When I was 21 I moved in with my boyfriend for the summer, much to the dismay of parents. I announced this decision to my mother in the middle of my graduation festivities and my grandmother overheard. I learned later Grandma Jean spent several hours lobbying my mother to force me to change my mind, but what could she do?
I was 21, a college graduate with a scholarship to seminary that began in the fall and she had no leverage, beyond my own upbringing and shame, to convince me. I wasn't really sure that I wanted to do it, but I was pretty sure that I didn't not want to do it, especially since the alternative was going home to Connecticut and dying of boredom. Plus, I was in love.
So off I went to Chicago, with my two cats, a few boxes, and a bent wicker couch with cushions my mother had sewn for me from fabric I had picked. I got a job as a temporary secretary and rode my bike downtown every day along the lake, whooshing past the beaches and the parks and the Water Tower toward a shiny office building where I filed medical forms. It was hot that summer and I couldn't bear to take the L. At night I would go home to play house with my sweet boyfriend while we argued about the future and failed to make plans. I was going to New York City to solve the problems of the world. Would he come too?
By July I wasn't sure I could take it anymore. The weight of "living in sin" was making me a nervous wreck. Perhaps I could feel my grandmother's disapproval all the way from California. A plague of canker sores filled my mouth, a symptom of a fear and ambivalence that would not be counterbalanced either by young, passionate love or by some alternative moral system that didn't think that premarital sex deserved punishment by spiritual if not actual death. So we decided to split. At the end of the summer I would go to New York, he would stay in Chicago, and we would see what happened next.
Five days later, I discovered I was pregnant. Of course I was. Incapable of facing either my moral or my sexual decisions, I had been stupid. Not convinced by the home test, I wanted to be sure, so I made an appointment that very day at Planned Parenthood. Somehow I knew that I could go to Planned Parenthood for help and advice. I am not even sure how I knew that. Did my girlfriends and I talk about it? Had I seen an ad on the bus? Luckily there was a clinic a block away from my shiny office building so I went during my lunch break.
Here's what I remember: the dingy office, the beige carpeting, the glasses my nurse wore, and sitting in a plastic chair while she confirmed my fears. She was very kind. She spoke to me quietly and patiently while I shook uncontrollably and accepted my fate. I decided my baby would have red hair--my Grandma Jean had beautiful red hair until the day she died--and I promised to come back later, once I had thought everything through.
I was raised in a world where I didn't dare talk to anyone about sex, certainly not to God, certainly not to my parents. I was very well-loved, but I had also formed the impression that there were two possible choices for me: virginity or self-destruction. That summer, I chose destruction, a choice that also felt like choosing life. When I got into trouble, however, I knew better than to turn to my church or my parents, at least initially. Instead, I went to Planned Parenthood.
I wonder how many other women have a story like this. I bet a lot of women do. And so every time I read or hear yet another lie about an organization that, frankly, saved me, I want to scream. "How dare you," I want to say. How dare you say such things about that nurse, my nurse, let alone the many other doctors, nurses, and clinicians who dare to care for women and their families despite the threats, vitriol and even violence they now endure? These men and women are my heroes. Their faith in the dignity, integrity, and value of women--all women--is inspiring. It isn't just inspiring; it's astounding.
Having a body is a blessing. That is something my tradition can also teach, though it hasn't been an easy lesson for me to learn. Perhaps that is why, for me, the sarcastic slut shaming acrimony of certain politicians and pundits toward an organization that has dared to respect us as women--no, as human beings--cuts like a knife.
Our bodies matter, our lives matter. We have witnessed too many examples this past year of what happens when human institutions find ways to apply this simple truth only selectively. There are bodies at stake here, lives worth living, and people worth loving. The healthcare workers who dare to know this, especially when other people don't seem to know it, deserve deep respect and gratitude, not cheap, empty scorn. Thank you so very much Planned Parenthood. My parents, my kids, and my church thank you too.