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"October Baby" and Shame in the Abortion Conversation

A friend from work recently posted on our internal forums about the new movie, “October Baby”.

The movie is about a girl who has significant health problems that point back to her difficult birth. She finds out that she was adopted after a botched abortion and takes a road trip to get answers from her birth mother.

My first thought was “Great, another self-congratulatory Christian movie trying to be hip and relevant!” Once I got past my mental tirade, I read the rest of the email that said “If you want to be moved, watch the third trailer under the main movie window”.

In that third trailer you find out that the birth mother, played by Jennifer Price, has a story that somewhat mirrors the movie. Jennifer had an abortion in her twenties, and when the directors approached her to be in the movie, she said, “How did you know?” They had written her story without even knowing it.

I actually would recommend watching the video because if you listen to her you can sense her pain and you know it’s not a contrived sob story; it’s real. She says an important phrase in the video that turned the entire pro-life/pro-choice conversation on its head for me:

“It was easier to get rid of the child … To not be questioned again … Than to have the child and be looked at as another failure. […] So many times, especially as young women, we carry that burden that we’re going to look like a failure, that it’s shameful.”

She makes a very important point that a lot of people have failed to see in The Church’s pro-life/pro-choice conversation: you are shamed if have an abortion and you are shamed if you have a child out of wedlock. Either way, you’re screwed!

When I was in youth group during high school, a girl in a grade ahead of me, Charlie, got pregnant. She was immediately ostracized and sent away to live with an aunt. She came back briefly before she gave birth to the child, but things were never the same. She was only at church a few more months before she left and dropped off the radar.

In the eyes of the church, Charlie did the right thing. In the eyes of the church, she chose to go through with the pregnancy. And yet, when my mom floated the idea of hosting a baby shower for her, they refused because they didn’t want to condone her actions.

Let me say that again: the church refused to hold a baby shower for her because they didn’t want to condone her actions.

Even after her mistake, even after she chose to bear the consequences and did what the church advocates as the right thing, she was still hung out to dry. It didn’t matter that she did the right thing because she had still sinned in their eyes. Even though she “dealt with the consequences of her actions that will affect the rest of her life” (as my youth leaders would say), there was no coming back into the good graces of the church. They made that clear in no uncertain terms.

After an incident like this, how could they expect anyone to listen to them when it came to the pro-life/pro-choice conversation? Did they really expect anyone to believe that they genuinely cared more about the life that was spared than they cared about maintaining their image of purity and patronizing her in the name of a god?

In an interview with Bill Simmons, comedian Louie CK spoke about how as a parent, “you want [your kids] to be able to call you when there is a dead body and a bloody knife. You want them to be able to call you and not be afraid of you. They say ‘Dad,’ and you say ‘Tell me where you are, I’ll come pick you up.’”

While this is an extreme example, something about that statement resonated with me about how the Church should be towards the community.

When I travelled to Nashville in September, I met an incredible woman named Kathy Escobar. One thing she is very passionate about is creating safe spaces. On her blog she says:

“I don’t think the church is aware of how much hurt it has inflicted. The wheels keep spinning. Self-preservation continues to be top priority. [...] Almost every day I hear new stories of people who have lost what they most held dear and now don’t know where to turn.”

Several years ago I was in a good friend’s car in the middle of December outside the movie theater. We couldn’t decide what to see so we talked for three hours instead. One of the things I still remember about that conversation was how yelling at people and shaming them into the pro-life conversation isn’t fixing the problem because it’s only putting on a band-aid and ignoring the deeper root.

If you truly believe in what you are saying when you go to Planned Parenthood protests, we as The Church have to take the shame and guilt complex out of this issue. You want women to come to your community and discuss a way other than abortion? Stop treating these babies like scarlet letters.

We have to build the kind of community that Louie CK talked about where when people are in their lowest, scariest moments, they know they can come to you. They need to know that when they come to you that you will be there for them and won’t make them feel any worse than they already do.

We need to be the kind of community that offers a true, human salvation in a tangible way. We have to be the kind of community who models this in a way where that woman can look at her child down the road and say “You are here because of them. I was so scared, I was so alone, and they saved me. They saved you. I don’t know if I could have made it without them.”

We can be the kind of community that stands outside of abortion clinics and yells at the women and doctors going in, or we can be the kind of community that offers a listening ear, holds baby clothing and supply drives, throws baby showers, and gives support during the busy infant/toddler years for these vulnerable women.

