We had to drive a bit down the street to find a spot to wedge my Jeep next to the curb. Out we tumbled, with our hand-lettered signs, yoga mats, bottles of water, and a folding chair and bag of books for my youngest, who at 10 is apolitical but always up for tagging along with mom. We positioned ourselves well away from the clinic protesters, right in front of the clinic building itself, which looks like a converted house well-shaded with a grove of live oak trees.
We stood in a circle, the four of us, and held hands for a
brief prayer. “Let the spirit move within us and among us…” Then I found a
reasonably flat spot on the trampled dust, lay down my yoga mat, and sat in
half-lotus position with one of the signs leaning against my chest. Our signs
read “Catholics for Choice” (one of us is), “We are Pro-Choice,” “We Trust
You,” and “We Support You.”
Immediately a woman from the anti-choice protesters walked
over to stand inches away from Cindy and began haranguing her. I closed my eyes
and tried to focus on my breath, but I couldn’t block out her ugly words. “What
choice do you support? Dead, mutilated babies? You can pray all you want, but
God won’t hear you.” Her voice went on and on, full of rancor. As we had
discussed before we began the vigil, our only response is “I can’t talk right
now. I’m praying (or meditating).” Cindy had a hard time maintaining her Hail
Marys and began softly singing. After a few minutes that woman went away, and
shortly after one of the clinic volunteers came over to us, ignoring the shouts
of the protesters, to hug us each and thank us for being there.
After that, our morning settled into a rhythm. I found it
impossible to close my eyes and remain in a state of peaceful meditation, so I
focused my attention on the clinic, volunteers and staff members, the patients
and families coming and going, sending thoughts of courage and love towards
them with all of my power. Periodically the Knights of Columbus guy would stalk
towards us, stopping behind each of us in turn, towering over my seated self
with his plumed helmet. However, I am not easily physically intimidated, so he
was pretty easy to ignore. One or two of the women took it in turns to verbally
harass us; mostly they focused their attention on Cindy and her Catholics for
Choice sign, which seemed to really infuriate them. My leg went to sleep so I
stood up, pressing my bare toes into the dirt and gravel and stretching my
spine long. Another clinic volunteer came to greet us, and a staff member, many
hugs and handshakes. One of the anti-choice protesters, a man in a red shirt,
took photos of each of us, waved his phone in my face with what he claimed was
a picture of a fetus, speaking of abortion in gory terms. Since he was standing
behind me and stretching his hand and phone in front of my face, he was really
in my personal space. I felt hot anger in my stomach and chest at this ugly
bullying, but I remembered my promise to remain non-reactive. I observed my
emotions quietly, raised my chin and focused my love on the clinic. It seemed
that strength and power flowed from the ground, through my bare feet, and
streamed from me like the beacon of a lighthouse. The phone-waver eventually moved
away.
The only time I spoke to any of the protesters was when Mr.
Fancy Helmet began talking to my youngest daughter. Naturally shy and quiet
around strangers, she said nothing and kept her attention focused on Two Hot Dogs with Everything open
in her lap.
“Sir, that is my daughter, and I would appreciate it if you
did not speak with her,” I told him. “If you have any questions, please talk to
Cindy.” To his credit he left her alone and none of the other protesters
approached her.
Every time a car entered or left the parking lot, or a staff
member appeared to check the mailbox, the protesters yelled, waved brochures,
tried to attract their attention. They stood right next to the driveway, trying
to shove brochures at the passing cars. The older women with their shrill
voices could hardly be heard over the sounds of the nearby highway. As soon as
a car entered the parking lot, the clinic volunteers would rush over to open
the door, to escort the patient and her family towards the clinic. It cheered
me to see that no patient arrived by herself; each was surrounded by supportive
and loving family or friends.
Towards the end of our vigil, the mother of one of the
patients walked across the grass to us to thank us for being there. She asked
each of our names, shook our hands, and wrote down the name of our organization,
Faith Action for Women in Need (FAWN).
“I brought my daughter here today. She’s 15 years old. But
she’s going to get a second chance. She’s going to go to college,” she told us.
She stood there before us, ignoring the shouts of the protesters, strength and
pride and love and grief living side-by-side on her calm face.Around 10am the protesters began to pack up and disperse. It felt like we’d only been there a few moments, and I was reluctant to leave. Slowly we gathered our signs and materials. I slid my shoes onto my dusty feet and picked up my yoga mat. We walked together to my Jeep, not looking at the protesters. The guy with the cell phone was photographing the back of my Jeep, making a big show of focusing on my license plate. I opened the back hatch and we tossed all of our stuff inside and then piled into the front. I put it in reverse and backed up slowly. The guy with the phone was still standing behind me, but he moved out of the way, which is good, since I didn’t really feel like using my brakes. I did a u-turn and drove past the clinic towards the highway. Cindy rolled down her window to wave goodbye and call blessings to the protesters as they also loaded their cars to leave.
A few minutes later, we found our way to Genuine Joe’s coffee shop on Anderson Lane. As we settled into the couches with our lattes, my oldest daughter commented, “That was the best one of these things we’ve ever done.” She’s been my companion to a fair number of rallies, protests, and marches, but this was the first time we’d ever been thanked and hugged for being there. Of course, we weren’t protesting anything, we were supporting. Who knew it would feel so different? That evening, as I lay in bed reflecting on the day and on the ugly behavior of the clinic protesters, my mind drifted to the year I spent teaching junior high in an inner-city neighborhood. The words of one of my students echoed in my mind. “Haters hate.” It really is as simple as that, isn’t it?
