Damn, haven’t had one of these in a while, but it’s Friday and I’ve been serious enough this week.
Dearest Stacy Dash,
SHUT. UP. You sound damn ignorant.
Damn, haven’t had one of these in a while, but it’s Friday and I’ve been serious enough this week.
Dearest Stacy Dash,
SHUT. UP. You sound damn ignorant.
Now, a lot of people are wagging tongues and fingers to talk about Obama’s last SOTU. Did they like it, did they hate it, here are the parts that are cool, here are parts that aren’t, look at Michelle’s dress, could Paul Ryan frown any harder, I want someone to look at me like Biden looks at Obama, and so on.
This post isn’t about any of that. I leave it to others.
This post is about the saddest damn sight next to Paul Ryan’s struggle-frown that night.
And it’s this:
Who allowed this disaster to walk into that chamber? And no, I don’t mean her very presence, whatever, she got invited.
I mean, what the hell did she wear? What is that?
Now look, I tend to keep my judgement about what people wear when I’m walking down the street. Usually because I’m trying not to look at other people because of a mix of anxiety and misanthropy. Sure, I think sagging pants are silly and wearing heels in the winter is asking for broken ankles, but I keep it to myself. Whatever people wanna wear outside, fine. Whatever.
That goes straight out the fucking window when we’re talking about an event as big as the State of the Union address. Look to the left of this woman. Lady in huge pearls and make up. Look to the right. Dude in military dress. And in the middle, a women who managed to find a fuck during her 15 minutes of fame and then promptly lost that fuck while packing for this trip to D.C.
She couldn’t be bothered to at least put a dress, suit jacket, or suit, whatever floats her boat, on? Come on lady, you’re a guest at the White House for the SOTU speech. Don’t you have SOMETHING nice, like a modest church outfit or something, you could have put on? Fuck, those sister-wives in prairie dresses look more put together than this. You don’t have to get made up or change your hair or whatever, just…wow…holy shit. What is this?
Look around you. Other people were dressed appropriately for the event. Men in suits, women in dresses/pantsuits/whatever. Michelle Obama was up on the balcony looking like a bag of money in a simple dress. Ms. Davis, Mrs. Davis, can I call you Kim, I’m calling you Kim, you look like someone stuffed you into a bag of donations for the Salvation Army, dumped you out in D.C., and all you had to wear was whatever you could hang on to.
Kim, you make enough money. We all know that. You didn’t have to grab something from Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s or some other fancy place (can you tell I’m poor? Those were the richest places I can think of). Wal-Mart, KMart, Target will sell you a nice modest dress for nothing. Fuck, I could walk into a thrift shop and pick out something more appropriate for this event blindfolded. What the hell?
Just what the hell?
CN: suicide attempt mention
I read a blog post attack the concept of “wanting attention is bad” and it made me think about when I was a kid.
Last year was the 20 year anniversary of my first suicide attempt. I was 14, miserable, didn’t see any escape from the life I had except for death. I would lay in my bed and cry out of misery.
And no, I really didn’t have anyone at home to talk about it. Well, no one would actually help.
Two years after that event, my stepmother threw into my face that the doctor treating me during my mental hospital stay told my dad that I was “doing this for attention”.
(she also told me during that conversation that if I tried to kill myself, she’d help me take the pills. I almost took her up on it, if I didn’t have plans of my own)
Annnnyway, it took years for me to process that, and a few visits to a shrink to make me realize something about kids seeking attention.
I was a kid who thought death was preferable to living. As a KID. Even if I failed at it, how wasn’t that a cry for attention? I sure as fuck wasn’t getting it at home, hence the hard hit of depression, hence the attempt. Granted, I had been depressed for years prior, but it was two years building up of lacking the attention that would help me figure out my sense of self or security.
You’re damn right I wanted attention. And there was nothing wrong with that. Kids need attention, even when their ages start up in the double digits. Preteens still need to know that they matter, that they are loved, that their needs are important too. They’re not tiny adults you can start shoving adult responsibilities onto and ignoring their needs.
