I had an abortion. Would I choose to do it again?

 

 

I was almost around the corner when a man in a yellow shirt asked if I was going to the clinic.  My mouth was too dry to speak, so I nodded yes.  He motioned to someone, and before I knew it, six large men in shirts that said SECURITY in bold had formed a barricade around me.

My ex was with me.  He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Just keep walking”.  So I walked, and as I walked the man barricade walked with me.  It all seemed so melodramatic… until I heard the chanting.

The world blurred, and moved in choppy, slow motion.

As we rounded the corner, I saw the mob, the cardboard signs… then they saw me.  They moved like a flock of sparrows after the lone tossed breadcrumb.  The singing, the shouting – the din was incredible, with snippets of sentences reaching my brain.

“Don’t do it!  Save your baby.”

“Killer!”

“… blood on your hands…”

Someone threw red paint at me… it splattered on my shoe.

A women reached through the security men surrounding me and touched my elbow.

“You don’t have to do this.  Think about it.  For heaven’s sake, tomorrow is Mother’s Day.”

My limbs began to quiver, and I thought for sure I would pass out.

I quickly ducked into the building, and let my ex hold my hand as we checked in at the desk.

I sat looking at the blank forms in front of me, listening to the distant chanting outside, like a dramatic cliche from a movie.  I wondered to myself, “How is this happening?  How did I get here?”

*****

It was one of those things that you think “never happens”.  I was in college – still not old enough to drink legally.  I had a steady sexual partner, and since I had recently stopped taking birth control, we used protection.  One time… just one time… the condom broke.  Was it old?  Was it sticky?  Did we put it on wrong?  None of it mattered.  I pictured everything I was working toward, as a performer, as a dancer – all of it coming to a screeching halt.  In the blink of an eye, I saw myself losing my scholarship, giving up performing, ruining my life.  I was not physically, financially,  or emotionally ready to have a baby.

Picking up the phone and scheduling that procedure was not easy.  Making it through the front door of that clinic was not easy.  Looking at the pamphlets with pictures of fetal development was not easy.  Talking with the counselor was not easy.  Being left to sit for an hour and “think” and “absorb the information” was not easy.

I do not believe having an abortion is an easy choice for any woman to make.

After it was done, I did not feel regret.  After it was done, I felt empty.

I have been afraid to write about this because I fear the judgement.  My readers span the gamut of political, and religious views.  My family members do as well.  But the lawmakers across the country who are slowly chipping away at women’s reproductive rights have made it impossible for me to keep silent.

I do not dare to tell any woman what she should or should not do with her body, and I at least have been on the table myself.

I am now a mother.

I know what it is to carry a baby to term and have my body birth it.  I know what it feels like to hold my newborn in my arms and bury my nose in his head.  I’m forever swimming in the raw beauty, and aching craziness of raising the children I helped create.  I know love like I’ve never known before.

Every choice leads us to where we are.  I can’t live your life, and you can’t live mine.  Life is simply a series of choices.

So, if I were to do it over again?

What would I choose?

Good question…

One that assumes I would still have the freedom to do so.

 

 

 

 

I’m surprised I’m not a vegetarian.

 

I was six years old- maybe seven.

Either way, I was certain that second grade would be way better than first.

We didn’t go on field trips in first grade.

Second graders got to go on school field trips to the dairy farm. Or maybe it was just a farm farm- I don’t remember.  There are gaping holes in my memory of this day, but here’s what I do remember:

The school bus drove us all the way into the farm, along  a red dirt road (I grew up in Hawaii where the dirt is red). They let us off the bus to chase chickens around for a half hour or so. I was grateful for this, because I was feeling nauseous from the bumpy ride. The hot bus was also starting to smell ridiculously bad, because I am almost certain that Bobby M. peed his pants. He did that a lot.

I also remember petting a goat.

We all sat on pokey piles of hay, and listened to some woman talk about cows. I don’t remember any of what she said, but I do remember the little calf she brought out to say hi to us. It had the biggest, glassiest eyes I had ever seen, and super long lashes.

Pretty. I remember thinking it was pretty. I don’t know if it was a boy or girl. But it sure was pretty.

We then all piled back onto the bus to go to a nearby park for lunch. Great, because I was starved.

