A thousand words worth

Memories of the Dairy Queen

 The news didn't 'break' as much as it 'seeped'

into the community where I grew up; 

but the minute it did, I knew right away where it was.

 

We all knew because it was immediately adjacent to our subdivision;

as kids, we had walked there hundreds of time;

it was within the parameter of the 'safe area' we were allowed to traverse 

without adult supervision.

We turned right at the corner of Dennis's house, 

down the street to our 'old' elementary school,

another right down the side of the brick building to the teachers parking lot

and through the field;

a field covered with wild daises and blue cornflowers in spring,

assorted scratchy yellow stalks, teeming with bees and crickets in the summer

and masses of goldenrod in the fall.

 

All these obstacles we'd gladly navigate for a Dilly Bar -

or, if we had 'babysitting money' or an extra dollar from a grandparents visit,

we'd live it up with a hot fudge sundae.

She had been found outside in the payphone booth

 located at the back left side of the building.

 

She had hemorrhaged to death after trying to induce an abortion

with a knitting needle, 

inserting it over and over into her vagina,

ultimately perforating her uterus and severing blood vessels.

She had been alone in the bathroom during her attempt;

she had been alone when she must have realized how seriously wrong things were

and, in desperation, tried to reach out for help

 in the payphone.

She was served up as a cautionary tale to the girls in our community,

for years,

always in hushed tones and darkened rooms.

There are other tales from high school that I could share;

all of them personalized and none of them unique.

Women my age (mid 70's) all have stories like them.

 

Some of the stories have me as a participant in a protracted family drama;

some with me as a silent witness and companion during long bus rides, 

changing to the subway that would take us to a part of New York 

we never would have ventured into for any other reason. 

We had all moved far away from the innocence of taking our younger siblings 

to the Bronx Zoo for an afternoon of riding a camel and people watching.

 

Having lived through an era in which females were denied the safety 

and autonomy of obtaining appropriate healthcare 

for decisions they felt they needed to make,

I'm frankly aghast that we've gone backwards.

I'm also appalled that the emphasis and focus is still on WOMENS bodies;

that the responsibility for addressing an unwanted pregnancy is still HERS alone

with no corresponding consequences or responsibility 

for the male that impregnated her

and that adequate reproductive healthcare is still being denied to women, 

primarily by men with inadequate understanding of women's anatomy 

and no standing at all upon which to base 

inserting themselves into the most intimate of decisions and conversations.

 

If you don't have a uterus, shut up and sit the fuck down!

Insert deep cleansing breath here.

As I've said before, I don't have a uterus anymore either ...

but I had one, 

so I'm grand-mothering my way back into the issue. 

I've witnessed too much to let any female go through this alone again.

We HAVE to have each others backs.

Anxiety and art

Anyone else deal with existential dread by making things?

 With all manner of court cases, their outcomes and repercussions hanging in the ether,

I've decided to lose myself in playing - 

with paper, paint and scissors -

oh, and I've added sculpty clay to my repertoire.

Nothing, on any front which will bring collectors flocking to my door -

but that's not why we engage in an art practice, right? 

Using the side of your brain NOT engaged in analytical thought

AND getting so lost in the process that you forget about the issues of the day

is reward enough.

 

The great thing about hearts is they're simple ...

and festive and pretty hard to screw up!

For me, while getting the sculpt right is hard enough,

it's the painting that can ruin the experience.

My arthritic hands and unsteady brushes 

are just NOT good for the quality or look I'd love to have.

That's why you practice, practice, practice...

like scales on the piano.

OR you move on to something easier, like cutting, gluing, pasting and painting

before coming back and trying again!

 

I'm in love with Sweet Pea!

 

The other alternative to running around with your hair on fire is to get off your ass

and DO something.

 

There was a recent launch event to get enough signatures on a petition 

which would allow a constitutional amendment to be placed on the state ballot in November,

essentially returning reproductive freedoms to women, 

in consultation with their physicians -

and away from the misogynistic legislators in Jeff City.

 

The turnout was fabulous, the speakers inspiring and, I have to say,

it was the most hopeful I've been in a long time.

I know it might seem crazy that this is such an important issue for me...

after all, I haven't had a uterus for 25 years!

But I refuse to pass on a world to my granddaughter 

in which she would have fewer rights than I had. 

The queen deserves better than that!
 

I never needed to have an abortion; 

but I DID have to have D&C's after 3 miscarriages;

procedures I might not have been able to obtain in the current climate 

of legislators deciding they know more about female anatomy and reproductive medicine

than the professionals and women in whom those uteruses are housed!

I'm going to a training next week - 

and will then be making the rounds to every event I can, 

clipboard, pen and sign up sheet in hand.

Gonna get this done!

Next week is also the start of Lent!!

Do you believe it?

You know what that means, right?

The models have arrived!