Growing up and into my early twenties I was both a good Catholic and pro-life. Though I could see lots of holes in Catholicism, I didn’t see any wiggle room in my belief that every life created deserves a chance. This was an easy belief for me to have. I grew up comfortably, in a homogenous middle-class, middle America town. I didn’t see much poverty and the only case of violation I knew personally was that of a dear friend who was raped orally, which though completely rocking (and still rocking) our worlds, didn’t have us worried about pregnancy.
Though we didn’t talk about sex or pregnancy at home, I knew what the consequences would be, and the one my teenage brain was most worried about was humiliation. I did not want to walk around town with a scarlet letter in my growing belly. I knew two girls who had teen pregnancies, one gave her baby up for adoption, and the other chose to raise her daughter with her family’s help. I said prayers of honor to both. They were the bravest women I knew. The whole world was aware they’d had pre-marital sex, yet they held their heads high and went about their business as mama-warriors. Their stories strengthened both my fear of sex and pregnancy and my pro-life stance.
Being a staunch pro-lifer, senior year in college I did an internship at a home for teens that accepted those who were pregnant and/or parenting, as they were difficult fits for foster care and the state’s juvenile detention center. My favorite part of the job was accompanying the girls on outings. One day the outing list included taking a girl of twelve to a doctor’s appointment. I wasn’t thrilled as she always smelled of urine; she was a bed wetter and an infrequent bather.
In the exam room the doctor went over the list of the girl’s medications, lithium for Bipolar Disorder among them, and then asked if there was a chance she could be pregnant. I didn’t even look up from my magazine, knowing she wasn’t in the mothering wing at the home and knowing it would be difficult for anyone to crawl in bed with her. Besides, she seemed to be the social/emotional equivalent of a preschooler.
Yes, she replied.
Do you know who the father could be? asked the doctor.
Either my uncle or my cousin, she said matter of factly.
Time stopped for me. I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday. Reality as my 21-year-old self had known up to that point was forever changed.
That moment marked my unwavering conversion to being pro-choice.
I knew deep in my bones that if she was pregnant and the decision was left to me, I would choose to abort this multi-med-absorbing embryo-of-incest. Not doing so wasn’t fair to the future baby, nor to the bed-wetting, friendless and family-less child of the state.
From one second to the next, the world became much more complex, and much less black and white, than I had ever imagined.
And continues to be so.