Apparently, the road that brought us into the middle of the farm is only one lane, so instead of going back down it, we continue on it’s loop through the rest of the farm and toward the back exit of the property.

And this part I remember in slow motion…

We round a bend and I am sitting on the right side of the bus looking out the window. We start to approach a shed of some sort- it’s extremely long and there are no doors, or if there are, they are drawn open.

One of the girls at the front of the bus starts to yell in a high pitched voice, “What is that? What is that? What is that?”

As this is happening, I see our teacher jump up from her seat and start waving a clipboard frantically at the bus driver.

In front of my window were about five or six cows, hanging upside down by one foot, and sliced down the middle. Most of them were just hanging there… and swinging back forth a little. But one on the end was spilling things out it’s middle.

Red and brown things.

And almost black things.

And something stringy was hanging from it, and blowing in the wind.

Then there was screaming.

All it takes is one child, and it becomes contagious. One kid after another, right from the front of the bus to the back. It was like some sick, scream chorus in round.

I remember so much screaming. The kind of screams you never forget-  six year old little girl screams.

However, I also remember not screaming.

And some boy in the back, who kept going “Moo, mooooo.”

The teacher was shouting at the driver to “Drive faster!”

The little girl in front was still yelling “What is that? What is that? What IS that?”

It was obvious what they were.

They all still had eyes.

I remember the windows of the bus shaking. Maybe because the dirt road was so bumpy, but probably because some of the kids were pounding on the glass and screaming.

Then, we were past it, and the yellow bus was kicking up red dirt clouds as fast as it could. The teacher told everyone to sit down, and that everything was okay.

She also fanned herself with the clipboard.

In about ten minutes we were all getting out of the bus at the park and gathering under a banyon tree to eat our sack lunches.

I don’t remember talking to any of my friends.

I don’t remember the ride home.

I also don’t remember ever eating my sack lunch.

I didn’t cry that day. I didn’t scream.

I don’t think I even told my parents, which I now find kind of peculiar.

Was I scarred back then? I don’t know.

But I think I might be now.

 

 

PS-

Looking back, I really don’t think second grade was all that much better than the first.

 

 

 

His name was Andrew.

One of the best things to do as a six year old little girl is roll around on thick grass.

I did this on many occasions on the front lawn of a neighbor boy’s house across the street.

One day, I was rolling and somersaulting- putting on a show for my friend Michael and another boy from down the block.  They were wrestling with his collie named Sasha, and throwing a tennis ball back and forth.  They stopped in the middle of my half-cartwheel, looked past me down the sidewalk and said, “Here he comes.”

His name was Andrew.

Andrew was mentally disabled.  My guess is he was about nine or ten years old, but I was never really sure.

He came waddling up to us… that’s what he did… he waddled.  As far as I could tell, his legs were in working order- he just waddled.  It wasn’t unusual to see him.  He came over to play with us quite often.  I suppose I should say play with me, because I was the only one who ever spoke to him.

“Hi you guys!” he said with his lopsided smile, and a voice that was always just a little too loud.

He held out his hands and started wiggling his fingers.  I knew that meant he wanted to pet Sasha, so I brought her over to him.  He squatted in the grass, and laughed hysterically as Sasha licked him all over.  I sat down next to him and just watched.  He made me giggle.

The two boys went back to tossing the tennis ball.  For the most part they just ignored Andrew whenever he came by.  Every now and then they would roll their eyes, or whisper to each other.

I didn’t mind so much hanging out with Andrew.  I though he was kinda cool to watch…

His face was a little crooked, and he drooled a bit from his mouth.  I would watch his eyes get buggy when he was happy, and I could never figure out why one eyebrow moved way more than the other.  He always let me stare at him as long I wanted, without ever getting ticked off.

This particular day was one where Andrew wasn’t wearing any underwear.  I don’t know if he never wore underwear.  I just knew that depending on how baggy his shorts were, some days you could see right up his pants when he sat down.  This day was one of those days.

I thought that was weird.  I was always under the impression that boys wore underwear just like girls did, but I didn’t ask.  I wondered if is parents let him dress himself, because he always seemed to wear odd stuff.  I never saw his parents- ever.  I don’t know who took care of him.  And sometimes when we were all called into our houses for dinner, he would just be left on the sidewalk… with nothing to do.

