We sat there. 23 black and Hispanic women, 4 white women, 3 men. Ages ranging from early teens, to late thirties. We all woke up, brushed our teeth, showered (well, most of us), maybe we grabbed coffee, maybe we dropped our kids off at school. We all had a morning before. And then we had a MORNING. A mourning.
Once you got past the protesters telling you that you were basically going to Hell, a large man with a body full of tattoos ushered you in. Checked your name off of a list. Like this was an ultra exclusive industry night at Tao. But, you know,that was another life.
In this life, you're herded in, branded, and stuck in the coop with the rest of the chickens. Or cattle. Or whatever animal gets tagged and tossed into an assembly line.
Pig.
We sat there, everyone carefully avoided eye contact. Everyone isolated by whatever mental hell they were currently trapped in. Staring blankly at everything and nothing all at once. A movie was playing in the background (white noise ) as names were continuously being announced. No one looked up. No one smiled. My mind drifted to methadone clinics. To dark alleys. 3am motel room lobbies. Everyone there for the same reason, but nobody daring to admit it. Nobody wanting to be human. Pride. Embarrassment. Fear.
Oprah magazines from years far gone. Encouraging us to be our best selves. To live our best lives. To find our truth.
5 hours. I was there for 5 hours with a room full of beautiful, sad, hopeful, shamed, loving women and nobody said one word.
Maybe that's why I felt the need to tell this story. I want to tell every girl (because in that moment, we are all just scared little girls) that it was ok. That even if it wasn't ok at that exact moment, that it was going to be ok. That this too shall pass. I wanted to tell them that life is a crazy journey, and in this moment, if they really listen, they could hear their future self saying "it's ok baby. it's ok." I wanted to let them know that it was ok that they were alone. That men, well, men try. But they will never truly understand us. They can be flighty, and distant, and cold. But they're struggling with the same fears we are. We're just more equipped to handle it. That this choice is yours. And yours alone. That your parents might not speak to you for months, but that it's still YOUR choice. That it's ok to cry. And it's ok to smile again tomorrow. That you don't have to wear a scarlet letter. But then again, they had the Oprah magazines for that,so, I'm sure that was enough.
You go through a screening. Health history. Allergies. Previous surgeries. Blood type. You sign a bunch of documents that basically amount to "bitch if you die, you's dead, don't sue us."
You make a choice from the price list. A menu of endings. Like a vacation sublet brochure, but for your vagina. I, being poor, chose the least expensive. And just like with Florida timeshares, cheaper was indeed, shittier.
Another hour passes and I find myself in a freezing cold room. Hair net, paper gown, personal belongings in a plastic bag next to me. Two other women, identically outfitted, staring at me. Paper wristbands with our vital information. My mind drifted to internment camps. To human trafficking rings. To shelters. (I hate my brain sometimes, so dramatic.)
Nobody. Said. A. Word. We just sat there and waited for our names to be called. I wanted to start a prayer circle. Ironic in that, well, I don't normally pray, and also I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell (as the very nice white protester told me earlier.) But it felt like, something was needed in that room. I mean, they did try. They had some inspirational Maya Angelou quote, printed out, hanging on the wall in a cheap ass plastic frame. It made me more upset. Dr. Angelou needs a solid wood frame. But, I digress. Something needed to be FELT. In your soul. Something needed to be DONE. I (being the oldest, most seasoned one in the room, felt guilty again, that I didn't provide comfort). I should have said something. I should have held someone's hand. But we sat there in metal chairs, with hard nipples and paper gowns and looked at our feet.
Once you finally get in the room, it's all but done already. I don't remember the name of my doctor. I didn't see his face. I don't remember the nurses. I remember the pain. As I mentioned before, I took the cheap way out. Which meant, no anesthesia. Which meant, I felt everything. I felt, each, and every, movement of the instrument.
I won't gone into graphic detail. Because that was my choice, not yours. And I already have to try and sleep at night with the memory of that pain, and those sounds I heard.And I don't wish that on anyone.
Afterwards, you're given graham crackers, ginger-ale and a heating pad.
I listened as one of the nurses complained about her trip to Spain with her husband. Apparently, they lost her luggage, and her stroller, during the layover.
Tragic.
As soon as I could move without vomiting, I left.
