This is a true story about something that happened to me one morning while going to work at Planned Parenthood, here in the Bay Area, many years ago. I wrote it after Rush Limbaugh's attack on Sandra Fluke, calling her a slut.
“Here comes another whore with a white coat,” I heard as I was stepping out of my car. It sounded like a whisper at first; I thought I might be imagining it, until he said it again. I looked over at the street corner in front of the clinic and saw the Saturday morning abortion protesters gathering. It was only 7:30 am and they were already shouting at passing cars. Billboard sized signs stapled to wooden poles--pictures of bloodied and mangled fetuses, bobbed up and down, and I heard someone shout, “Jesus loves you!”
I looked back at the stray man who had whispered to me. He was crouched near the parking lot waiting for others to arrive for morning clinic. His eyes looked like he was following a ping-pong game, darting back and forth between the other protesters and me. Something was strangely familiar about him, which distracted me enough to trip over the curb, spilling an armload of charts, my computer, and my triple latte on the pavement.
“Shit,” I mumbled, as I started to quickly gather my things.
“Let me help you with that, Sweetheart,” he hissed as he inched closer.
“No thanks, I’ve got it,” I replied.
“You goin’ inside to kill more babies?” he asked.
“Back off. I said I’ve got it.” I replied.
“Oh come on, Sweetheart, just havin’ a little fun here; let me help you.”
“I said… I’ve got it. Now go join your friends, I’ve got work to do. “ I replied. My heart was racing.
“Yep, that there is the work of the devil, s’what I say. You girls really ought-a find another line-a-work. You know, you’re all goin’ straight ta hell.”
I was bone tired from working double shifts all week. I looked over at the line of patients forming at the door of the clinic. I looked back at Ping-pong eyes. He wasn’t moving. Another protester with a red baseball cap shouted over at him.
“Come on back now, we’ve got work to do.” I could see a large cross dangling from his neck.
“Hold on a minute,” I’m helping little missy here with her thingsssss,” Ping-pong said. The last word out of his mouth sounded like a hiss. A shiver went up my spine and my head felt like it was about to explode.
“Listen,” I said. “I am asking you again to back off. You go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
I tried to hold eye contact with him, but his eyes kept darting back and forth, back and forth, between the protesters, the line of patients, and me. I stood still, pretending I was made of stone, pretending I was unafraid of the maniacal Jesus freak standing right in front of me, pretending I was bigger, even though he was probably 6 inches taller and outweighed me by 50 pounds. He had a drop of spit hanging from his lip. He was wearing a button up shirt with a Members-only jacket, and he smelled of cologne and sweat. My heartbeat was audible pulse in my ears.
Minutes passed, and I said nothing. I had managed to pull a stack of charts back up to my chest, covering it like armor, but my computer was still on the ground. My spilled coffee was splattered across the pavement, and it looked as if I had thrown up right at Ping-pong’s feet. I heard a baby crying from the line of patients, and a soft-spoken response in Spanish. I didn’t move. Slowly, he started to turn and walk away.
“If Jesus loves me, than I am going straight to heaven, “ I whispered.
He turned on his heels, slowly swinging around until his eyes met mine. They stopped ping-ponging long enough for him to say, “No, Whore, YOU are goin’ ta HELL, b’cuz YOU kill un-borned babies,” as his pointed finger pumped back and forth.
He turned and walked away. I looked down and saw that the top buttons to my blouse had ripped open during my fall, showing my bra, and I felt dirty, every bit the whore he was accusing me of being.
More women were lining up, waiting for the clinic doors to open. Some looked apprehensive as more remarks continued to fly from the group of protesters, now numbering twelve. One woman in line ducked down as if avoiding enemy fire.
“Jesus loves you!”
“Don’t let ‘em kill your babies!”
“Don’t take those pills, they aren’t natural…!”
“ Birth control gives you cancer!”
“Practice abstinence!”
“Save your baby, and the lord, your savior, will forgive you!”
Someone else was reciting a psalm from the Bible. Pictures of bloodied fetuses continued to bob up and down. One of the pictures looked like the skull of the fetus had been crushed, the arms and legs tangled around each other.
Most of the women in line ignored them, but a few looked nervous and started to shuffle around, wondering whether to stay. Many were holding babies with toddlers in tow. I noticed a middle-aged woman in a suit at the end of the line, who appeared nonplussed as she checked her Blackberry. Another woman was reading a novel. A group of women in burkas were gathered in a tight cluster looking apprehensive, but one, I could tell, was laughing. Another, dressed in running clothes, was eating her breakfast out of Tupperware, and the woman behind her was talking softly on her cell phone. Another baby started to cry loudly, and his mother put her hands over his ears and stepped out of line and walked back to her car.
I walked inside to start the day.
Esme, a social worker, met me in the hallway. She handed me the schedule for the day. I checked it and quickly counted the patients- 22 in the morning morning and 17 in the afternoon--not bad. Under the column, ” reason for visit” there were the usual things: annual exam, papsmear, family planning, pre-natal, well-child check up, medication refill.
“Funny,” I said to Esme, “I don’t see any baby-killing visits on the schedule today.”
“Yeah, we’re slacking off,” she replied as she shrugged and walked away.