I sat there and watched him pet Sasha while trying desperately to avert my eyes from his pants.  Something was peeking out of his shorts and it made me want to move away… but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  So, I tried with might to stare at his face the whole time.  Then he turned away from Sasha, looked at me, grinned… and peed his pants.  He then grabbed onto Sasha real tight and started to hug her hard.  He only did that for a second before he lifted his leg and tried to climb on her back.  I stood up and let out an “ew” when I saw that he was peeing on the dog.  He then started making very loud grunting noises, and I realized that I no longer found any of this fascinating.

Michael ran over and yanked him off the dog.  The other boy picked up the garden hose and started hosing off the dog.  “Now you got her all smelly!”, he cried.

Andrew just stood there… with a blank expression on his face… and pee running down his legs.

Michael took the hose and started squirting Andrew.

“You smell like piss!”

He then handed it back to the other boy, who squirted him a second time.

“Get out of here.  You need a shower!”

He pushed the hose at me…

and I took it.

I don’t know why.  The boys were older than me, but I didn’t feel threatened.  Perhaps it was because I was never really scared of Andrew until now.

But I took it.

And I squeezed the nozzle.

And I shot him with water… right in the tummy.

For a brief second, I think I saw confusion in his eyes.  Then he quietly turned and waddled down the street, soaking wet.

I don’t think I ate much dinner that night.

Two weeks later as my mom and I were driving home from the store, we passed by his house.  It was surrounded by firetrucks.  There was no longer any fire-  just smoke and half of a misshapen, charred, frame of a house.

Andrew’s parents (whom apparently he did live with), made it out of the house okay.  But fire fighters were unable to find Andrew and figured he may have ran out into the neighborhood somewhere.  It wasn’t until after the fire was put out that they found his burnt body curled up in his bedroom closet.

He was hiding… hiding from the fire.

*****

I believe that even as a six year old I knew that I had behaved unkindly.  I hurt another human being… on purpose.  And I never got the chance to make it right.

I don’t think I have ever made that mistake again.

There are very few moments in a life when one recalls the instant a lesson is learned.

This was a lesson that was sewn right into the fabric of my being.

*****

This post has been screaming to be written for a while.

I was over visiting The Red Dress Club website, and peeking at their memoir writing meme.

 

When I saw the prompt, I knew this piece could wait no longer.

The prompt was a picture:

 

End Of The World

I was unpacking some boxes not too long ago and came across a few of my old diaries.  It was a pretty interesting read- kind of choppy, since  I apparently had a habit of writing every day for a week and then taking an entire year off. It seemed like I only wrote when in the middle of some sort of pubescent crisis.

Actually, it’s a lie to say it was an “interesting read”. The truth is, to my adult self, a lot of it seems pretty ridiculous.  It’s amazing the gravity with which I felt things when I was between the ages of 12 and 15 .  I mean, seriously…

THE
END
OF
THE
WORLD.

And I vaguely remember these situations. I remember actually feeling as if the seams of my universe were being torn apart. That I could not go on. That my parents were hell bent on destroying me.  That the world as I knew it, was truly coming to an end.

Dear Diary,

I can’t help it, but I think I really like Jason.  I’m pretty sure he likes Romy.  I wish I could be like her.  She is pretty, and  has all kinds of nice clothes and jewelry.  She is so lady like- she even crosses her legs when she sits.  I wish he would notice me, but who would ever want to be with me.  I’ll probably never fall in love.  I don’t have nice clothes at all…

Dear Diary,

I just got into a huge fight with my dad.  He says he’s sure he can find empty soda bottles in my room, but I don’t have any- NOT EVEN ONE!  I don’t want him digging around in my room anyway.  It’s none of his business.  Oops, someone’s coming…  Okay, I just had a long talk with my mother.  She wants me to apologize for yelling about such a little thing.  What?  It’s not a little thing- it’s a lot of things… I was seriously considering running away, but maybe for my mom… I just might stay.  I just can’t seem to stop crying.

PS- I still didn’t get my period, and everyone else I know already has theirs.  What is wrong with me?