Kathy says, “Love in public looks like sacrifice. It looks like restoring dignity where it’s been lost. It looks like humility and gentleness. It looks like unity instead of homogeneity. It looks like caring when no one else cares.”

We can kill them with our happy, self-righteous church smarts, or we can redeem them by bringing back their humanity. We can be the lipstick in the concentration camp, and the birthday cake for the prostitute. We can be the kind of community that shames women after finding out their dark secrets, or we can acknowledge that they are in pain and be the people in their lives that say “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s going to be okay. Come here, you need a hug.” And leave it at that.

We need to stop focusing on the mistakes and move forward by celebrating the new life that is growing and is about to be brought into the world.

Quit (not so) secretly thinking “OMG, a teenager had the S-word with a boy” and start thinking “This child was spared and will be a great person, and I have the incredible opportunity to be involved in their life and their mother’s life.”

And you know what? Even if the life isn’t spared, we need to be doing the same thing for those women as well. Provide grief counselors, offer support groups without condition (no mini “aren’t abortions bad” sermons at the end), have women in the church who have gone through it so they have someone to talk to who has been through it, invite them to other activities in your life so they might belong someplace.

Once you’ve shown another human that you actually care about them more than trying to add a gold star to your heavenly chart by telling them how bad they are, only then will they listen to you.

Stop caring solely for the sake of conversions and start caring because they are human beings. Take the wind out of the shame that has crippled this conversation for so long and give it new wings of redemption and restored humanity.

Photo credit: Flickr / karine*imagine

 

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How a Shakespeare Play Saved Me

Back in late 2005 one of my best friends, Kate, directed Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in which I played Helena. I had acted with Kate and the others before, but something about this play was different. Midsummers came into my life right when other sections of my life were falling apart. A death and disaster caused my family life to be thrown into chaos and me to be uprooted and ostracized from almost my entire social group. One of my rediscovered friends who was soon to become a boyfriend was moving very far away. All of the other realms of my life were experiencing earthquakes and sadness.

But in the midst of all that turmoil was this play at this little church. Our rehearsals were held at a small, white church with a steeple not far from my house. When I walked through the metal door in the afternoons for play practice, all of my problems melted away because I was with a group of people who were completely detached from the rest of my life. They were not entrenched in grieving or part of the group I was in process of being alienated from. As theater nerds are wont to be, this new group of friends contained some of the oddest but the most creative people I’ve ever met.

There’s a warmth and elation that comes with working hard on a creative project with people like that for long periods of time. I entered the world of fairies, kings, queens, the mischievous Puck, and people that cared enough to offer arms to fall back into when I needed them. Midsummers became a sanctuary for me.

During our weeks of rehearsing I laughed so hard I cried at my fellow actors. The twelve-year-old boy who played Nick Bottom was shy about saying his lines with swagger, so in order to get him to add some attitude to his scenes, Kate told him to say “And I’m awesome,” after every line. So after this tiny boy said “[the ballad] will be called ‘Bottom’s Dream,’ because it hath no Bottom. And I’m awesome,” we were sent into fits of giggles at how adorable and brilliant it was.

The first day we performed it was bright, but slightly overcast outside. The windows in the chapel where we performed were glowing with frost. Our dress rehearsals had gone well and I was feeling radiant in the long, light purple dress with a perfect V neckline I was wearing on stage.

I remember being holed up in the kitchen before the first show. The anticipation was palpable. The day of the first performance, the guy playing Demetrius came down with the flu. So, being the only available understudy, Kate jumped in and filled the role. She wore her jeans and a slightly fluffy red shirt as a last minute costume and she played a smashing Demetrius. As the show went on, each performance made us all happier. Our lines came out smoother, our entrances got better, and by the end were all shining in the height of comfort onstage.

There is a play within the play, so my character and the other three main characters come out and sit on the front of the stage and “watch” near the end of the show. Casts tend to gel and get funnier just like good sitcoms the more often they are shown, so by the time our third performance rolled around, I, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius/Kate were nearly falling over laughing at how well the younger actors and Nick Bottom were doing.

After the play was over and we took down the sets, I felt what I can only explain as euphoria. The show had gone so well, I was feeling so grateful for my incredible friends, and I was smitten from on-stage romance that later turned into a real (though short-lived) one. The head fairy and the girl playing Thisbe went crazy with the lipstick and within minutes everyone’s faces were covered in bright pink lip prints.

