Pro-choice, pro-woman...pro-life

Today is the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Being rather less than 34, I have grown up in a world that is, at least in part, a consequence of this decision. This blog is why I--a young Christian girl raised in a fairly conservative Baptist church--am firmly pro-choice.

I believe that being pro-choice does not mean being anti-life. Being pro-choice does not even mean being particularly pro-abortion; I think that having an abortion is a huge decision, one that shouldn't be taken lightly, and in a lot of cases it's probably morally wrong according to the creed of my faith. All life is sacred, life is a gift. We don't have the right to say whose life is worth more--the life of a baby, of a sweet old grandma, of a rapist or a killer or a terrorist.

Or the life of a woman who doesn't want to be pregnant anymore.

You see, a woman who is desperate, who knows she just can't have a child right now--if she can't get a safe, legal abortion performed by a trained doctor--if abortion isn't legal--what is she going to do? Is she going to shrug her shoulders and say "oh well, guess I'll have the damn baby anyway"?

If this woman does what I think she would (and, I must admit, what I damn well might do in her situation) and goes somewhere else, finds another method--she could get hurt, she could get sick, she could die. And what makes her life worth less than that of the child inside her?

I once brought up this imagined scenario in a Bible study I was in. The discussion as I remember went something as follows (excuse the Xian jargon):

Seraph: So what if this woman, this desperate woman who truly believes she has no other choice, goes and gets an illegal abortion--some coat-hanger deal in a back alley somewhere? And suppose she gets some terrible infection and dies? And suppose this woman isn't a Believer, and when she dies she does indeed go to hell? And what if, if she'd been able to have a safe, legal abortion, she could have lived long enough for someone to share Christ with her? Are you going to send a woman who doesn't know Christ to hell for one mistake?

Other Girl*: Well that would be her problem, not mine--she deserves to go to hell!

I nearly threw up, or got up and left. At any rate, my jaw hit the floor. Way to be loving and Christlike, Other Girl. Aren't we all deserving of hell? Isn't that kind of a big point in our faith--we don't deserve God's love, but he gives it to us anyway? Isn't every time you look at someone (like our hypothetical woman) with hatred in your heart--isn't that murder in the eyes of our Savior? Do you really think you'd never, ever consider having an abortion, you fucking hypocrite?

To sum up (oh no, I'm going into school-essay mode) I'm pro-choice. I'm pro-anything that helps women get by in a world that often seems to hate us. I'm pro-life--even the life of an evil evil floozy who wants to kill her innocent unborn child. Ha.

I've never had to live in a world where the option to abort a pregnancy, safely and humanely, hasn't been there, if I need it. And I hope I never have to.

*name changed to protect the aggravating.

Scandalous!

It's taken me a few days to get this post written--but hurrah, the financial gauntlet has been passed and I am once again in the college town I affectionately refer to as Hippieville. Or HippieVegas--some churchpeople in my small hometown refer to it as if it's Sin Central, so I suppose it fits.

Along that vein, I went out to a gay club Friday night, and had about the best time I've ever had without feeling like shit in the morning for it.

Note: I'm not gay. I get mistaken for a lesbian a lot and it's a bit of a touchy subject so I feel as if I should make that clear.

But the club was entirely awesomely fun--danced with all my group of friends, including Thyme and a boy I'm currently pursuing, Beowulf. Beowulf is a Preacher's Kid, and kind of inhibited, so he was a little uncomfortable with the entire thing, as was my similarly inhibited suitemate, Rapunzel. Rapunzel had once even said that she would never, ever go to this particular club--oh, it's so scandalous. But she got dumped not long ago and really needed the lift, so for once she was up for a little more life than usual. And both of them ended up having a wonderful time and being glad they went. Well, Rapunzel is, Beowulf is still unsure--as he says, "well, I didn't mind the dancing, but I'd rather not have to go to that place again." Funny sheltered boy.

My relationship with Beowulf is one of the more ambiguous and angst-ridden aspects of my life right now. He doesn't know quite what to think of me--I'm quite honest, sometimes brutally, and certainly more so than a lot of girls my age will be with guys. I'm also very open about my sexuality, which is a personality trait rather foreign to the church people I seem to end up hanging around. I'm still as pure, if not more so, than any of them...but I'm honest about the fact that yes, I have a sex drive, and hey, Beowulf, if I were a different sort of person I'd probably be fucking you.

Note: I do enjoy thinking up handles for my friends here--it adds a little more anonymity and sometimes humor. Like Rapunzel...you should see this girl's hair. Good gad. And Beowulf, who is actually a shy, timid sort due to an anxiety disorder (what is with me and neurotic people?)

Anyway...the blogging for choice thing. I don't have many (if any!) readers here, so no one was able to attempt to throttle me for not believing abortion is a heinous act of cold-blooded murder, but I posted it (edited for swear words) on a site most of my friends are on. And boy, have I caught hell from two of my girlfriends--especially the one I used as an example, who denies that I gave the argument that way, and that she answered in that fashion. Possibly my memory of that night have been twisted over time, but I could swear she said what she said. And what's funny is that she is a really sweet and loving person...It's just she can't seem to see past what she's been taught. Namely, she's been taught that, when a woman chooses to have sex, she gives up her right to choose if she has a child.

It's too early in the morning for me to start writing about that again...especially as I just answered OtherGirl's rather offended email attacking my position.

I Don't Want to Grow Up

I am in dire financial straits. Or rather, my whole family is--most of "my" money is really my parents' still.

And we don't have enough for my school this semester.

