shift

I didn’t want to go. This was a frightening issue fraught with deep philosophical questions. I did not want to march beside people who believed in life for infants. I did not want to scream and taunt them. They had a good point. I still don’t know what I would do if I were in a position to make that painstaking decision. I am not pro-abortion. I don’t think that anyone is. I am clear, however, that I believe that the option should be open to women in extenuating circumstances. Violence, however, hatred and venomous words would not solve the nightmarish, life altering issue. I knew this. I did not want to go because these impulses are exactly what rose up in my stomach when I heard that there would be a Walk For Life through San Francisco. I felt a territorial rush as hot anger polluted my body. Luckily, it left my mind relatively clear of this reptilian instinct to attack to go to the counter march and bite the heels of whomever tried to shove their lessons or beliefs into my uterus (and make it stay there). The only reason that I wanted to go was to eat them alive, to fight whoever “they” might be. They represented everything that was wrong in America to my wrestling subconscious. They were the neo-conservatives. They were the Christians. They were the Republican gangsters who pushed around a Democracy that never existed without shame and sent their poor eighteen year old children to die for the slaughter of thousands of innocents in a holy land while listening to “the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. We don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn!”. They were the people who compromised truth for faith and humanity for compassion. MIDDLE AMERICA, WHITE TRASH, CHRISTIANS, HIPPOCRITS, IRAQI BABY KILLERS!!!!!!!!.

These one-sided, rash, brainwashed ideas foamed in my outraged mouth. I wouldn’t go. I was too imbalanced. The people marching for life were doing just that: telling the world about life, and why they thought it should be maintained. Freedom of speech, contrary to my hormonal impulses, is a very important ideal to me. My logic generally overrides my passions, but I wasn’t confident that I could control myself with all that crap racing through my threatened body. My lovely intelligent friend Michelle, who plans to study International Law at the American University of Paris (and is far less violent than yours truly), wanted me to go with her. We discussed it, and I decided that I would be willing to go if I brought my beautiful 35mm camera and assumed the role of objective photographer. I wanted to march with the Pro-lifers a little as well, maybe talk to some of them, try to hear them, especially their stories. I am very interested in the grief driven Pro-lifers that are trying to save other women from the horrible anguish of regret. So, I had a plan that I hoped would quench my desire to shed blood. I would take an objective, journalistic perspective. I was even a little excited.

In the train station before the march a man sat on the opposite platform playing a guitar. Five or six Pro-choicers came down the stairs next to us, chatting. The man on the other side swept his guitar up suddenly and stomped up the stairs, screaming after him “I wouldn’t be alive if my mother had had an abortion!” My friend and I laughed. It wasn’t really funny, but we laughed. She responded in a whisper “and look what a better place the world is now.” Bitterness inched in on my objective camera holding person. I was going into a war.

The Pro-life march and the Pro-choice march were scheduled to begin with rallies at different ends of the city, eventually passing on the Marina Green. The mayor was at the beginning Pro-choice rally. He was speaking. This was exciting. He was there because he knew that only 25% of the Pro-lifers were from San Francisco. The rest had come in buses from Orange County and Sacramento. My city, my body, I clenched my teeth and quieted my outrage. Their world, I rationalized. We found Newsome standing by the make-shift stage, with no body guards (what a good politician). I approached him. He was very casual, almost real. He liked my jacket.

We began to march. The chants were horrible. They were vocalizing the irrational, angry thoughts that I tried hard to suppress. “Pro-life, your name’s a lie. You don’t care if women die!” The liberals screamed. Our march was more of a parade, with costumes and colorful angry signs. Some signs were moving, like “LEGAL ABORTION SAVED MY LIFE” and “MIDWIFE/CATHOLIC FOR CHOICE.” The moving signs were the ones that seemed to address the concerns of the Pro-life argument. Angry but pointed signs, held by high school girls in leg warmers read “GET YOUR CONSERVATIVE SHIT OFF MY CLIT!”. Older, angrier liberal extremists held signs reading “MORON WITH A WAR ON” and ” WHAT ABOUT THE BABIES DYING IN IRAQ?”. The whole vibe was rambunctious and slightly out of hand. Anger washed through us. As we marched the issue hung heavy over me. I could not be elated. I could not be blindly angry. So much focus on whether we should be able to kill helpless infants to save them and us from a life of misery clung to me, and I nursed It, thoroughly depressed.

