The first time I considered abortion I was in seventh grade. By considered I mean that this was the first time I thought deeply about the subject. It was part of an assignment for Mr. Turners natural sciences course: pick a position on abortion and be prepared to debate it in front of the class. So, you see, it was a matter of passing my natural science course, and it was a matter of being held in esteem in the eyes of my peers. As a shy and bookish kid, I knew that the key to gaining the respect of my peers was making my few words count--so I considered, deeply, and I came to the following conclusion: abortion is ending life, and it is wrong.
This is all well enough--the story of a seventh grade girl beginning to think these issues through for the first time. It seems so normal that it is surprising I should remember it at all--and I probably wouldn't, if it weren't for the exchange that happened between my mother after I received that assignment.
My mother was a redhead with an explosive temper--an unfortunate confirmation of the stereotype. She descended from a line of immigrant German Lutherans on one side, and Irish on the other. She was fair skinned, green eyed, and kept a modest dress--not out of any expressed principal, rather, it seemed that her presentation was a natural reflection of who she was at her core. Though she wore little makeup and only a simple gold cross, she was always, undoubtedly, well groomed and neatly manicured, and her clothing, while simple, was always clean and matching and appropriate for a woman of her age and station in life. She might have believed such an appearance to be just right for God. She was a fastidious house keeper--indeed, most of her displays of temper revolved around some lack of order in the physical environment of our home. She believed in the Lord, in Jesus Christ, and participated in our catechism in the Lutheran church (though otherwise our upbringing was fairly nominal). She taught my sister and I from a young age that lying, stealing, fornication, and cruelty to other children were wrong--and believe me, we were punished when it seemed we were breaking any of these moral precepts. So, for such a modest and quietly severe woman with high moral standards, grounded in conservative Christian teaching, it seemed odd that she would react to me the way she did the day I came home from Mr. Turners science class. Let me explain.
We were standing in the kitchen, my mother idly stirring a pot of tomato soup on the stove. I was unloading my bookbag on the kitchen table, the one my dad built specifically for that room, for that corner. The sky was darkening early as we were moving into winter, and our kitchen was filled with the dim blue light of an autumn evening. My mother asked me what I did in school that day as I unpacked my things. As I told her about Mr. Turners class, she seemed to perk up a bit, and we turned to face each other, as I remember.
"I am going to argue against abortion," I said, "because I think it's murder, because it stops a babies heart. I think it's like, half and half in the class right now..."
I would have happily continued, but my mother interupted me, "It's none of your business what the woman next door does with her pregnancy!"
She was angry as she gestured at the french glass doors in the next room. "If she's going to have an abortion, that's her business. No one elses!"
I remember being quite shocked, and looking through those big doors in our dining room, and over to our neighbors house. If Mrs. Skeegs was having an abortion, I thought, it wouldn't be my business. It was a strange thought; it left me a bit cold. It seemed right though; it must have been. My mother was responsible for my moral and spiritual education--my father was largely absent from church and seemed uncomfortable instructing us in anything but perhaps softball, civil war history, or video games. Remembering it now, though, it is interesting to note that she made no argument. She wasn't at all intellectually inclined. It was merely the force of her emotion that shut down my thinking in this area. I quickly revised my burgeoning opinion that evening. The rest of the night is lost to me. From that point on, I was, almost reflexively, pro choice.
---
It was not more than a couple of years later that, in that same kitchen, I would tell my mother I no longer believed in God, and that I was not going to church. The fight that ensued was drawn out and harrowing--doors slammed, and tears were shed. I did not quite believe what I said that day, but I was ready to believe it. I wanted to believe it. My second catechism was into a full fledged rebellion, a Bad Religion album listened to in the quiet nighttime hours. The punk music spoke to some deep doubt inside, not of God, but of the pleasant, placid exterior of our home life, which at it's core was quite rotten, riddled with secret and strife.
I know all of my mother's hopes stopped for me that day. I felt that was good, because they were her hopes, and what mattered now was me. I set out to find my people as I cycled through friendships with punks, nihilistic anarchists, licentious free love hippies and strung out junkies, aspiring artists and musicians, shell-shocked army vets, petty criminals, sex workers, wanna-be prophets, pagans, and new age freaks of various spiritual inclination. I wore a proud face through a tangle of trees. I ended up in rehab for alcohol at 21.
