Tag Archives: Choice

Abortion: Everything Old Is New Again

As Roe v Wade is overturned in the US, it’s hard not to ponder what this means for reproductive rights in Canada, and of course, for our fellow humans south of the border.

Cover of The Abortion Monologues, three women and a child standing together
The Abortion Monologues

I have a substantive body of work about abortion and frankly, I always hope I will never have to return to it. I want our rights to bodily autonomy to be secure. They never are. Nothing is. There’s always some patriarch, some autocrat, some fascist, ready to upend democracy and any social progress we have made to assert their will. The will to power. So here we go again.

My play, The Abortion Monologues, is out there and I offer it free of royalty payments to reproductive rights organizations and equity seeking groups who want to produce it. Get in touch. (Seriously, get in touch. We’ll still need to do a contract.) My old blog associated with the play is archival now. But it’s still there, and aside from some language that I would now make more trans inclusive, it’s still pretty spot on. You’ll find a lot of info there.

We’re going to have to step up our work again. That is, I am going to have to step up my work again. I hope you will join me. Without doubt, my next offering to the world, Patterson House, is pro-choice. It’s clear what happens to women who don’t control their bodies or their choices.

There are those in Canada who would send us backwards. We are a long way from Pierre Trudeau saying, ”The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation.” I’m not even sure his son Justin would make such a bold statement. And that new Pierre is a threat to all of us.

Feminism is a theory. Feminism is an ideal. But feminism is also an action. It’s time to take action. As my friend Marnie reminds me, we can’t just hope for the best. Quoting David Orr, she says, ”Hope is a verb with its shirtsleeves rolled up.” So take action. Roll your sleeves up. We need you.

Book Recommendations for Mother’s Day

This morning, I happened upon a tweet by Jael Richardson who expressed that she’s not too keen on what she’s seeing on book recommendations for Mother’s Day. I responded, interested in what she would recommend.

Richardson’s point is that she wouldn’t make a different recommendation to mothers than she would for anyone else. She writes, “My favourite books for ‘mothers’ are my favourite books for people.” Yep, true. She objects to the spring time covers and so on, and is asking people to think about what the marketers think a “Mother’s Day book” is. It’s a good and important point to make.

Cover of (M)Othering, a new anthology edited by Anne Sorbie and Heidi Grogan

Some of the other tweeters on the thread point out that Mother’s Day recommendations can be triggering, and this is so true for people who struggle with infertility or who have lost a child or children or have experienced any of the myriad things that can happen. Anne Sorbie, editor of the upcoming (M)othering Anthology with Inanna in Spring 2022 (with Heidi Grogan) has as inclusive an approach to mothering as I do and says in her tweet, “All people are and do (m)other” to capture that inclusivity. I had recommended her upcoming book in my reply because, well, I’m in it, and I think it’s a logical Mother’s Day book recommendation. I am certain it will be inclusive and wonderful.

The flip side of Richardson’s point is that books about mothers are good for people.

I can’t help thinking that sometimes readers are looking for books that reflect their reality. Sometimes, it is helpful, (and not to be too dramatic) even life-saving, to find someone else who captures something of your experience with their words. A colleague of mine, Diana Gustafson, edited a book called “Unbecoming Mothers: The Social Production of Maternal Absence,” which was groundbreaking and, if it weren’t so darned hard to find now, would be a great Mother’s Day recommendation. It’s about the stigmatization of mothers who come to live apart from their children, for whatever reason. Mothers who give up, surrender, or abandon their children are among the most stigmatized.

What we do to mothers. (Shakes head.)

So, while the recommended books for Mother’s Day may be problematic, it is part of a bigger problem: Mother’s Day itself is problematic. It’s not literally a Hallmark Holiday, but it might as well be. It’s easy to create a situation in which people feel excluded and judged. It becomes the opposite of celebratory. Most problematic of all is the way our culture thinks about mothers, limits them, expects too much of them and offers very little by way of support. Even the notion that mothers are women is, thankfully, being deconstructed as we challenge gender constructs and stereotypes. All of this is welcome.

I also can’t help thinking that marketers are gonna market. Any opportunity to recommend books will be seized. Let’s try and be thoughtful about it.

Rest in Power, Helen Reddy

I was nine years old when “I Am Woman” came out and the people around me mocked it. The song was not celebratory or empowering; it was embarrassing. My parents turned it off when it came on the radio. People said mean things about Helen Reddy and attacked her appearance.

This is what I remember. So, being nine, I learned the lesson. Don’t roar. You are not strong. Better not to be noticed than to be mocked. Fade into the background. And I did. For a long time.

The fact that I ended up a feminist, a teacher of women’s studies and an abortion rights advocate on the local and sometimes national stage for twenty five years is an absolute wonder to me when I think about the way I was raised. And when I think about my resistance to Helen Reddy. Sure, it was always a cheesy song. But these kinds of anthems often are. I was probably in my 30s or 40s the first time I actually sang along to it at a rally. Somehow, I knew all the words. They had made their way into me. They were always there.