And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be noticed. This is very different from wanting to be in the center of everything. Why do we treat the former like the latter? We all desire to be noticed and acknowledged by our peers and families. Yes, even you Mr./Ms./Mx. “I don’t need society’s approval, I’m my own person”. A few days without acknowledgement of those around you, and you’d feel awful. That’s why social media is a thing. That’s why I’ve written so many words on this thing over like a year.
We’re kinda human like that.
So attention me, people! 🙂
…but I’m gonna try to make it through this post without passing out or having too many typos, because I needed something up here that was actually based on a true story and totally wasn’t me not checking my facts before coughing out a rant post.
Nope. Not me.
Anyway, today in “White People”, Maine’s governor is a racist shitbag. He’s the sort of racist shitbag who tries to hide their racism under the blanket of “concern”. As usual, like a puppy or a toddler trying to hide under said blanket, their ass is usually showing.
And they’re not nearly as cute as a toddler or a puppy.
So, this is the money quote:
“The traffickers — these aren’t people who take drugs. These are guys by the name D-Money, Smoothie, Shifty,” he said. “These type of guys that come from Connecticut and New York. They come up here, they sell their heroin, then they go back home.”
He continued: “Incidentally, half the time they impregnate a young, white girl before they leave. Which is the real sad thing, because then we have another issue that we have to deal with down the road.”
Wow, there’s so much to unpack, but since we all know (hopefully) how shitty this is, and I’ve got a headache, bad sleep, and a load of laundry to fold, let’s just make fun of the fucking thing, kay?
First, there’s this bit:
“The traffickers — these aren’t people who take drugs. These are guys by the name D-Money, Smoothie, Shifty,”
Whoa there, partner, I’m gonna have to throw a flag on this play. “Foul, white person attempt to pull ‘urban’ terms out of ass”. Penalty, five yards or a free throw or a free kick or something. Look, I don’t do sports, okay?
D-Money. Okay, makes vague sense. Like he might have seen one of those 90s urban gangsta movies…back in the 90s.
“Smoothie”? Say what? Is he mistaking a trafficker for what he had for breakfast?
“Shifty” Oh yeah, you know ol’ Shifty from down the block, right? Everyone gets their stuff from ol’ Shifty.
Now, seriously, dude. This is sounding like YOU took heroin, watched Snow White, and coughed up the worst version you could think of. What is this, D-Money and the Seven Drug Traffickers? You got Smoothie, there’s Shifty, who’s next? Drugee, Layzie, Krayzie, Bizzy, Easy-E, and their homeboy/source, Dopey?
Pro-tip: Just leave the examples to the professionals, okay? You’d sound like ridiculous that way.
“These type of guys that come from Connecticut and New York. They come up here, they sell their heroin, then they go back home.”
Now I’ll admit I’m talking out of my ass here, because last time I checked, heroin is fucking everywhere. At least he had the brain to mention one state where it could well likely ‘come from’, good ol’ dogwhistle New York. But come on, dude. I’ve been to Maine. Met some lovely people. Ate a bunch of lobster. Rode on a boat. Sure, the only thing darker than me was the beer I was drinking, but lovely people.
And even I know the two things Maine is known for are A) Delicious lobster and B) WEED. If you’re gonna try to sniff out drugs in your state, sir, the bong smoke is coming from inside the house. How about you work on that first, hmm?
But oh and lo! the piece of resistance, or whatever. It’s supposed to be French, and I said I was tired, folks. Chronic nightmares. Chronic. Nightmares. Splitting headache. Feeling like death.
He continued: “Incidentally, half the time they impregnate a young, white girl before they leave. Which is the real sad thing, because then we have another issue that we have to deal with down the road.”
Now, if he wasn’t talking about race, as I’m sure someone’s right wing relative or that one ‘friend’ you just can’t let go will insist up to this point, why bother mentioning race here.
Also, seriously? I know I’ve said that already, but damnit, it’s the name of the blog. Not only are these oddly named drug traffickers bring heroin to the fine state of Maine, but they’re leaving behind knocked up young white women! Gasp! Le horror!