Still glowing from our post-production adrenaline we took the customary trip to Big Boy’s and filled up a set of tables and stayed long into the evening. And in the moment of my “I’m powerful and sexy and I’m an actress!” boldness, I smushed chocolate ice cream onto the face of a boy who had been bothering me. (Who knew “smushed” isn’t actually a word?)

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream” connected me with people I would have never met otherwise. And they were weird, but those weird people loved me!

This is how a Shakespeare play saved me and what theater has always been for me: people loving me for exactly whatever I am, loving me for and encouraging me to express myself when I am feeling most alone.

Photo credit: Flickr / sarniebill1

 

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Like Mother Like Daughter

I didn’t used to be very much like my mother. We could look at a rack of clothing and the things I didn’t like, she did, and the things I liked, she didn’t. She prefers bright colors and patterns and my favorite color is grey. She verbally works things out and I work everything out before a word leaves my mouth out.

It wasn’t until I was in line at Culver’s emphasizing to the cashier that my milkshake had to be made with chocolate ice cream and milk instead of the usual vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup—something my mom regularly does–that I realized what I had in common with her. I started preferring my kitchen appliances be bright colors and I have a thing for argyle. And believe it or not, over the last couple of years we’ve walked through stores and I’ve said “Oo, I like that!” and she has agreed with me.

The one thing that I picked up from her is her resourcefulness. For the last ten years my mom has been a resource for home schoolers. Whether it was people calling her from Alaska about the education temperature in Michigan, her lending from her extensive curriculum collection, to parents in our area calling about how to better communicate with their kids of various personalities, she was the one to call. The moment a problem is brought to her attention her mind moves into problem-solving mode and she’ll immediately suggest solutions providing different levels of complexity. To this day, if there’s a situation I don’t know what to do about or if I have a surmounting question I can’t get over, I know she’s the one to call.

This ability really surfaced in my life around my wedding. I had a tiny budget and a big party to plan.  All through my wedding planning I found ways to decrease prices while still maintaining a beautiful day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Boutonnieres too expensive? No problem, I’ll buy decorative feathers on Etsy and use those instead. Evil David’s doesn’t have any dresses that are yelling my name for bridesmaids? Easy, I’ll just shop at Group USA and find gorgeous dresses for a little over $100. Getting overwhelmed with trying to choose what weird, stiff wedding shoes would plague my feet? Not to worry, there are silky, stretchy, beautiful shoes that matched my dress for only $20 at Payless. Are the churches either too expensive, not pretty enough, or unavailable? It’s cool, I found an adorable maritime museum that had a ceremony room with giant floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Detroit River for a perfect price.

Because of my mother, I’ve never been afraid to step outside the box and seek alternatives that can solve my problems just as well as the conventional items can. Sometimes the problems get worse because they are confined within the lines. If you can reframe the issue there is often a solution that is easier and will address your problem better; you just have to allow yourself to see it.

I am so grateful for my mom because by exercising her resourcefulness in her own life, she gave me the tools I needed to navigate and solve problems in my own life with creativity and power. Even if I only get a slice of the resourcefulness and creativity she has, I think I’ll do alright.

 

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You Have Unlocked the "Adulthood" Level

For #ReverbBroads11: What is the best and worst thing about your life right now?

Since Kaitlin is keeping me from having a boring post about how my husband is the best part about my life and how wranglin’ friends’ schedules and bills are the worst, I now have to find something else to talk about.

So, without further ado, the best and worst things about my life are two different sides of the same animal.

The best thing is that I feel like I’ve spent most of my life trying to get to this point. At twelve I wasn’t quite a teenager. At fourteen I was out of the tween years but wasn’t Sweet Sixteen yet. At sixteen I hadn’t hit eighteen yet, which meant I still wasn’t an adult. At eighteen, I still had that blasted “1” in front of my age. I was an adult, but not really.

Now that I’m past twenty-one, I feel like I’m finally out of the waiting game. I can finally settle in and stop trying to accelerate ageing. The only thing I’m waiting for now is for that big insurance drop in my mid-twenties and being able to rent cars. Other than that, there aren’t really any gates left. From here on out the numbers won’t really matter anymore because it’s all about the milestones.

I’m here, so now what? I am starting to understand the momentum and weight of being a human. Over the last couple of years I’ve accomplished hard things and have successfully navigated them. I have not arrived, but I definitely don’t feel like a child anymore. I have my own life, my own apartment, a husband, a dog, a full-time job.