Dear Diary,

I hate my curfew!!!!! On weeknights I have to be in by 9:30! It’s summer! No one has to be in that early.  It’s not fair.  My parents are so unfair- they don’t understand anything.  No one wants to hang out and go places with me because I have to be home so damn early!  Now I’m not going to have any friends.  If I ask to change my curfew, I just get yelled at, and my parents say I’m being selfish.  That’s bullshit.  They’re the ones being selfish by making me come in soooo early- just to please them.  I don’t normally swear in my diary, but I am just getting so fed up.  They just want to wield their power over me.  Sometimes I think I should run off and get away from their stupid, over-protective rules.

They might not even let me buy new school clothes.  I can’t go back wearing clothes from LAST YEAR.  They NEVER UNDERSTAND ANYTHING!

I could go on, and take you all the way through my first kiss, first steady boyfriend, and first vacation without parents… but that is for another time (although much more of an interesting read).

Right now, I should go to bed.  Tomorrow, I must wake my cranky toddler at 4:30 am, and drive Hot Nerd to the hospital for surgery on his leg. Then, I”ll probably come home for a little while, since it’s virtually impossible to keep a two year old entertained at a hospital for hours on end.  At that time, I’ll probably fight with a few people on the phone as I try to take care of some medical bills we are still paying off from last year.

Then, I’ll go pick up my newly bed-ridden husband, and schedule the Orthopedic Device Consultant to come over and teach me how to use the huge machine that will bend and flex Hot Nerd’s leg for six hours a day.

We have few friends, and no family in the area to help, so I will also have to mentally prep myself for the months of rehab ahead of us, and when he’s ready to go back to work, for being the shuttle to and from his job, as well as all the follow up and physical therapy appointments.

Like a feisty two year old, and two crazy dogs weren’t enough.

But you know what?

I’ll figure it out.

I’m pretty sure I’m one of the strongest people I know.

Besides…

It’s not like it’s

THE
END
OF
THE
WORLD.

How Michael Jackson Made Me Cool – Tales From The Fourth Grade Bathroom

Michael1984

The beginning of fourth grade sucked big time. I was the new girl in school, short and skinny, with big feet and ears that were just a little too big for my face. My ears were just pointy enough to stick through my long, pin straight hair and wave hello. A few of the fourth grade boys had started to call me Gelfling — an elf/troll-like creature with wings from a movie called The Dark Crystal. I do not believe this was a compliment.

No one warned me that once you turn ten, kids become much more discerning about who they are friends with. The life of playing with whomever happens to be on the playground was long gone.  There were qualities one had to have; for example, excellent Double Dutch skills, quick hands for playing Chinese Jacks, yummy lip gloss, and the right pair of Chic jeans. I had none of those things.

One morning during class, the teacher announced that we would be having a fourth grade talent show the following month, right before Christmas Break.

Oooooh, I so wanted to be in it! My mom had started me in dance classes the year before, and I must say, I was quite genius at it. I knew that once people saw me dance, they would love the crap outta me. I signed up right away.

It only took me until lunch to become completely panicked about it. Was I seriously thinking of getting up there, by myself, and jostling around in front of fifty kids who didn’t particularly care for me in the first place?  NOPE. What I needed was a buffer — at least one other person that I could convince to do it with me.

Enter Christina.

In music class, when we were learning how to play the recorder, she had told me that my fingers were really long and that’s why I was so good at it. I knew she was my best bet, and here’s why:

  • She spoke to me.
  • She was not popular.
  • She was not an outcast.
  • She paid me a compliment — she said I was good at the recorder, and that’s a compliment, people!
  • She spoke to me.

So, the next day, I casually breezed up along side her at the lunch line and said: “I dance.”

She didn’t seem to be able to read my mind and know where I was going at that point, so I elaborated: “Talent show. You wanna?”

Christina got my meaning then, and said casually: “No.”

Deflated, I slinked away thinking that being an actual Gelfling would be way cooler than being a fourth grader.

Later that day, at second recess, I looked up from one of my Judy Blumes to find Christina standing next to me. She asked me, in a hushed tone: “Why’d you ask me?”

“Honestly?”, I asked.

“Yeah”, she said.

“I don’t want to do it by myself, and you’re not as scary to me as everyone else is.”

“How come I’m not scary?”

“You talked to me in music class, and I’ve never seen you wear a pair of Chic jeans. No one really pays that much attention to you.”

“What are you gonna dance to?”,  she asked.

“Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ “, I said.

“Really?”

“Yup”

“Cool.”

“I know. I can do every single move from the video”, I said.

significant pause

“Could you teach me?”