But you never really leave a place like that. That shit sticks to your soul like a thick pot of corn chowder. Just, heavy and oppressive and thick with regret.
Once you got past the protesters telling you that you were basically going to Hell, a large man with a body full of tattoos ushered you in. Checked your name off of a list. Like this was an ultra exclusive industry night at Tao. But, you know,that was another life.
In this life, you're herded in, branded, and stuck in the coop with the rest of the chickens. Or cattle. Or whatever animal gets tagged and tossed into an assembly line.
Pig.
We sat there, everyone carefully avoided eye contact. Everyone isolated by whatever mental hell they were currently trapped in. Staring blankly at everything and nothing all at once. A movie was playing in the background (white noise ) as names were continuously being announced. No one looked up. No one smiled. My mind drifted to methadone clinics. To dark alleys. 3am motel room lobbies. Everyone there for the same reason, but nobody daring to admit it. Nobody wanting to be human. Pride. Embarrassment. Fear.
Oprah magazines from years far gone. Encouraging us to be our best selves. To live our best lives. To find our truth.
5 hours. I was there for 5 hours with a room full of beautiful, sad, hopeful, shamed, loving women and nobody said one word.
Maybe that's why I felt the need to tell this story. I want to tell every girl (because in that moment, we are all just scared little girls) that it was ok. That even if it wasn't ok at that exact moment, that it was going to be ok. That this too shall pass. I wanted to tell them that life is a crazy journey, and in this moment, if they really listen, they could hear their future self saying "it's ok baby. it's ok." I wanted to let them know that it was ok that they were alone. That men, well, men try. But they will never truly understand us. They can be flighty, and distant, and cold. But they're struggling with the same fears we are. We're just more equipped to handle it. That this choice is yours. And yours alone. That your parents might not speak to you for months, but that it's still YOUR choice. That it's ok to cry. And it's ok to smile again tomorrow. That you don't have to wear a scarlet letter. But then again, they had the Oprah magazines for that,so, I'm sure that was enough.
You go through a screening. Health history. Allergies. Previous surgeries. Blood type. You sign a bunch of documents that basically amount to "bitch if you die, you's dead, don't sue us."
You make a choice from the price list. A menu of endings. Like a vacation sublet brochure, but for your vagina. I, being poor, chose the least expensive. And just like with Florida timeshares, cheaper was indeed, shittier.
Another hour passes and I find myself in a freezing cold room. Hair net, paper gown, personal belongings in a plastic bag next to me. Two other women, identically outfitted, staring at me. Paper wristbands with our vital information. My mind drifted to internment camps. To human trafficking rings. To shelters. (I hate my brain sometimes, so dramatic.)
Nobody. Said. A. Word. We just sat there and waited for our names to be called. I wanted to start a prayer circle. Ironic in that, well, I don't normally pray, and also I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell (as the very nice white protester told me earlier.) But it felt like, something was needed in that room. I mean, they did try. They had some inspirational Maya Angelou quote, printed out, hanging on the wall in a cheap ass plastic frame. It made me more upset. Dr. Angelou needs a solid wood frame. But, I digress. Something needed to be FELT. In your soul. Something needed to be DONE. I (being the oldest, most seasoned one in the room, felt guilty again, that I didn't provide comfort). I should have said something. I should have held someone's hand. But we sat there in metal chairs, with hard nipples and paper gowns and looked at our feet.
Once you finally get in the room, it's all but done already. I don't remember the name of my doctor. I didn't see his face. I don't remember the nurses. I remember the pain. As I mentioned before, I took the cheap way out. Which meant, no anesthesia. Which meant, I felt everything. I felt, each, and every, movement of the instrument.
I won't gone into graphic detail. Because that was my choice, not yours. And I already have to try and sleep at night with the memory of that pain, and those sounds I heard.And I don't wish that on anyone.
Afterwards, you're given graham crackers, ginger-ale and a heating pad.
I listened as one of the nurses complained about her trip to Spain with her husband. Apparently, they lost her luggage, and her stroller, during the layover.
Tragic.
As soon as I could move without vomiting, I left.
But you never really leave a place like that. That shit sticks to your soul like a thick pot of corn chowder. Just, heavy and oppressive and thick with regret.
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