I hate my family, I hate my school, speed limits and the golden rule
Hate people who aren't what they seem more than anything else
the American dream, it's gonna swallow you whole
It's bursting at the seam
This is all well enough--the story of a seventh grade girl beginning to think these issues through for the first time. It seems so normal that it is surprising I should remember it at all--and I probably wouldn't, if it weren't for the exchange that happened between my mother after I received that assignment.
My mother was a redhead with an explosive temper--an unfortunate confirmation of the stereotype. She descended from a line of immigrant German Lutherans on one side, and Irish on the other. She was fair skinned, green eyed, and kept a modest dress--not out of any expressed principal, rather, it seemed that her presentation was a natural reflection of who she was at her core. Though she wore little makeup and only a simple gold cross, she was always, undoubtedly, well groomed and neatly manicured, and her clothing, while simple, was always clean and matching and appropriate for a woman of her age and station in life. She might have believed such an appearance to be just right for God. She was a fastidious house keeper--indeed, most of her displays of temper revolved around some lack of order in the physical environment of our home. She believed in the Lord, in Jesus Christ, and participated in our catechism in the Lutheran church (though otherwise our upbringing was fairly nominal). She taught my sister and I from a young age that lying, stealing, fornication, and cruelty to other children were wrong--and believe me, we were punished when it seemed we were breaking any of these moral precepts. So, for such a modest and quietly severe woman with high moral standards, grounded in conservative Christian teaching, it seemed odd that she would react to me the way she did the day I came home from Mr. Turners science class. Let me explain.
We were standing in the kitchen, my mother idly stirring a pot of tomato soup on the stove. I was unloading my bookbag on the kitchen table, the one my dad built specifically for that room, for that corner. The sky was darkening early as we were moving into winter, and our kitchen was filled with the dim blue light of an autumn evening. My mother asked me what I did in school that day as I unpacked my things. As I told her about Mr. Turners class, she seemed to perk up a bit, and we turned to face each other, as I remember.
"I am going to argue against abortion," I said, "because I think it's murder, because it stops a babies heart. I think it's like, half and half in the class right now..."
I would have happily continued, but my mother interupted me, "It's none of your business what the woman next door does with her pregnancy!"
She was angry as she gestured at the french glass doors in the next room. "If she's going to have an abortion, that's her business. No one elses!"
I remember being quite shocked, and looking through those big doors in our dining room, and over to our neighbors house. If Mrs. Skeegs was having an abortion, I thought, it wouldn't be my business. It was a strange thought; it left me a bit cold. It seemed right though; it must have been. My mother was responsible for my moral and spiritual education--my father was largely absent from church and seemed uncomfortable instructing us in anything but perhaps softball, civil war history, or video games. Remembering it now, though, it is interesting to note that she made no argument. She wasn't at all intellectually inclined. It was merely the force of her emotion that shut down my thinking in this area. I quickly revised my burgeoning opinion that evening. The rest of the night is lost to me. From that point on, I was, almost reflexively, pro choice.
---
It was not more than a couple of years later that, in that same kitchen, I would tell my mother I no longer believed in God, and that I was not going to church. The fight that ensued was drawn out and harrowing--doors slammed, and tears were shed. I did not quite believe what I said that day, but I was ready to believe it. I wanted to believe it. My second catechism was into a full fledged rebellion, a Bad Religion album listened to in the quiet nighttime hours. The punk music spoke to some deep doubt inside, not of God, but of the pleasant, placid exterior of our home life, which at it's core was quite rotten, riddled with secret and strife.
I know all of my mother's hopes stopped for me that day. I felt that was good, because they were her hopes, and what mattered now was me. I set out to find my people as I cycled through friendships with punks, nihilistic anarchists, licentious free love hippies and strung out junkies, aspiring artists and musicians, shell-shocked army vets, petty criminals, sex workers, wanna-be prophets, pagans, and new age freaks of various spiritual inclination. I wore a proud face through a tangle of trees. I ended up in rehab for alcohol at 21.
I hate my family, I hate my school, speed limits and the golden rule
Hate people who aren't what they seem more than anything else
the American dream, it's gonna swallow you whole
It's bursting at the seam