So pretty much, it’s Trump’s “Them damn Mexicans are drug dealers and rapists” rant narrowed down and aimed at another minority. Great job, man. Will you be running for president next cycle? Because you’re already leaps and bounds ready for the Republican xenophobia ticket.
Okay, meds and bed and shit. The laundry can wait another hour or two, right?
Have a good weekend. Don’t get sick. Also, lobster. Delicious, delicious lobster.
Y’all, it was fresh off the boat. Like Low Country Boils of my childhood memories, except with lobster.
(First Disclaimer: Because I know trolls don’t respect boundaries, I’ll just make this clear – try to add trash to my comments section, no one will ever see your shit and you’ll be shown the door.)
(Second Disclaimer: It’s 4AM after my return from con, I’m sore in all of the places – thanks fibro – I’m exhausted -thanks fibro – and my patience for bullshit is damn near zero – thanks anxiety. I am not hosting a debate. That is your only warning)
Okay, so I went to Skepticon 8, and boy oh boy did I have a blast! My workshop, Abortion Mythbustin’, was well attended, got some great audience participation and lots of good feedback afterwards. The workshops and talk I managed to attend – again, thanks fibro, anxiety and good ol’ impostor syndrome – were mostly awesome. I want to attend next year sooo freakin’ badly.
I rode down with some great traveling buddies who took care of me when the ride was getting too much, and the accommodations offered at the con were kinda surprising for me. Closed captioning for the talks, a place where those who couldn’t afford to eat could grab actual food, a quiet room, ASL interpretation, gender neutral bathrooms and they really took care of their speakers.
Heh, speakers, I’ll get to that in a minute.
Could they have done better with that? Well yeah. Maybe the dance didn’t needs the flashing lights they warned about, for example. But every convention has their ups and downs. All in all, I’m giving it up to the staff and volunteers. Good job.
So yeah, Sunday morning came around and something was wrong. The scheduled speaker, Teka-Lark Fleming, hadn’t even checked into her hotel room (hope she’s alright and they found out what happened to her). They needed someone to fill in the 10 am spot.
“Hey, I have that Clinic Escort talk Brianne and I do on my laptop,” my mouth said before my brain realized what the fuck it just done.
They were delighted and before I knew it, I was on stage, running my mouth without my Partner in Crime.
People liked it. They really did. I got so many questions afterwards and I didn’t throw up. Well, I got shaky as all fuck, which is normal after I do shit after that – thanks anxiety! Big ups to Stephanie Zvan for helping me cope.
The staff were so supportive and nice and grateful and really I should be the grateful one that they gave me this moment…given what had happened the day before.
We had some great talks this weekend. Let me make that clear. We had some GREAT fucking talks. I was excited as all hell to hear from Dr. Sikivu Hutchinson, who minced not one single damn word (ending with a slam against ‘Dawkins dude-bros’ which got hella applause). I bounced in my seat when Fallon Fox got on stage.
…and then it was question time.
Straight up, cis people, y’all gotta learn how to speak to/about trans people and their issues without sounding like a damn fool. So many people, mostly white cis dudes, were just fucking up. “Transgenders”, “When you were a man”, shit that made my eyes roll so far.
There was one very awesome question by a sweet looking older woman who asked what martial art should she try. Fallon suggested Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and was straight up sincere about it. Applause!
Then some asshole, in a Tap Out shirt no less, came up and tried to claim that he had knowledge about genetics and hormones and stuff because he was a former bodybuilder…
…in a room where I could count the biologists I knew…
The question was incoherent, but trying to find out if Fallon’s hormones level were the same as a cis woman’s (my term, not his), and when he got to the phrase “kept your manhood”, Lauren Ann Lane, head of this con and moderator of the talk, shut that shit down and told him to leave.
Which, because cis white dude, he didn’t. He kept arguing. Pro-tip: If con staff tells you to do something, you fucking do it.
He was escorted out to applause, and a few fools – behind me – argued that he was in the right. Ugh.
Fallon actually answered what she thought the question was anyway.
