Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes

A couple of times a week, I drive past the abortion clinic on the east side. There are always two or three patient escorts in orange vests standing by the door and several people with dogeared, pasted together anti-abortion signs scattered about, poised to yell at women coming down the block or across the street on their way to their appointments. Their idea is to form a gauntlet, to make a difficult thing worse, to make women pay for a decision they have every right to make.

When I stop at the light near the clinic, I roll my window down and I yell “Thank you!” to the patient escorts and give them a thumbs-up.

A few years ago, I contacted the clinic about volunteering as an escort. A survivor of an illegal abortion decades ago, I figured I had a depth of understanding about the issue – about the situation – that others wouldn’t have. But when the coordinator called back to schedule my training, I backed out. I knew I could never deal with the anti-abortion people, their hideous, proselytizing signs, and their cruel behavior. I would get angry. I would get in a fight.

You think I’m kidding. I’m not. This choice business runs very deep with me.

I don’t know what’s next.

I don’t know why we have to have this struggle all over again.

It’s demoralizing and painful.

It was over fifty years ago but in my heart I am still the girl sitting on the bus looking out at the dark night on my way back to my college town after doing what I believed I had to do, knowing that I could have died and fearing so deeply what would happen next.

There was no clinic. There were no patient escorts. There was no light or protection. There was just me and other women taking their lives in their hands.

That’s where we were. That’s where we are again.