And that was the beginning of the rest of my fourth grade life.

I brought my boom box to school the next day and we started to practice every day at recess. We decided to practice in the girl’s bathroom, because we didn’t want alot of people to see it before it was done. We had four whole weeks, and that was plenty of time to create the toughest, coolest, most spectacular dance number ever.

Now, Christina wasn’t the most graceful of girls — she often had trouble negotiating the sidewalk on her walk to class. But, in that bathroom, when I hit play and “Beat It” would start, girl could GET DOWN! I even taught her to stand on the tip tops of her toes, just like Michael.

With the sounds of Michael Jackson pumping out of the girl’s bathroom, it didn’t take long  for people to start coming in to take a peek.  After only two days of rehearsing, who should walk in, but Kimi Kawaji. I repeat, Kimi Kawaji! She was the most beautiful girl in the fourth grade, her hair was straight at the top and curly on the bottom, and she always wore Chic jeans. She waltzed in with her gaggle of girls, and stood in front of the mirror to put on lip gloss.

I  decided that my masterpiece would not be sidetracked and Christina and I  continued dancing like she wasn’t even there. Now in my head, I was freaking out, but I just kept listening to the song –

You have to show them that you’re really not scared.

You’re playin’ with your life, this ain’t no truth or dare.

I don’t know what came over me, but I looked Kimi right in the freakin’ eyes, grabbed my crotch, stood on my toes,  and shouted ” whoo!”

At that particular point, the music stopped. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Christina had pressed stop on the boom box. She was staring at me with the most terrified look in her eyes. The moment finally began to hit me, and while my face became extremely hot,  I decided it was time to slowly remove my hand of my crotch.

Then, the weirdest thing happened — Kimi started to giggle, grabbed her crotch, and shouted “whoo!”.  I grabbed my crotch again. “whoo!” She grabbed hers. “whoo!”

Her cohorts started to laugh, and Christina ended up on the floor in stitches. Then, I just blurted out:  “We’re dancing to ‘Beat It’ for the talent show, and we need a whole gang. You guys wanna do it with us?”

She said yes. She didn’t even hesitate. SHE SAID YES. That was the power of Michael.

The next day, she and her three friends joined us in the bathroom. Two weeks later, We had thirteen girls jammed into that bathroom, dancing around. I gave everyone choreography, and they did it! No one thought I was stupid, they just did it!

I also decided that we should all do sit ups and push ups before practice. That’s what my dance instructor had our class do- so I figured, why not. We wanted to look tough doing this dance, so we had to build muscle. We rehearsed every day, first and second recess.They did the sit ups, I counted them out. I was like the drill sergeant. I was like the leader. The leader of the gang!

We all decided we needed a name. A name that inspired fear, but was still kinda pretty since we were a bunch of ten year old girls. I can’t remember the name of the girl that came up with the winner, but I’ll never forget the name — it was perfect. We would be called: The White Gloves.

After that, even more girls showed up wanting to join, but I had to cut it off at thirteen — we weren’t gonna take just anybody, besides, there wasn’t any more room in the bathroom.

Come talent show day, we all showed up early to rehearse in our Member’s Only jackets. When we took that stage, we looked so tough– I’m sure we looked almost like sixth graders.

When that music started, and Michael started singing- our little bodies became possessed. We were snapping and strutting. We were balancing on our toes. We were moonwalking. We were pulling up the collars on our jackets, and yup, we were grabbing our crotches. I even bit my lip for a little extra sass.

After the show, a boy named Maurice came up and talked to me. He was very cute, and also, very often liked to call me Gelfling.

“You made that up?” he asked.

“Yeah” I said.

“Wow. That was … pretty bad.”

“Thanks, you too.”  I said.

His talent was to spin on his head as long as he could, over and over again. I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen.

From that day on, I loved fourth grade. Kimi and I were too different to really be friends, but she said hi to me, and we’d show our hands in a sort of White Glove salute. Christina and I hung out all the time, and my mom eventually bought me a pair of Chic jeans. People talked about the “White Gloves” every now and then, and how the teachers freaked out about us grabbing our crotches.

I was no longer the outcast.

I was no longer Gelfling.

I was cool.

I was … Bad.

Thanks Michael.

August 28, 1958 — June 25, 2009

RIP