Seriously, cis people, use the Google box. Do the work!
Oh, this one gets a different section.
After the Fallon Fox interview, it was announced that there would be a surprise Q&A with a Mizzou student and journalist Mark Schierbecker during the lunch break. The understanding of the staff (which I talked to afterwards) was according to the press release:
“It’s important that college campuses are a safe and welcoming environment so students can learn,” Schierbecker clarified. “Racism needs to be the main issue here. Fighting racism versus advocating freedom of the press is a false dichotomy, and some people are hijacking what happened to me and other journalists to talk about freedom of the press instead of racism. I want to answer questions about what happened to me, and about speech codes, to make sure at the end of the day, we are working on addressing racism.”
Sounded okay. I didn’t even read the press release until later, but it was the understanding of those around me that this would be some sort of update or information about Concerned Student 1950 and/or Mizzou.
Boy were we wrong.
It started off okay. Danielle Muscato gave a short timeline of the issue, and they showed an edited video of journalists being ‘assaulted’ by the protesters who were enforcing an “Press-Free Zone”.
The assault? Having a camera blocked and slightly pushed. No really. We saw a 6 minute edit, but apparently the footage was 22 minutes long and had more context.
It became clear that this was more about Mark complaining about his assault and hoping that the professor who touched his camera is fired than any actual concern about race or media. Like “Let’s handle my problem so we can get back to dealing with racism on my campus”.
I walked. I couldn’t deal with any more white cis nonsense. I was fresh out of fucks.
Thankfully, I had friends who stayed and we compared notes over drinks. Angry, emotional drinks. The Q&A was more of a press event with this person trying to get sympathy for his issue. Thankfully, Diane from Kansas City Freethinkers got up at the supposed end and started the questions from the audience. Who then proceeded to put his feet to the fucking fire, explain the issues between white media and black experience, having him talk to black journalists. Dude had interviews from Fox News and Brietbart. The short video he put up has been shown on Stormfront. And it was like he didn’t give a shit.
Then he started getting all mixed up. “Everyone is a little bit racist” but “Fuck racists” and “Racists suck”. When called on it, he proceeded to lose the script. And there had to be a script at the beginning of this ‘dialogue’.
Now, watch the video. No one but his PR person Danielle (who promptly quit after this hot mess) mentioned Mark and ‘racist’.
Mark outright said that until this professor is fired, that was when the focus would return to Concerned Student 1950’s concerns. Holy fucking shit. His concern is more about this professor and his ‘rights’. Period.
Afterwards, shit just blew right up. Mark filmed and put up a video, upset and crying about being cast as a racist, said he was autistic and had social anxiety and Danielle told him to say stuff. He called it Journalists Lives Matter, subtitled “Fuck Skepticon”.
Then Twitter grabbed it and suddenly Skepticon was terrible and made an autistic boy cry and they hated autism and blah, blah, blah.
Firstly, this isn’t a boy. This is a grown man. A grown man claiming to be a journalist (though not a journalism student). Last time I checked, autism doesn’t turn someone into a boundary pushing asshole, and it’s shitty to claim otherwise. Mark isn’t a fucking victim. If he cared about racism, why the fuck was he on Fox News? Why was he talking to Breitbart? Didn’t he know how they were going to spin this?
And assault? Please. This guy received an direct apology from the professor who touched his camera, but it wasn’t good enough for him. He wants her fired. Please. There are black protesters who get tear gassed and shot with rubber bullets for expressing their right to be in public spaces. Get out of here with this assault bullshit.
Now, there were new people on the #skepticon hashtag trying to defend the convention and/or teach a thing or two about white media privilege who didn’t realize something very important:
There are some usual suspects who follow certain members of the skeptical movement from convention to convention, hashtag to hashtag, throwing poop and making shitty claims though they themselves aren’t even at the conventions.
Any time PZ Myers, Greta Christina, Stephanie Zvan, pretty much anyone from the Freethought Blogs network attends a convention, time for them to act like jackasses.
“Oh, look at all the empty seats!”
