Every morning we take my daughter to school outside our neighbourhood. Our neighbourhood and its schools are too white, too midle-class, too snotty, the neighbourhood schools potential meat grinders for a fragile, African descended child's consciousness, spirit and self esteem, for us to consider taking her to a school where teachers and students alike will understand her to be fair game at close range.For most of the fall and early winter, we went to a school downtown. We taxi'd on the mornings we were too late to make it ontime. On our way we'd pass by a wimmin's center where abortions are done onsite. On one side there were wimmin entering with escorts. On the other side were people with awful, ignorant, traumatizing signs designed to make the clients doubt their choices.So, my daughter, my partner, me and the mostly male, brown or black drivers would drive by, usually stopping to wait for the light to change. Every morning I felt rage build and rise in my throat like vomit. I would carefully roll down the window stick my head out and yell out loudly to the protesters, many of them men standing on the other side of the road. "Shame!" "You don't know. So, you can't say!" "Back off!"One morning they were actually video taping the wimmin as they entered. My very rude yelling rending the fabric of suppressed, polite, white, urban Canada/Toronto, forced them to turn of the camera...at least for a moment.My daughter asked me one morning about what I was doing. She already knows about pregnancy, birth, uteruses, her uterus, dopplers, midwives, umblilical cords, etc, because she had been asking questions and looking at her own birth pictures since she was two and a half...she's now five.She is deeply loved, well cared for, raised in a household where questions and conversation abound...She also has a lot of autonomy and voice. So, it wasn't difficult for her to deal with my raised, Black, female, empowered, passionate voice directed at the people across the street. She wasn't scared, just intellegent, curious and collecting information as she often does.I spoke to her and reminded her about wimmin being the ones who carry babies, about pregnancy and about babies being born and about what a joy it can be.I also reminded her that the world runs by money and commerce and that everybody should have free food, free good schools and free housing...but that she has already seen many homeless people and that it's clear that because people who have a lot, take a lot, buy a lot don't share a lot, not everyone has enough money or food or housing, let alone to raise their families and feed their children...thought there's more than enough for everyone on goddess mother earth.I said that sometimes wimmin know they will not be able to afford a baby. Or maybe there is no one around to help them take care of a baby. Or maybe they're just too young to have a baby. Or maybe someone touched their genitals without their permission and that's why they're having a baby. Or maybe they just don't want to have to take care of a screaming, crying, peeing, pooing baby.
I reminded her that babies are hard work and that you should really only have one if you want to do the work and that even then, it's still hard work.
We talked about our bodies being our own and that if that's the case, who gets to decide things about our bodies. We agreed that WE get to decide.I asked: If we get to decide about our bodies than who gets to decide if or when we have babies. She said wimmin do.I let her know that the people across the street have issues and are seriously challenged, that they're Dursleys who don't believe that wimmin should be able to decide what they can do with their own bodies. She's seen all the Harry Potters with us running a stream of critical dialogue and expanding on all the ideas and imagery of the movies WHILE we watch. "They're Dursleys" is our family code for people who are:
"unimaginative, intolerant, fearful, repressed, bully of people who don't fit in, unquestioning, prone to violence, etc..."
We agreed that this was very bad and hardcore not okay.My daughter understands why I yell at the protesters across the street and why I'm gonna keep on yelling.
Resistance on my mind...
I draw breath and get ready for the next full frontal verbal assault...fool-fool pro-lifers beware...
Happy belated blog for choice day.
1968: birthed in a short hospital labour. I am 39 years old and counting...Such a "blessing" to have been born into the world to see such incredibly fucked sights and sounds...http://www.bushflash.com/thanks.htmlIf I sound particularly bitter and pissed...more so than usual...I just came from a really solid counselling session.