My mom handles our finances. Usually she's way better with money than the rest of us...but she's been struggling with depression for a while now, and she's tried to hide how bad it is from everyone, and she let our finances slide...and now she's really depressed because she feels like she's failed us, especially me. And I mean, she has...but it's not like we love her any less. She's a great mom, it's just her brain chemistry is getting the best of her.

Apparently, depression runs in her side of the family. I'll bet my grandmother has some sort of mental problems along that line--she's at least got some anxiety disorder or other--and my mom is clinically depressed, and I've struggled with the same on and off since I was about thirteen. Ah, the joys of adolescence, right? One thing that's really keeping me from being just pissed at my mom for this is knowing what it's like.

My friend Thyme is telling me to "have faith" that everything will work out. I know that a lot of people think I'm rather stupid for my beliefs--the whole Christianity bit isn't really popular where I live, I mean even a simple belief in a higher power will occasionally draw a sneer--but I don't think God has ever let me down. He (I wish there was a less gendered pronoun for a being who goes so far beyong male and female...) has gotten me through the darkest times in my life. I wouldn't be here without him...so I can't help but believe he'll get me through this.

Gee, that sounds cheesy. But it's true, and I'm tired and, yes, worried, and I can't think of a better way to put it right now.

I guess that's all I have to say.

Bewbz

Okay, so I've noticed a great deal of turmoil in the Kingdom of Blog lately, especially among the feminists. I get what it's about...despite the kind of confusing bee analogy...but I'm going to stay out of it. I'm not a part of it. I'm going to keep my mouth shut. Or rather, my keyboard.

What I really want to talk about is boobs.

Ah, boobs. How we love them. They're so soft and squishy-bouncy and fun. Too bad I don't have any.

Okay, well I do technically have breasts, but not much. A former romantic interest of mine once described the size of them as a "mouthful." It was cute at the time...

I went bra shopping today. There isn't much that will make me feel more physically inadequate than shopping for bras. I wear a 34 A. It's hard to find a good bra in that size...and they never make it to sale prices. America loves big boobs, and, apparently, so does whoever decides how many bras of each size get put on the rack. Members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee kind of get the short end of the stick in this regard.

A lot of fleshier girls complain about how society likes bony skinny women. They look at me with a mix of envy and hatred. When men praise women who "look like real women," I feel left out. When a woman says "ew, look at that model, you can see the bones in her chest," I look down at my own ribcage and sigh. The slimness of my body--it's natural, too, my family got stuck with some skinny gene or other--is reviled as looking ghostly, cadaverous, prepubescent, or anorexic. Voluptuous girls are told they should love their curves, their healthy, womanly bodies. Skinny girls don't get told to love their bony hips and collarbones; we're told to gain weight. We're asked if we've got an eating disorder; "it's okay, you can talk about it, we can help." Thinness has been disease-ified.

Yes, my fleshy friends get taunted for their round asses and full chests and soft thighs. I know it's hard to grow up feeling fat. But middle school gym class was hell for me too...getting told "damn girl, eat a hamburger or something." Knowing the end to the rhyme, "Roses are red, violets are black..."

I guess what I'm saying is that even women who are "ideal"--model-thin, fine-boned as a bird, like I am--are held to standards we can't uphold. It's just as hard to learn to love ourselves, to be able to stand in front of a mirror and say, "damn...I'm not half bad, am I?"

Most of the time, I can do that.

But not when I go bra shopping.


Oh, by the way. I did find a few bras that I liked...I recommend Lily of France and l.e.i, for my small-boobed sisters. And has anyone else noticed how unreliable the sizing at Vicky's Secret is? Not to mention the pricing...remind me not to return any time soon.

Almost an Angel

So, this will be my blog for the world to see, the face I show to the world, my soapbox and my soap opera. I guess I had better watch my grammar.

I suppose an introduction is in order:

-On this blog, I will be referring to myself as Seraph. Previous internet incarnations of myself include Reb (on AO-hell message boards) and GingerRose (on dA).

-I'm young. How young, I don't think you need to know--but I'm a good bit past sneaking into R-rated movies.

-I define myself as a Christian (or Xian, as I dorkily like to type it) but I'm not one of those Christians. You know what I mean.

-I'm a feminist. My male friends occasionally call me a feminazi...but I do shave and wear makeup and all that patriarchy-approved nonsense. I can feel pretty if I want to, right?

I think the rest of my character will come out eventually. I'll never reveal my real name, or the real names of my friends, or where I live. Now, down to the posting.

Why do I even set up these blog thingies, anyway? What sort of abnormal need for communication and approval do we bloggers have, that we air our dirty laundry online for the world to see? I do have friends out there in the "real" world, friends I can talk to and laugh with, some of whom I can tell everything. But there's something about a stranger...probably the impulse to blog is the same impulse that occasionally leads me to pour out my life story to people I've just met--an impulse that has occasionally landed me in uncomfortable places. Especially since the moment a guy my age hears a girl say "oh, my last boyfriend came out of the closet this summer..." he immediately retreats inside himself and closes the door. Oh noes, he thinks to himself, she'll turn me gay too! Aaaaaagh!

So yes, I dated a gay dude. Oh the horror. *rolls eyes* What gets me is that he's such an utterly fagtastic gay man, I don't know exactly how I missed it. I'll refer to him as Jai, because that's almost his name.

I have a tendency to get off topic, forgive me...it is rather late/early here. Back to the subject of blogging: I am a writer by nature. I have been making up stories since before I could write--at that time, I dictated to my grandmother. I fell in love with poetry around the age of eight, and have kept a fairly consistent journal since I was twelve or so. There is something in me that won't let me go without my writing. It's a force like gravity, or the pull of the moon on the ocean. And many of my friends don't understand...so I turn to the faceless crowd of the Interweb. Ha.

I think that will do for a first post.