“Oh, something slightly inconvenient happened, it’s the end of this convention!”
“Blah, blah, SJW blah blah”
“Vague gross sexual references!”
And it goes on and on. There’s no point in trying to argue with them, folks. They have nothing new or important to say and should probably just be blocked.
They don’t care about Mark.
They don’t care about autism.
They don’t care about racism or diversity.
They don’t care about anything else than slandering people they don’t like and conventions that give more than lip service to making the skeptical movement more diverse and more interesting.
You want to know about tears? I’ll tell you about tears.
When I walked out of that talk, I fought my own tears. Tears of frustration that this fucker just wasn’t getting it. Tears of anger that this was allowed.
I wanted food and a drink to distract me and ended up at the bar. One frozen grapefruit margarita and a calamari plate later, and I could feel human again and not like I was going to bawl in the middle of the hotel restaurant.
Then I was joined by my friends, Greta, Ingrid, Jason, Stephanie, Benny, Chelsea. And was filled in on the rest of what happened AND the staff reaction.
The staff was horrified. What was sold to them was NOT what was delivered. There was panic. There was concern. Should they let the “Q&A” keep going? Should they stop it?
And then, action. They would release the entire video, audience questions included. And then there was an apology posted (Full disclosure: I was asked to review this apology before it was released). They took responsibly for this shitshow even if they were deceived as to the content.
And that is when I gained respect for this convention, and I didn’t feel like crying anymore.
Good show, Skepticon. I hope to see y’all next year.
For those new to Feminace and all of the weirdness therein, I posted a thing last year about racist Halloween costumes and how I wasn’t going to break it down how dressing as another culture is fucked up unless a motherfucker was willing to pay up.
You can find that here, and oh, by the way, my rates have gone up by $100. You know, inflation and broke bitch be broke. Fuck you, pay me.
Apparently, we have to add another type of costume to not do to the fucking list:
DON’T FUCKING DO THIS.
Do we even have to explain why?
Apparently, according to the replies on the Facebook page where this pic is featured WE FUCKING DO.
“Wah, PC is gonna ruin Halloween!”
“You’re offended, no one cares!”
“Don’t be whiny, it’s just one night!!!!”
You’re right, jackasses on Facebook, it’s one fucking night. One night that you can possibly NOT be an asshole. One night you could not make someone who CAN’T take of the ‘costume’ uneasy. One night you can try some, I dunno, creativity in a fucking costume.
We who give a shit aren’t a problem, you are. You, with all the imagination of a fucking dead goldfish, who can’t bother to think beyond “hee hee, dis ill be funneh”, are the problem. You and your lack of empathy. You and you lazy, sorry, basic asses.
I could post links that could show you why this costume isn’t okay. I could post links about disowned, disenfranchised, discriminated, and dead trans women. But you don’t care. You just want your lazy yuks, you pieces of shit.
And the fact that Caitlyn Jenner ‘doesn’t mind’ this take on her coming out outfit doesn’t fucking matter. She’s not the only trans woman in the world, so don’t even try that excuse.
If you can’t put together two brain cells together to create a fucking costume for your “one night”, you can go buy something else. Halloween Superstore has thousands of different costumes. You could be anything else that won’t shit on a marginalized group of people that YOU. ARE. NOT.
But you don’t fucking care. So fuck you.
I hope someone throws a red solo cup of trash can punch on your fucking “Call Me Cait” white nightie. I hope someone snatches your “Indian headdress” and throws it in the trash. I hope you’re thrown out of the party when you show up in black/brown/yellow/redface and treated like a pariah. I hope the people around you are better than you and treat you like the unfunny piece of shit. I hope pictures of you show up all over the Internet, your boss (current or future) finds it, and fires (never hires) your ass.
Because when you replace “being PC” with “being respectful”, you look like a jerk.
Blogmaster’s Note: This’ll be a long one, but worth it. Also, if you come up with some some anti-choice argument BS, have your shit recent and accurate, or you WILL be shown the door.
