 I had a fibroid the size of a grapefruit. Yea. Good times. I named her Erma. In that regard, the medical procedure to remove that bitch falls under abortive technology. I've never had an abortion, but if we continue to let legislation continue on the path that it is people like me would be dead.
You don't have to like me. Look at your sister. Your daughter. Your best gal. Now, let that fester.
Of course, prohibiting abortions does more. In a rape culture that one in five are sexually assaulted every year we need Plan B and abortions. Why? Really? Please don't tell me that it is God's will and way to test a woman with A) being raped and then B) living with a pregnancy.
Even more jaded, and real, on 22 Jan 2015 a woman was narrowly pardoned in El Salvador on murder charges. After having spent SEVEN years in prison for . . . having a miscarriage and being wrongfully accused of having an abortion. There aren't many things that make me cry. That story, as I read it last night among a long and painful bought of insomnia, tore me in half. Good lord. The United States stands to revert to this type of narrow minded legislation if we are not careful.
Read one of my favorite Women's Lib Mags for some numbers on Rape in America, not to be confused with the phrase "living in America." Women who seek Plan B and abortions are not morally weak, inferior, or unstable as so many of our popular culture icons would attest. Instead, accidents occur. Condoms slip. 99 percent is only 99 percent. The one percent happens.
We regulate our bodies for work. We regulate our bodies for shared space, social design, and even relationships. The choices on how we regulate those should be ours, and ours alone. No, men . . . just as you can suggest I shave down there you can suggest I take a pill or not. The final decision on how I treat my lady parts is mine. Mine and mine alone.
That girl, dying in an August heat wave, still resounds. Her and I were never hard core into the Riot Grrl music scene, but those meet ups, politics, and actions molded up with a design that will not fade. Somewhere I've got a faded, and probably rusty, women's unite pin. I certainly have a "This is What a Feminist Looks Like" tee, that I unabashedly run in. She, and I would hope legions of symbolic sisters, will rally and continue this fight. Abortive clauses, or not, in 2015 we sadly still have to demand and fight for our gains. Equality is not a given. It is not won.
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