All of those things come with new responsibilities. I can’t spend every evening at Caribou hanging out with friends working on algebra problems over Campfire Mochas. Why? I don’t have that many free nights anymore. I know algebra, the Caribou is gone, and I’ve switched to lattes (and cappuccinos for very serious days). My life is visibly shifting before my eyes.

The downside to this is that I can see people around me who have achieved great things but I have little concept of how they got there. I can see where they are, I can see where I’ve been, but the middle is still a mystery. Despite feeling kind of “grown up” some days, I still don’t have things figured out.

The thing that really gets me is those days that I feel like I’m in a constant lurch from being thrown around by circumstances that befall me. It makes me nervous and I worry that I’ll be forever haphazardly stumbling through life. I worry that I might get stuck on a level, forever doomed to remain young and inexperienced.

However, on those days, I’ve found the best way to get through them is to remember that I can do hard things. I’ve pushed through worse situations and that I’m very capable to handle them. I just need to keep pressing on. My life is not over. It’s not a race. I will (most likely) be alive next year. I just have to breathe, take care of whatever is within my control and keep going. (And it’s nice to have people in my life to help me remember that.)

Photo credit: Flickr / cogdog

 

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Why I Write

This is a repost from February of 2010.

This is for clarification. This is why I do what I do. More specifically: this is why I write what I write.

I began pouring myself into writing just a few months before my grandfather (at peace, faithfully departed) passed away, and it was the day that happened that I discovered notebooks to be fearless and loyal friends. They never balked at what I was feeling or the questions I had. They wandered open-eyed through my daydreams and little stories I made up when I wasn’t paying attention in class. The took my confusion without question and ate up my fear. This is where I learned to do what I do.

This is how I handle things still today, except I have an online venue and I have a few friends with the same writing style who hear me and appreciate how I say what I say. Even though they are few, I actually feel like I’m not alone and talking to a wall. Because with notebooks, while they are not deaf, they are mute.

Most of my emotions are poured out here. While yes, this is processing it publicly, this is also my way of trying to express myself and say things for everyone to see instead of keeping it to myself. I put things here that I don’t know how to talk about.

I mean, how do I say “Well, I was actually really confused when you told me you were getting married to the girl you talked weekly about breaking up with. And maybe you thought what we had was different than it was–or actually I was probably the one who was confused. Either way the wires were crossed and I was completely blind to you when everything was right in front of me!” Or how do I say “You were one of the most poignant individuals I’ve ever had the privilege of speaking with, and I honestly think you’re dead because you dropped off the face of the earth around St. Patrick’s Day and I can’t find you.” Or how do I say “You are sending me completely contradictory messages, and you mean the most to me anyone ever could, but you’ve made me miserable and all I want for you right now is to hear my pain.”

I can say all these things with precision now, but while they were all happening I didn’t know what to do with myself. All I had were these very real emotions, and I wasn’t sure why I was having them or where they stemmed from. It took time, understanding, and just letting myself just feel what I was feeling before I could even begin to see what was bothering me. This is my way of talking it out with myself, processing it, and saying “Really? So that wonderful note you left on my car in the rain turns out to be for nothing? I mean, I wouldn’t change things because I’m happy, but I quite honestly have no idea what’s happening.”

I funnel my happiness into other places than my writing. So, my notebook, or blog, is the receiving end of everything else. While they all might be perceived as “bad” because they are emotions other than happiness, it doesn’t mean I’m depressed or scared, or anything else. It just means I’m dealing with it. In fact, if it shows up here, it means I’ll probably be alright because I’ve released it. I’ve pulled the pain, or confusion, or stories from inside my ribcage and sculpted a bird with it, and let it fly. This is letting my heart be instead of fighting like I have for most of my life. This is me loving myself for feeling everything and anything I feel.

So, this isn’t depression. This isn’t self-doubt. You need to know to read between the lines, to hear the mood of the message and not the actual words. These are my emotion pictures. These are photographs of my soul. This is the pure, emotional, white hot center of me talking. This is the poetry that spills from a mind awake. This is me being frank and honest with myself. (“Can I be frank?” “Certainly. Hi Frank, I’m Deanna.”)

I don’t want worry, I don’t want pity, I don’t want to hurt a flea, or anyone. All I want is clarity, the expression of self, to send the letters I wrote but never sent, and for someone to see me. I write this to find myself, to find understanding of my own soul, and for the few people that think like me.

This is my soul out loud. Tread carefully, for this paper dove is alive and fragile.

Photo credit: Flickr / shelaya