What does this teach me? First of all, the power of bullying and mockery is intense. There’s a reason why people do it. There are a lot of kids growing up in Tr*mp’s era (and the years leading up to it that enabled this kind of shitshow) who have been silenced. They have had their natural inclination toward fairness and justice squelched. Those poor kids.

It might take them decades to find their way back, and the only way they will is if they find examples, over and over and over, to counter the baloney they are being fed. Be those voices. Talk about justice and social responsibility and kindness and the importance of holding each other up. Talk about healing wounds—in people, in the environment, in our relationships to each other and the world.

Secondly, these initial wounds CAN be overcome. I overcame them, and did it with very few teachers. Very few. I can count on one hand who lifted me out of the misogyny and racism that I learned as a child. And I am so grateful to them. And then I was resourced. I had a brilliant liberal arts education at some of the top universities in the country. I was granted scholarships so I could go, the first in my family to earn a degree. These scholarships were funded by people who knew the importance of education, of specifically an arts education, to open minds. They helped me, these strangers.

And I was held up and helped by my community, especially, (of all the places to note) in Calgary. I met good feminists in Alberta—too many to name. The kind of women that Helen Reddy sang about. It’s where I did most of my teaching. It’s also where I was subjected to the same kind of mockery and bullying that I experienced when I was nine. I wasn’t always successful in the way I handled it, but I wasn’t a child anymore. And this time I had help.

Now when I hear, “Yes, I am wise, but it’s wisdom born from pain. Yes, I’ve paid the price, but look how much I’ve gained. If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible,” I don’t feel embarrassed by the cheesiness of the song. I feel grateful. Thanks for the anthem, Ms. Reddy, and thanks to all the women along the way who gave it meaning for me.

Report: The Abortion Monologues in Kitchener Waterloo

The wonderful people at SHORE (Sexual Health Options Resource Education, formerly Planned Parenthood) put on a production of The Abortion Monologues and were kind enough to send me a report. This is from Carrie McNabb, who signs off her notes with “Yours in Choice,” which I just cannot tell you how much I love.

“Jane, I just wanted to share the results of our recent production of your show! We raised $1800 in ticket sales from this production and donations of $700 at the door, for a total of $2500 raised for SHORE Centre. Thank you so so much. There was a woman who was also honoured that evening with a “Champion of Choice” award. She spent every single day of the anti-choice campaign “40 Days for Life” standing outside of our local abortion clinic holding up signs like ‘We support your choice,’ ‘We respect you,’ ‘Pro-choice,’ ‘[and] I don’t regret my abortion.’ So I wanted to say thank you for writing such a beautiful piece. Every single one of the cast walked away from this production permanently changed. And we received such kind feedback the evening of our show of people telling us how balanced and thoughtful the stories were. It truly was a remarkable evening of theatre and we raised a lot of money for a good cause. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

No, thank YOU Carrie and all of the people at SHORE and all of your volunteers for all the fine work you do. It’s not too late to donate.

 

 

New Production of The Abortion Monologues

The fine folks at SHORE (that is Sexual Health Options Resource Education) in Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario are producing The Abortion Monologues to raise funds for their good work.

The show will be November 4, 2017 at the Little Theatre in Kitchener-Waterloo. Contact SHORE for tickets or more information and if you are in the area, please support this work.

abortion_monologues_edit

Cover Image from Print Copy of The Abortion Monologues by Teresa Posyniak

 

 

Mothering, Feminist Consciousness Raising and Adrienne Rich

Many writers I love taught me my feminism. On International Women’s Day, I celebrate one writer in particular, Adrienne Rich, whose clarity of thought and forceful writing changed the course of my life.  Adrienne Rich

“Motherhood in Bondage” first appeared in the New York Times on the Op-Ed page on November 20, 1976. It is reprinted in many places, including a compilation of Rich’s prose called On Lies, Secrets, and Silence (Norton, 1979). By the time I read “Motherhood in Bondage,” (likely some time in 1993) I was already a mother and had already absorbed some feminist consciousness, despite my upbringing. I believed women must have the same rights as men. I knew that although some of the big issues like suffrage were settled, there were plenty of other important issues like pay equity that still needed to be sorted out. I had no reason to believe that this would not happen. Progress towards a more just society was inevitable, I thought. People marched, there were hearings or inquiries, problems were explained, legislation changed.

What I hadn’t thought about to any great degree were the systemic forces that kept oppression (not just women’s oppression but all oppression) going. I hadn’t thought about how those in power might create systems on purpose to benefit themselves and that changing the rules for women or people of colour or any powerless group might not be their priority. I had not thought about the effort that those in power put toward keeping a system that benefited them in place.

