A meditation on Roe v. Wade
I tried writing through the pain this week. Pieces that some of you are expecting in your inbox and are maybe questioning your subscription now that it’s Friday and they haven’t arrived. And 4,000 words later, I guess I can say I did. But sometime in the middle of the week I realized I needed to write about the pain itself—to release the cynicism and make room for prayer. Where you fall ideologically is none of my business. I have love for you either way. I just needed a minute to take off the mask of optimism.
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There’s chicken stuck between my teeth from dinner. I try picking it out, but my nails are too thick for the gaps, garnet red dip powder clanking against my incisor, diamond rings mashing glossy lips. These are the moments when being a girl feels free enough to be funny. When the problem at hand is only as big as the distance between me and a floss pick. Notice I say “girl,” not “woman” because despite my being over 30, each year older sharpening the edges of something delicate, I feel like a scared child with nowhere to run.
Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair.
I remember when “the future is female” rang guttural like a rusty bell. We went horse marching on hot pavement, knock-kneed and soft-bellied, united by a promise that this land was made for you and me. What a gag. The pussy that begged abundance has only seen scarcity. And so I sit paralyzed on my couch by The News, contemplating the ways we’ve upheld delusions of democracy. If every vote counts and “we did it, Joe!” and nevertheless she persisted (who was “she” again?) then how did we get here? Does it even matter? Do we even matter? Don’t answer that.
Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair.
My mind cuts to that channel with the static and the colorful stripes, you know the glitch you land on at 3 AM with bloodshot eyes and nothing left to give. A modern iteration of the American Flag. One hand is still picking chicken from my teeth and the other is scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, racing against a black pill with long legs who’s gaining on me quickly. I can’t stop crying.
Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair.
Every well-meaning remark is rendered cliche, a whirlpool of blue check regurgitations that sucks you into center.
America, the idea.
America, the experiment.
America, the anti-nation.
… We find comfort in others’ words as ours continue to escape us.
Nothing can prepare the spirit for the collapse of an empire, especially one you held quiet belief in through each sign of decline. All the baseball games and the cheeseburgers and milkshakes and the smell of chlorine on wet lycra and Tom Petty on the radio telling you to take it easy baby, make it last all night, it’s too much to bear. A 13-year-old girl in Texas will be raped by her uncle and she will become a mother before she learns the periodic table. This feels like violent satire; we cannot dodge the shrapnel.
Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair.
Now, we’ll do what we do best. We’ll turn the other cheek and go on about our days, blending smoothies and sending emails. Such is the way of a nation who doesn’t let individuals grieve the dead, let alone a collective grieve the death of their autonomy. We will be told to stay hopeful, to stay optimistic. To let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair. I think it’s a lot to ask.