The back story: the
service at church today was about reproductive justice. I am sitting now at a coffee shop with a cup
of really bad coffee, and I'm going to try to sort out my thoughts. To be honest, though, I'm overwhelmed. I was hoping the coffee would help, but I'm
going to be lucky if I can swallow this sorry excuse for something that
slightly resembles coffee. If this
rambles, blame the bad coffee.
What do I have to do
with reproductive justice? The immediate story is this: I feel a great deal of
pressure to get married and have children.
In the eyes of many people close to me, it seems that this is how I will
prove myself to be successful. In spite
of being a licensed, doctoral level psychologist at just-turned 28, it always
feels as though I am somehow letting others down. Like I'm not quite fulfilling my potential
and duty as a woman. I quite regularly
have parents of my clients tell me that "it's time" for me to start
having children. I was told by a person close to me when I
started graduate school that, if I met a potential spouse in grad school, I
could not make him "wait for me."
It would be my "job" to drop out of school and start a family.
When I was in 3rd
grade, I was the only child whose parent did not approve for her to take the
"personal body safety " curriculum that is offered in Maryland. I remember asking why, and I remember being
told that it was inappropriate material that would scare me, and told me it was
something I would never have to worry about.
Fast forward to eighth grade. My
homeschool "health/sex education" course consisted of being handed
a copy of "What's Happening To My Body Book for Girls," with certain
chapters -- the ones on sex, sexual assault and birth control, namely -- marked
as "Do Not Read." I was so
embarrassed to read this book that I did it only in my bedroom, with the door
closed, and I hid it under my mattress in between. I did, of course, read the chapters marked
"do not read," but because I really had no basic understanding of
anything, none of the chapters really made much sense to me at all. I didn't ask questions. It was clear that this topic was not to be
discussed.
And that is it. Literally.
That was the extent of my sex education.
We never talked about dating. I
asked one time what abortion was when I saw it on a bumper sticker, and I got
an answer equivalent to "it's an issue that a lot of people have a strong
opinion about." We never talked
about our bodies, except for when my sister developed an eating disorder -- and
even then, it was mostly in the context of disordered eating. The idea of a comprehensive sex
education...or even one that covered much beyond the bare bones basics...was
completely foreign to me. The concept of
discussing reproductive rights and sexual health was so far outside of my reality,
I don't think it was even on my radar.
Grad school, though,
was a complete game changer. When I was sexually
assaulted in my third year of grad school, my perspective and awareness and
everything changed. Sexual assault was
no longer something that just happened to others. Issues surrounding women's rights, sexual
health, reproductive rights, and sexual assault were no longer just abstract
causes I cared about when I read something upsetting in the news. Not caring and not acting is a luxury and a
privilege few people realize they are afforded.
Each of these points
has everything to do with reproductive justice.
In my mind, it should not be radical for a person to hear: "You
have worth. Your body is yours. The choices you make are yours. Your stories are yours and they are part of
you and part of us. You are whole as you
are. You are a person, and for this fact
alone, you are whole and you are worthy."
In today's world, every person should know that they have the right to be
with the person they love. It should be
a well-established fact that it is a person's individual decision to have
children or not. Each person should be
able to make medical decisions for their own body. Every person has the right to choose -- to
choose to have children. To choose to
have an abortion. To choose to never get
pregnant. To choose who can touch them,
and when, and how, and where. To choose
when and how they will be educated on their choices. To choose who they love. These are fundamental rights. This is justice. And we aren't there yet.
I can't understand why
it is so hard to see that, when a person's right to choose is taken away by
legislators, or by doctors, or by husbands
or boyfriends or strangers, the ripple impacts all of us. I don't understand why it is so hard to see
that, when one right to a choice is taken away, no matter who imposes it, every
other choice is affected. If male
legislators believe they can tell me what I can do with my body, then is it a
stretch to believe that some men will believe they can take away other choices
as well? Everyone is impacted by these
injustices. Every time. Injustice is never just a single act -- its
tentacles are long and mighty. We are,
indeed, part of an interdependent web. What touches one of us does, for better
or worse, touch us all.
In spite of the fact
that I know better, and in spite of the fact that I wrestle with this regularly,
there is still shame felt in conversations about sexual assault. There is still shame behind the words I write
about this topic, and there is a tremendous amount of fear. I know that, more often than not, when I talk
or write or address this topic in any way, people say "me too. I have a story about that, too. That is also part of my lived
experience." When you make it even
more broad and talk not only about sexual assault, but about people not being
able to truly own and make choices regarding their own bodies, then the numbers
go up even further. And still that shame and fear is there. It doesn't come from nowhere. It's there because it is what we have been
taught, or shown, or conditioned to remember.
It's there because it has to be: its function is to keep us safe.
So I try to fight the
good fight. I stand up when I can. I write when I am able. I make points in conversation and to
others. But I'll be honest: I get
tired. This fight occurs on multiple
levels all at once. You fight personal
shame and fear. You fight societal shame
and fear. In spite of hearing "me
too" from so many others, you feel alone.
You feel alone in your fear, and alone in your shame, and you feel like
you're the only one fighting. You want
the world to know your story -- whether your story be that of rape, or
miscarriage, or abortion, or infertility. We are not made to carry those stories alone,
but you do, because it is what you have to do.
The point that hit me
straight in my heart today was this: this issue of my rights, and my body,
and my choices is important enough
that my church would devote an entire Sunday to discussing it. The fact that my body is a good body, and
that my body is mine, and that my choices are mine, and that I am whole is something that is believed not
just by a few friends in the congregation, not just by my minister, but by my
faith community as an entity.
What a beautiful,
overwhelming realization that is, and what a beautiful, overwhelming privilege. In a world where religion has shamed, blamed,
silenced, and tried to change people's expressions of sexuality, gender, and
self, my faith community chooses to stand on the side of love. In a world where religion has taken away, restricted
and inhibited women's choices and has shamed, abandoned and hurt so many in the
process, my faith community chooses to stand of the side of wholeness and justice. My faith community chooses to stand on the
belief that reproductive rights are human rights, women's rights are human
rights, and human rights are for all
humans.
I didn't stick around
to talk to people after the service today, and really didn't talk to many
people at all while I was there, but I left feeling profoundly seen and whole. I felt not-alone in a different, existential
sense of the word. It feels a bit like
I've been hanging onto the high beam until all my muscles are shaking and achy,
and my fingers are slipping and sweaty, and I'm barely hanging on...and then someone
taps me on the shoulder and tells me to look down. When I do, I see that there are people --
real, honest-to-goodness beautiful people, standing under me with a net and
waiting to catch me. They're there to
remind me: this is not a war you need to fight alone. "You can be tired," they say. "We will keep on fighting."
These conversations are
essential. These are the conversations that change the world. These are the radical ways we fill one
another and emphasize our wholeness.
These are the ways we grow in community, and we need all of our good
bodies together to make that happen. We
need all of our stories, our pain, our resilience, our strength, courage, choices,
and power together. We are worth
it.
Our stories are worth
it. Our histories are worth it. Our futures and our future generations are
all just so worth it.
So may it be.
What a beautiful, honest post. Just like you.
ReplyDeleteThank you. <3
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