Mother not informed that her daughter left school for an abortion

[Mejane]

Actually, no... the mother in a television interview said she was pro-choice.

 

Really? That puts a different spin on the story then.

[lionfamily1999]

probably has to do with what teens are known for doing with said tp and eggs in October:glare:

Or homecoming (as someone else mentioned).

[Guest .petra.]

Everyone proselytizes something. It is not fair or accurate to imply that people who are pro-life are just very naive and unrealistic. And to stop waxing poetic might be the most fearful idea of all. After all, your post was wildly poetic, and poetry holds deep truths. I am glad you shared it to remind us of the complexities of this issue. Hopefully you can see that reminders from the other side should be equally welcome.

 

waxing poetics...

 

 

They wanted her to be ‘independent’ they said. They said she could make her own ‘decisions’ they said. They said they would ‘help’ they said.

 

And they said and said said said.

 

And she stood there, watching the things they said filling the air in the room. The things they said, she watched them, fluttering.

 

They had said, if she didn’t want to tell her parents, it was okay. They would help her. They would not make her feel guilty. They would not try to tell her it was right or wrong. They would not hurt her like that.

 

She smiled. She took their help. She left the room.

 

But all the things they didn’t say, she had to do them still.

 

They never said she couldn’t tell her parents. Not now not ever. They never said she would have to carry the weight. They never told her she would have to carry it forever. What would be easier? To carry the shame and the red letter for nine months- or to carry the silence forever? They never said that the absence of an eight-pound infant would weigh more than the infant itself. They never said that words could damage, but they could also heal, when silence would only destroy whatever semblance of a relationship she still had with her mother. They never said that holding her silence would mean never getting that back. Or never making it real.

 

And when she came back to the room, full of the things they had said, she cried. She grabbed at those things, desperately. Her fingers, nails cracked and bitten till they bled and cuticle peeling, closed around one of those elusive things that had been said. Like snatching at butterflies, she held her captive close to her chest, feeling it flutter in her fingers. When she opened them, in hopes of catching a glimpse of what had been said, it was empty. And yet, all around her she could feel substance. How was it possible that the substance existed somewhere other than the things that had been said? How was it that the weight in the air of the room lay in all those things, which had not been said. Those things, which could never be said...

Edited April 2, 2010 by .petra.
quote

[asta]

waxing poetics...

 

 

They wanted her to be ‘independent’ they said. They said she could make her own ‘decisions’ they said. They said they would ‘help’ they said.

 

And they said and said said said.

 

And she stood there, watching the things they said filling the air in the room. The things they said, she watched them, fluttering.

 

They had said, if she didn’t want to tell her parents, it was okay. They would help her. They would not make her feel guilty. They would not try to tell her it was right or wrong. They would not hurt her like that.

 

She smiled. She took their help. She left the room.

 

But all the things they didn’t say, she had to do them still.

 

They never said she couldn’t tell her parents. Not now not ever. They never said she would have to carry the weight. They never told her she would have to carry it forever. What would be easier? To carry the shame and the red letter for nine months- or to carry the silence forever? They never said that the absence of an eight-pound infant would weigh more than the infant itself. They never said that words could damage, but they could also heal, when silence would only destroy whatever semblance of a relationship she still had with her mother. They never said that holding her silence would mean never getting that back. Or never making it real.

 

And when she came back to the room, full of the things they had said, she cried. She grabbed at those things, desperately. Her fingers, nails cracked and bitten till they bled and cuticle peeling, closed around one of those elusive things that had been said. Like snatching at butterflies, she held her captive close to her chest, feeling it flutter in her fingers. When she opened them, in hopes of catching a glimpse of what had been said, it was empty. And yet, all around her she could feel substance. How was it possible that the substance existed somewhere other than the things that had been said? How was it that the weight in the air of the room lay in all those things, which had not been said. Those things, which could never be said...

 

petra. on good friday. in rome. I grieve.

 

may you find your peace.

 

 

a

[Guest .petra.]

She didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t as if she was a silly teenage girl who just forgot to buy a condom. It wasn’t that simple. Then again, that must be what those girls always said. Maybe it was always simple until it was you. We never see ourselves as simple.

 

She couldn’t go home to him and announce number four would arrive in a short nine months. She couldn’t bear to tell him that. They couldn’t do it. And he’d tell her so. And they would yell and she would scream and he would knock his dinner to the floor. The only surviving china plate of her grandmother’s wouldn’t survive that announcement. She would scoop up the remains, gingerly, slicing open her finger on a sharp china point. Watching the blood run down her finger would only be the opening act.

 

She couldn’t tell him. Sitting in that room, she knew by the tingle of the scars on her ribcage that she could not tell him. She had to go home and tell him number two had hit a home run in little league. That was safe. That wasn’t money- wasn’t in-laws- wasn’t work- wasn’t the economy- wasn’t bills- wasn’t telemarketers- wasn’t the school- wasn’t the report card- wasn’t the broken car- wasn’t the leaky roof- it was just a wasn’t.

 

She didn’t know what else to do. She was a thirty-three year old, married woman, who happened to be the one percent chance on the back of a pill box she never forgot. That wasn’t simple. It was never simple when it was you. The weight of it was too heavy to carry. She could not have stood any chance of carrying it for a single night at the dinner table, much less nine months.

 

She left the room in tears of relief. She had no other choice. She had done the very thing that campaign was against- that campaign she had voted her. Except now she understood what she hadn’t then. It was so much different when it was you. It wasn’t guilt that filled the empty space above her pelvis. It wasn’t sorrow. It wasn’t self-hatred. It wasn’t a heavy, regret. It was relief- lighter than air. It was freedom that no pledge of allegiance could buy. It was safety and security that no military could provide. It was peace and tranquility in her heart and now ensured in her home.

 

She went home. Number three jumped into her arms and dried her tears of relief.

 

-----*-----

 

petra. on good friday. in rome. I grieve.

 

may you find your peace.

 

 

a

 

asta, I am no victim. I am a writer. These are merely figments of my imagination I have given form to by my choice of words.

 

I have as much or as little peace about such things as I choose to perceive. It is very easy to discuss these things on the safety of the internet sitting behind our computer screens and stable lives, but it is another thing altogether to live through it. There is always more than we can see in a situation. There is always something we don't know. Maybe it would change everything, maybe it would change nothing, but it is there nonetheless. It's all a matter of perspective, or agenda.

 

I don't think that changes whether abortion is right or wrong. It is very certainly one or the other, and perhaps in the occasional situation it may be more or less of one or other.

 

In either circumstance, it's not a federal matter. There are a lot of issues in this story: the school, the clinic, the paperwork, the girl, her mother, their relationship, her age, the boy who is partially responsible, etc. None of these are federal matters. I believe the primary issue with this story is the fact that the government has made it their business at all. Tax payer dollars should not provide this girl an escape from the consequences of her actions (whether those consequences mean having the baby, or simply telling her mother and getting an abortion on her own). If tax payer dollars can provide her an escape from the consequences of sex, then I want tax payer dollars to provide me with an escape from the consequences of underage drinking.

 

If I were to call myself pro-choice, then it would be all about the choice. If people are not responsible to drink alcohol until they are 21 years of age, how on earth can they possibly be responsible enough to be having sex and making life decisions with such a powerful ripple effect at the age of 15 or 16?

 

The abortion aside, the government is contradicting itself here. It's going to backfire someday.

 

I hope I did not stir up matters too much, but I just wanted to be clear that I am not posting on this board for sympathy. I was simply giving voice to the thousands of girls who don't even know they deserve our empathy.

Edited April 6, 2010 by .petra.
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[asta]

I didn't think you were writing about yourself, actually.

 

I was commenting on the juxtaposition of a writer named petra (peter/rock/rome/church) writing about life and death on good friday (pretty much the ultimate life and death day for the western world), while linking to a song titled "I grieve". Which, one must admit, pretty much summed up the entire thread.

 

You write well.

 

 

a