We met the Pro-life march at the Marina, where the choice march lined up on the sidewalk. I was so excited. I had never met more than one Pro-lifer at a time, let alone five thousand. They came slowly. The first thing that I noticed was their signs. The Operation Rescue, with their dead fetus signs, were asked to stay home and so the entire five-thousand-strong march was littered with the same sign that had been handed out among them. As the point of this particular Walk For Life was “to offer women other choices besides abortion”, the signs read: “WOMEN DESERVE BETTER THAN ABORTION.” This struck me as not an adequate use of the brilliant argument that can be given for LIFE. What did that mean? Adoption was an alternative, but then the women have to give birth to a child and then live the rest of their lives knowing that there is a piece of themselves out there. That didn’t seem better for women than abortion. They could keep it, but in the case of rape or an unfeasible financial situation, the stress does not seem better either. I came to the conclusion that this slogan was created to intrigue the notorious feminists of San Francisco. It’s too bad that this slogan didn’t actually present any realistic alternative to the horrible concept of abortion. The slogan does strike a chord, however: women do deserve better than abortion. I think that both sides would be overjoyed at a better solution. The convincing signs were ones that brought awareness to the life at risk, not the woman. A few signs, accompanied by photos of living fetuses read: “IT IS A POVERTY TO KILL A CHILD SO THAT YOU MAY LIVE YOUR LIFE THE WAY YOU LIKE” and “IS THIS A CHOICE OR A HUMAN?”. Other signs were darkly religious and inhumanely one – sided. “FREE WILL IS FROM GOD/PRO-CHOICE IS FROM THE DEVIL” read one sign, in the hands of an deranged looking old man. I wanted to leap on him and scream “What is the difference between free will and choice?”. Instead, I took his picture.

As they marched past us, my objectivity faded. I couldn’t walk with them. They had nothing in common with me. There were so many young girls and boys there. Pregnant women waddled, toting three other children behind them. The striking thing was that most of the Pro-Lifers were male. I must’ve seen ten priests or more. This frustrated me the most. What did they know of childbirth? How would this have anything to do with them? Many people blessed us as they walked past, praying for our souls, and crossing themselves. One woman, upon being provoked, screamed angrily at the crowd of Pro-lifers “I love you!” This enraged me. I began to spit and scream with the others. Everyone was so passionately angry. I wanted to cry. An old women woman next to brandished a bent coat hanger and screamed “HIPPOCRITS!”, not providing any explanation. Women began to push their way through the police barrier. The cops intervened, as their job obligated them to. They were surprisingly gentle, considering the animosity that they received. A woman screeched at the uniformed cops as they hustled her back into the licensed area for the Pro-life march “We pay your wages! Get outta my way! We pay your wages, you pigs!”. The cops kept poker faces. I wondered which ones agreed with which side. Hard core kids with dry platinum hair and ripped fishnets pathetically stalked the passive police from their licensed ground, spitting and provoking. “You make me sick! Fucking Pigs! You disgust me!” It was unnecessary and stupid. The girls were ridiculous and unrighteously cocky. The pro-lifers looked at us, the younger of them confused at these unwarranted attacks, the older either amused or quietly dismissive.

At this point I had to leave. My soul hurt and I was hungry. Michelle and I slumped onto picnic chairs on Fisherman’s Wharf. We devoured a clam chowder bread bowl between us. “Fuck” I mumbled, and she nodded her head at the remains of the sourdough on our plate.