Of Birds And Bees, And The Free Oppression Of Women, Part IV

[This series on abortion begins with Kicking At The Darkness.]

Perhaps it's too easy to ask, or too trite, "Why can't we all get along?" Perhaps it's too much to expect from people, with each person oft taking sides, identifying with his or her tribe, to the detriment of civility. Abortion rights discussions are rarely dispassionate; are rarely objective and enjoyed in the cool calm of civil discourse. I doubt I could ever get a member of NARAL (National Abortion Rights Action League, see note below) to read any of this series with an open mind. Similarly I doubt an Operation Rescue activist would likely sit still through a NARAL protest speech. We are each (myself included) quick to link arms with friend in order to shun foe. It is hardly helpful. What might be helpful is if we could only listen well; to be quick to hear, and slow to speak.

In the spring of 1984, after being drafted in a spontaneous enlistment during breakfast in my college dining commons, I traveled by bus to the Massachusetts State House (in Boston) to join a pro-life protest group. It would be the first, and last, rally I would attend as a participant. What I was technically attending was a counter-demonstration to a large pro-choice rally inside the capitol building. Admittedly I was vague about the event, and I was a bit concerned about losing valuable class and study time marching away the day on the edge of the Boston Common.

As we disembarked from the bus, each of us was handed a sign, a placard, and directed to march clockwise at the foot of the stairs leading to the State House. I particularly liked my sign, with "I support the rights of unborn women" painted in bold print. My girlfriend grabbed another sign, and we were off. (She and I would eventually see ourselves on the front page of the Metro section of The Boston Globe, in the center of a wide-angle news photograph.)

During this 'peaceful' demonstration, bands of pentecostalist-type folks (mostly women) would occasionally mill around and break out with scripture-laced, quasi-prophetic utterances directed at pro-choice passersby. Sometimes these religious would raise hands toward the State House and speak in tongues. One woman, a very large and intimidating woman, would belt out "Repent! The kingdom of heaven is at hand!" Shouts of "Sodom and Gomorrah!" would also occasionally ring out.

At one point, each of us was permitted into the State House foyer, where we could hear various pro-choice speakers address their fellow Roe v. Wade advocates. To my consternation, the pro-lifers around me would erupt in a cacophony of doom-laden rebukes, citing scripture, while the pro-choicers would rebuff them with wild insults. But it was the pro-lifers that set me on edge. The "spiritual warfare" in which they were engaging struck me as dehumanizing and heavy-handed. Even my girlfriend disliked it, as she started shouting "Listen to them! Let them speak!" in a plea that courtesy be shown to the pro-choice speakers.

I left my girlfriend and headed outside, where she later joined me in the slow, marching circuit.

Suddenly, from nowhere it seemed, a man appeared in front of us in full Nazi uniform, a hideous rubber mask over his head. The uniform was perfect: red, black, swaztikas on arm bands, jack-boots. Everything looked authentic and complete. He held up a sign with his left hand which read: "Women of Choice I salute you." And then he held up his right hand in salute.

"Heil Hitler!" He shouted towards us and the State House. I believe he even clicked his heels.

Needless to say, this character sent a wild rush of confusion through my whole being. I wasn't sure what he meant: I had heard pro-lifers referred to as Nazis in their tactics and dogmatism, and alleged fanaticism. Was he directing his mockery at me?

I moved closer toward the man, but only moments after the pentecostalists, prophets and preacher-types hastened their way to him. As I drew closer, the gang of prophets circled the man, and started rebuking him, hurling prayers and exorcisms, hands raised toward heaven. The large woman started shouting, "The Devil is among us, the Devil is among us!"

Through the din I could hear a muffled sound, so I moved within inches of the man and, looking into his eyes – the only flesh of his I could see – my own eyes were opened: The man was elderly, and scared out of his wits, eyes bulging in panic. And from under the rubber which was his mask (he never lifted it up, which to this day stumps me), I could hear his muffled shouts at his accusers: "I am on your side! I am on your side!" He fixed his eyes on mine, as if to beg that I make his position clear.

I turned to my girlfriend, told her what I had heard, and turned away from the scene. I searched my soul for what I was feeling, and what I wanted to do. "Is this the way?" I kept asking myself, "Is this who you are?" After a few minutes I turned around to look at the protesters I had earlier joined. A semblance of peace had been restored. The prophets were back holding their signs, the circuit complete. And there, at the bottom of the steps to the State House was the Nazi-impersonater, once the devil incarnate, now saluting pro-choice women as they left the building.

"I am done," I declared to my girlfriend. I leaned my sign against the wall near where the news photographer had stood earlier in the day. "You can join me, if you'd like," I said. She smiled, a little sadly, I thought, though I knew she was not sad with me. She leaned her sign against mine, grabbed my hand, and, sensing my lead, ran with me at full speed toward the Boston Common. I pulled my hand from her's as I leaped over a park bench, her mirthful laugh filling my soul with pride. And then we joined our hands again, losing ourselves in the city, each having made a choice, both so full of life.

***

We do not get along, it seems to me, because we refuse to understand. And we refuse to humble ourselves enough to understand what is being said, and why it is being said. We are quick to love our own rightness, and slow to love the rightness of others; or we are too rough to properly correct those who are indeed wrong.

I am guilty. I know my sins. They are legion. But I believe that I am called to understand that which is hardly understandable. I am called to find the common ground, the humanity and the tragedy of humanity, and to be a peacemaker in the midst of tribal strife. I am called to be a healing salve, not a wounding sword. I am called to be a friend, not a foe. I am called to life, not to death.

I am called toward the Common. Come. Run with me.

Contratimes

[I am not finished, so bear with me]

To continue with this series, read here.

©Bill Gnade 2005/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[NARAL is in the midst of a controversial ad campaign in which Bush Supreme Court nominee John Roberts is described as a proponent of bombing abortion clinics. See story here, and the challenge to it here. Then ask yourself whether the most powerful abortion lobby in the US is honest. Talk about tribalism!]