The day Roe overturned, one memory monopolized my mind.
The rape , the forensic exam at the YWCA and the court process that followed all had something in common: I had no agency. I’ve lived a full life. I became a lawyer. I lived in Spain. I made it to South America, danced in the streets of Buenos Aires. I’ve loved deeply and have accepted love. I had just taken a seat when two priests in Roman collars boarded. They made their way down the aisle and sat down in front of me. I clutched my duffel with my robe, slippers, sanitary napkins and cash tucked safely inside, as though the priests posed some kind of threat. I spent the hour-long ride staring at the backs of their heads, at first defensively, and then with contempt as it dawned on me that an abortion would excommunicate me from the Catholic Church.
When Roe was passed, I was 11. I remember my grandma crying. All she said was, “Now they can be safe.”Even a medically safe abortion cannot be truly safe if it is illegal and shrouded in secrecy.
We are not chattel.
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