The Challenges—and Joys—of Pregnancy

It’s Her Choice

Katha Pollitt on the Struggle over Abortion Rights

Abortion became a politically charged issue only after it was connected to women’s independence. As long as abortion was about saving a daughter from shame or helping a woman who was exhausted from having too many children, it was accepted (though probably not talked about much), but when women began marrying later and postponing having children in order to become more politically and socially active, then it was considered a problem.

It’s Her Choice: Correspondence

Cover Photo

Leaving Home

											Outside the pink bungalow
											in Pleasure Ridge Park,
											two men sat in a Thunderbird,
											engine running. My father said
											they watched the house the whole time.
											In the living room, the tv was on.
											I sat on a sofa against a green afghan
											until she was ready for me.
											Her husband drank a beer,
											told me not to touch the shivering chihuahua.
											“She’s got a mean bite,” he said.
											Aunt Wanda’s husband
											found this woman. His truck drivers
											recommended her. My father, a good Catholic,
											drove me there, just like he took me to confession
											other Friday evenings, to tell my sins.
											In her bedroom, pictures of grandchildren
											cluttered the dresser,
											white stockings hung on a wooden rack above
											white shoes newly polished.
											She had me lie on the double bed.
											Opening my legs for her wasn’t easy.
											She was hunched and burnt-looking.
											Her whole face puckered toward her mouth.
											She spoke with words like “dirty shame”
											while she gave her absolution—
											a small, white cloth inserted
											into my womb. I wanted it to hurt.
											It didn’t at first, not even the needle
											she pushed into my thigh
											while I watched my hand
											curl and uncurl the pink chenille.
											The first blood came before dawn.
											My father went to work.
											My mother watched tv.
											I lay upstairs in my room
											and thought of college
											as rhythmic pains came.
											I turned my crucifix to the wall
											and soaked the sheets.
											Just after lunch I passed the cloth,
											some clots, some flesh,
											then bundled it all in a clean towel
											and lay on the yellow bathroom rug.
											I will go away from here, I sang to myself,
											I will never come back,
											I will never come back.
										

Any Comments or Questions?

Girlie slid out like a hot buttered noodle on that Indian-summer night in October—her father’s birthday, in fact. Chas was in the birthing room, standing next to my hospital bed. A few minutes before, he’d been complaining that his legs hurt and he needed to sit down. The midwife cleaned Girlie off before presenting her, blue-ribbon style, to us, and I thought about how one chapter in my life was ending and a new one was beginning, whether I liked it or not.