My pregnancy, the birth of my daughter and my new role of mother made me see how women remained oppressed in fundamental ways. My daughter was born in 1992. I had to fight to receive my full maternity benefits, something that the law said I was entitled to but my employer was ready to deny me. The threat of legal intervention was needed to resolve the dispute. Preparing for the birth, I had wanted a midwife but was told that if I had one, I would have no access to my doctor or a hospital in case of emergency. I don’t even know if this was true or simply a threat, but I acquiesced. I had never felt so patronized or controlled. At about twenty two weeks, strong contractions and bleeding sent me to the hospital and I was told it was nothing and sent home. I was made to feel like I had wasted everyone’s time, but if I had stayed home and anything had happened, I would have been blamed for that too. During my daughter’s birth, I was scolded. It was taking too long. The doctors, the same ones that were so essential to this process, did not intervene when they should have, caused me unnecessary suffering and then blamed me for it. After the birth, when my daughter didn’t immediately latch on, I was told that my insistence on breastfeeding was jeopardizing her life. They insisted on formula. I would not let them give her any. Her lethargy was blamed on me because I had, in the long hours of unproductive labour, taken a pain killer and this had made her groggy. It was my fault she would not latch, they said. The nurse left my chart out. I read it. It said I was non-compliant. I left the hospital. At home, I struggled to understand what had happened to my life. My once reasonably equitable marriage had become something else; my husband went to work and I breastfed, looked after our baby, our house, our meals, our errands and did all the unpaid labour. This seemed fair. I was home. Why wouldn’t I do all of these things? The logic seemed unassailable, but somehow, I knew it was flawed.

Meanwhile, my husband had become a father and he was still encouraged to pursue other goals. I was not. Although I knew that my “work,” had value in the broader scheme of things, I had no place in that scheme anymore. I was encouraged to join a mother’s group. I did. It depressed me. I did not go back. For the first time since I was thirteen years old, I did not earn money. I was utterly dependent and I felt ashamed. I looked into returning to work, daycare, pumping breast milk, all of it. Much as I wanted to be back in the bigger world, I wasn’t ready to let go of the baby to do it. I made a choice. (And before you stomp all over me, I recognize many women have no such choice. I recognize my privilege. But this is, after all, a personal essay. This is how it was for me. I’m not claiming that this is how it is for everyone.) Being forced to make the choice felt like cruel but all-too-usual punishment. But punishment for what? For being a mother? My husband was never judged for his choices, but I would be judged for mine. All the while, I felt that the choice I was being asked to make was somehow false. I felt there had to be another way.

I began looking for kindred spirits, teachers, someone who could explain what had happened to me, what was happening to women who became mothers, and I found Rich.

The understanding that male-female relationships have been founded on the status of the female as the property of the male, or of male-dominated institutions, continues to be difficult for both women and men. It is painful to acknowledge that our identity has been dictated and diminished by others, or that we have let our identity depend on the diminishment and exploitation of other humans. This idea still meets with resistance that has always risen when unsanctioned, long-stifled realities begin to stir and assert themselves.

Painful to acknowledge indeed. And not just for me. For my husband too. It was not his intention to oppress me, and I knew that. But by default, he belonged to a political and social context that oppressed me. Rich explained that my sudden dependence and vulnerability did not happen because of a particular failing of mine or a particular meanness within my husband. This was vital to remember. And she also explained that figuring out a better way to relate to one another and the world was essential and was going to be difficult. But no matter what our social and political context, we always have agency. We always have free will. I had to do everything I could do to improve the situation.

“The power politics of the relations between the sexes, long unexplored, is still a charged issue,” wrote Rich. “To raise it is to cut to the core of power relations throughout society, to break down irreparably the screens of mystification between ‘private life’ and ‘public affairs.'” Indeed. Motherhood as an experience, as a political institution, had been defined by men. Women played by their rules. Men created legislation around birth control and abortion. In a fundamental way, women were (and still are) unable to decide for themselves if they wish to become mothers. At the time, men still wholly controlled the guardianship of children in the courts, the educational system and within the family. Men dominated women economically, an inevitability in a capitalist system that valued men’s work more than women’s even when they did the same work. Again, this is still true. And finally Rich explained how the women who challenge this system, who question it, who try to break free of it, were seen as deviant. And we all know what happens to deviants.

Rich wrote, “the pressure on all women to assent to the ‘mothering’ role is intense.” This is what I was feeling; the pressure to be a mother in a way that had been prescribed by someone else, in a way that allowed me to survive but not thrive.

I could have given in. I could have swallowed hard and gone along to get along, put up and shut up. I didn’t. In the conclusion of the essay, Rich had given me my marching orders, although I wouldn’t understand for many years that I had accepted the challenge she offered. She wrote:

Such themes anger and terrify precisely because they touch us at the quick of human existence. But to flee them, or trivialize them, to leave the emotions they arouse in us unexamined, is to flee both ourselves and the dawning hope that women and men may one day experience forms of love and parenthood, identity and community that will not be drenched in lies, secrets, and silence.

I wanted to find this better future for myself, for my baby, and for my husband. I examined my life. I learned more. I studied. I worked in the community. I observed. I listened. I taught Women’s Studies. I tried to help others understand these issues and more. And although it was never easy, it got better. I had a goal in mind, a vision of equity, if not equality, a sense of fairness. On this International Women’s Day, I thank Adrienne Rich for giving me direction. I hope that every woman can break free of her own lies, secrets and silence. I’m still working on it. It’s a life-long quest.