Wow, when this piece of dreck popped up in a private FB group for escorts, it was universally panned. I don’t tend to link to the sentient bullshit machine that is LifeSiteNews, but for this opportunity, I made an exception. So I clicked and read this oh so special letter to us Clinic Escorts.
And the moment the page load, I’m assaulted by an autoplay pledge plea (I know I have Flashblock, so what the fuck?) of two twin douchebags who I’d never heard of, one of which introduces them as “I’m David Benham and this is my twin sister Jason.”
Mmm-mmm, that’s some tasty transphobic humor right there.
Anyway, they apparently lost some house-flipping show on HGTV because they opened their yaps and let the anti-gay, anti-choice out. Insert commentary about how free speech is actually supposed to work here.
Well, I was in a mood after pausing that crap video, so let’s get to the actual letter, shall we?
Dear Clinic Escort,
Today I saw you, with your bright orange vest emblazoned with ESCORT on the front and back. You refused to make eye contact with me.
Actually our vests (provided by the awesome folks at The Clinic Vest project) are eye melting yellow, but okay. And as for ‘eye contact’? We become masters at the Thousand Yard Stare to ignore you and your repetitive and WRONG nonsense. We’re escorts, not counterprotesters. You’re not owed an audience just because you think you have something important to say. Not from strangers, not from patients, and certainly not from escorts. Deal.
I saw your gritty determination as you grabbed arms with that young woman and whispered in her ear, “Ignore them,” you said, “Don’t look at them, they are here to intimidate you, to scare you. I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry.” You walked quickly, head up, steel in your eyes, never letting up your grip on her arm. Her head was down, following your lead, mutely keeping up with your fast trot to the abortionist.
We walk with patients who are terrified and angry at the horde of people who can’t take “no” for an answer, who surround cars and try to shove their crap into the windows. Congrats, you have accurately described our job (though we do tend to not touch the patients unless asked where I am because we believe in strange concepts like “respecting a person’s space”). Pity that will probably be the last accurate thing you will say in this entire ‘letter’.
You ushered her in through the doors and soon emerged, alone, smiling at us triumphantly, a glimmer of malice in your eye, a smirk of arrogance and joy at having bested us – another woman you saved from the anti-choice fanatics. You rejoin the other escorts, laughing and joking, until the next car pulls up, and your face resumes the mask of the militant soldier, ready to do battle for women’s reproductive rights.
Malice. Militant soldiers. “Another woman saved…”
Oh god. Hold up, I gotta stop laughing for a minute. Making up your own interpretation of shit is something anti-choicers are really good at, I’ve noticed. “Pro-life fanfiction”, I’ve heard it called. That’s not malice, it’s pride at helping patients enter with some dignity. We’re not “militant soldiers”, we’re volunteers done with your shit. They weren’t ‘saved’ from you. They arrived at their appointments on time with as little harassment as possible. You’re turning it into some weird competition where there is none. But hey, whatever it takes to keep up that martyr complex. It’s just what Jesus would have done. Or something.
As I watched you I wondered, have you ever been inside the clinic?
Nope. They never let us inside the clinic. They just hand out the vests and send us to work.
Oh wait, that’s complete bullshit. Of course we’ve been inside the clinic. The inside of the clinic where I escort looks like every other doctor’s office I’ve been in. Clean, professional. Only more purple. No charnel house look here.
Have you ever been in the waiting room, filled with the silence of trepidation and fear? Have you listened to the stifled tears?
A some escorts have either had abortions, or have been a companion to someone who has. We even had a transgendered man volunteer who had one. I know you’re going for this “we don’t know what we do” angle, but we do. We really do.
And trepidation and fear (and yes, tears) are natural reactions to a surgical procedure. I felt that before my extensive dental surgery. I did before my first endoscopy. Some people even feel it before giving birth. It’s natural. Doesn’t make what’s about to happen wrong.
Have you ever been in the counseling room? This place, where instead of asking questions and listening, the worker masks the truth, or outright lies about the third life in the room, the life growing inside the woman’s womb?
I’m not a counselor, and we fill out patient privacy forms , so my answer will have to be no. As for the information given, I think you may be confusing that with a CPC. From what people who have had abortions and actual counselors and doulas have shared (and the documentaries I’ve watched, After Tiller and 12th and Delaware), counselors, you know, counsel. It’s their job to listen. It’s their job to give ALL of the options. And if a patient decides to only have an ultrasound, or changes their mind, it’s okay. No one’s keeping patients trapped until they decide they way ‘we’ want, as CPCs are reported to do. That’s what choice means. Do you get it?
Have you seen her sad and scared eyes?
Yes. Badgering a patient outside of the clinic will do that.
Have you asked her why she is there?
I’m not a counselor, and neither are you. I swear, we get antis, who can’t take ‘no’ and ‘leave me alone’ for an answer, asking this question to complete strangers like they’re owed that answer. This might seem really strange to you, so I’ll put it bold so you get it: It’s none of our business. Not yours, not mine. That is between the patient, the counselor, and the doctor. And maybe, if the patient is a believer, their relationship with a god. Not yours.
That said, I have actually had patients, after we get them inside and away from your shit, volunteer that information. And while you might deem all of these reasons not good enough for you, they are so damned no concern of mine.
I don’t give half a crap why a patient is there. It’s none of my business.
Do you know if she is being pressured or forced into this abortion, if she is safe at home…all the questions she won’t be asked inside the clinic? Does she know about all of the help available to her if she keeps the baby? Does she know how many couples would love to adopt her baby?
You do know that 9th Commandment is YOUR law to follow right? The one about “not bearing false witness”? That’s so much bearing of false witness I’m surprised your back isn’t broken from the strain. Counselors ASK these questions. They provide help if the patients change their mind. I’ve seen the brochures with my own eyes. And even if they change their mind, that’s not a victory for YOU, it’s a victory for the concept of CHOICE.
And seriously, adoption isn’t the opposite of abortion. This may shock you, but some people aren’t interested in continuing a pregnancy they don’t want. Fucking deal.
Yes, I know, I’m using filthy words now. That’s what I do when I’m pissed at disingenuous liars. And it’s only gonna get worse.
My dear Clinic Escort, have you been there for the ultrasound, where you can see the fully formed baby kicking its arms and legs? Have you heard the worker tell her it is just a bunch of cells? A blob? A product of conception?
You’re asking me if I’ve seen ultrasounds before? Why yes. From parents happily expecting, and from people who have decided on abortion. The majority of abortions are performed in the first trimester – too tiny to have those kicking arm and legs. And even if we’re talking second trimester, why does that matter? If someone doesn’t want to continue a pregnancy, they get to not continue a pregnancy.
Have you been with her, holding her hand as she screams in pain, ignored by a doctor who doesn’t even know her name?Have you heard the suction machine, watch as the blood, tissue, and body parts flow from her body into a cold jar? Have you heard the sound of the currette scraping her uterus? Have you seen the body parts – an arm, a leg, a piece of a rib cage, poured into a baggie as though it were scraps of meat?
Christ, are you getting off on this nonsense? While anesthetic affects people differently, they still get it. And yes, thanks to brave people who record and report their own procedures, we get to see how the shit works, sans your overdramatic overdescriptions.
Also, are you sure you’re still talking to us “dear Clinic Escorts”? We don’t go into the procedure rooms during procedures. We don’t go into the counselling rooms during counseling. And if we’re curious, we can ASK. We can research. I did an entire talk as a layman to other laymen about basic abortion procedures. So, yeah, keep on with the drama, you can’t fool me.
Have you sat with her in the recovery room as she stares off into space, desperate to get away from this place so she never has to think of it again?
We’re not doulas or patient advocates, so no. But, since I’ve been trained as an abortion doula, by people who have been doing it for a while, I’m more willing to trust their word on the reactions in the recovery room. Sometimes, there’s tears. Sometimes, there’s vomiting, because anesthesia. Most time, it’s relief.
Don’t believe me? Look up some positive abortion stories. I’m Not Sorry has been running since 2004.
Have you been with her through the depression and the anxiety that plague her after the abortion? The breakup of her relationship? Have you helped her through her drug addiction, her binge drinking? Have you been there when she is unable to bond with her children? When her marriage falls apart? Will you be there when she attempts suicide? Will you be at her funeral when she succeeds?
I…I can’t even with this bullshit, but damnit, I’m gonna try.
Firstly, as someone who struggles with depression and the like, go fuck yourself. It’s people like you who KEEP people with these issues from speaking up, unless they’re willing to join your guilt parade. Yes, some people emotionally react poorly to having an abortion. Most (and you can look that shit up yourself) don’t.
Secondly, go fuck yourself, because if this theoretical woman did all of these things, your sanctimonious ass wouldn’t be at that funeral either.
Thirdly, there are support for people going through issues after an abortion that don’t involve the guilt trip. Backline and Exhale. Look them up, and go fuck yourself.
Fourthly, and most importantly, GO FUCK YOURSELF.
Dear Clinic Escort, look into my eyes.
*flips both birds*
They have seen things you could never imagine. Things that have made me scream in the middle of the night. Things that are never discussed in the intellectualized, feminist world of abortion rights.
Some escorts have had abortions. Some escorts have had abortions. Some escorts have had abortions. Some escorts have had abortions.
Because while you see a job well done when you usher her through those doors, her nightmare is just beginning.
Did I mention the going and fucking yourself? Because you can go do that now.
But before you do, I asked a few fellow escorts to chime in on your bullshit.
WTF is this nonsense? I know our counsellors DO ask those questions. I know our clinic would never ‘encourage’ a women who was unsure to just go ahead and have an abortion. Heck we saved women from boyfriends that were trying to force them to have one. This is horseshit.
I don’t give a rats ass what decision she makes. I don’t have a personal investment if if she stops to talk with you. I don’t get personal satisfaction from people choosing to have an abortion. I am there to let people access health care. I have never grabbed a patient. I have never smirked walking out. I chat with patients. Hell, I sometimes say half my job is keeping the antis from getting punched. Why in the world would you think I *care* how many people have abortions? I don’t care. I just want them to have *access*. It’s not a game where you win or I win.
And yes, I’ve been in the waiting room. I see women who are tired, women who are reading a book, women who are chatting. I have had women tell us that they feel better, I’ve had plenty of women thank me for making the trip to get health care a little less scary for them.
And yes, I’ve gone with a friend when she needed support. For her it was a hard decision. It’s one she has very mixed feelings about, but she’s still sure she made the decision that was right for her. And I stood with her and let her work through that. I didn’t tell her what to do, and I would have supported her whatever she choose.
This isn’t a game where you get saves and I get abortions. My only interest is in those women being able to access healthcare without fear.
One lie that gets me is the, “Ask them to show you the ultrasound. They don’t want you to know the truth,” The clinic will not only show it to you if you ask, they will print a photo for you if you want.
Since I transport many clients home after their procedure, this is not true. All of them say the staff are kind, compassionate and keep asking them if they are in pain. They will stop the procedure if needed to comfort the patient and reapply a local if necessary.
One: some clinic clients are nervous. They’re typically nervous because they’re about to have a medical procedure, which is worth getting tense about. They’re also typically nervous about the protesters out front.
Two: some clients do have sad feelings, for a variety of reasons – the one I’ve encountered most (I’m also doing volunteer transport now, which means lots more talking than escorting does) is that they do want to talk, to have someone in their life know what’s up. “Hey, this is why I’ve seen stressed lately/seemed sick/etc.” And they don’t feel like they can, because they are afraid they will be treated by loved ones the way they are by the protesters. The overwhelming amount of negative emotion surrounding abortion is what they create – which is exactly what they intend.
Finally, just grabbing a client’s arm? I dunno about everybody, but we don’t even walk with clients without asking if they want us to. I have never initiated physical contact with a client, ever. Protesters make plenty of unsolicited and unwanted physical contact with clients, companions, and escorts, though. Guess they’re projecting?
Thanks guys, you rock!