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The Passion Of The Choice (Part One) Dad doesn't even participate in surveys regarding abortion. All dear Dad replies is, "As a man my opinion doesn't matter; it's not my body at stake here." As they argue and cajole saying they simply want his opinion, my dad insists they just received it -- his opinion is that his & any other man's opinion just doesn't matter because no man would have to live with, by, or under such legislation.
It aggravates those trying to get the survey forms filled out; but endears my wise father even more to me.
Dad will, of course, discuss such issues when invited by "we girls" (my mother, sister &/or myself). He and I have had many a discussion on the matter of women's reproductive health, abortion, and related medical and legal issues. And Dad will vote his pro-choice stance to ensure that women have the right to control their own bodies. But normally he remains mum on the subject.
However, one time Dad spoke out... Once, many years ago, when Bill Clinton was making his first run for the presidency (so I guess that would make the year about 1991), I received, for work I had done, some free passes to a Democrat Party rally in our city. The first person I thought of asking to go with me was my Daddy.
Dad and I went together, and like those jokes, what we heard inside left far less of an impact than that 'funny thing' which occurred on the way in...
Outside the building the anti-choice protesters were there in full force. They had numbers, they had loud voices, they had posters -- boy, did they have posters. The graphic nature of them was both assaulting & insulting. Both my father and I kept our heads down, averting our eyes from posters and poster holding protesters -- much like one does when passing a snarling dog, hoping that lack of eye contact will keep it from attacking.
We were doing our best to ignore them, each of us with the mindset that just as they weren't going to convince us of anything, we weren't going to convince them of anything either.
We tried to quickly move past the shouts, taunts and even the attempts to physically stop us (presumably to 'talk'). While my father didn't know it, my head and heart were flooded with memories of my own trip to the clinic several years before, where I had along pushed through this sort of crowd -- only then, they had called me "mother" and wailed at me, their voices pretending to be my fetus. :shudder:
I was grateful we both kept our heads down as it helped me hide my tear-filled eyes.
That was bad enough; but then we turned the corner.
There, near the entrance, was what can only be described as a mob. This was the most fanatical of the anti-choice protesters, and the quantity of them made the former block-long walk seem just littered with protesters by comparison; here they were en mass.
More disturbing than their numbers, and to-be-read-on-camera sized posters, was their nearly rabid behavior. They foamed and snapped behind the seemingly thin police line, and swooped at any person who appeared with media insignia, microphones, or was so well-coiffed they assumed they were talking heads. The media trucks were surrounded by poster-carrying, chanting, people who screamed with faces redder than the weather could make them. And anyone else who walked by was bait to use for the cameras. These were the media whores, out there to make a name for themselves.
But this was not the worst of it.
It was here in this sea of jostling and screaming, of bloody signs and spewed filth, that children stood.
Some chanted like robotic zombies as their parents did; but most stood, alone, with vacant faces and fear-filled eyes, as if they no longer could recognize the loving parents which had brought them.
These children looked on as their baby siblings were toted as tableaux vivants, held up above heads and offered to the crowd as living posters of just who and what is 'murdered' in the pro-choice agenda.
Standing in line at the door waiting to have our passes check, I watched from the back as one young child tugged at a caretaker's jacket and was shook-off like one might rid themselves of a spider or other unwanted nuisance. It was all I could do to stand silently and patiently to enter.
My father was also having his own battles trying not to notice the children who had no choice but to attend and either do their parents' bidding or at least stand quietly and wait -- and watch.
As we moved in the slow progression towards the safety of the building, a man reached across the tape and proffering a clipboard, asked my father something. My dad began to shake his head and turn away when he noticed the girl who stood silently at the man's side -- she couldn't have been more than 10 -- and my dad finally cracked.
He had to speak.
"Is this your daughter?" he asked the man.
"Yes, she is," he answered proudly.
"Do you think this is the proper place for her--"
"We are passionate about our Lord, and we want her to grow in our faith, our principals," the man interrupted, beginning his preaching of his parental teaching. My dad listened quietly, which was more than the man had been willing to do, and when the man finished my dad turned to the girl and spoke.
"I'm so sorry. I'm here with my daughter too, and even though she's an adult woman, she's still my little girl. She wanted to come here today and I don't think she had any idea what she'd face here... It's difficult with all this yelling, even for an old man like me," he smiled.
The man, his daughter and I stood still as my father continued. I'm not sure why the man did; perhaps the simple truth of my dad's demeanor and words bade him silent.
"I came to here like my daughter has today, to hear a man speak about his ideas for this country. Then we'll each go home and think about those ideas and how they fit with our values, think about what other candidates have to say, and then make our decisions about how we'll vote. I trust that my daughter can make up her own mind about that. But I also came today because I knew what could be here -- all this yelling, all this, this--" he gestured. "And I wanted to be sure she'd be safe."
He paused, looking down for a moment, as if wondering if he should continue. Then he looked at the young girl again, smiled weakly and spoke again.
"Passionate words -- angry words -- can hurt too, and I don't like to think of how she could be hurt even as an adult with all of this. Again, I'm sorry that you have to see and hear all this anger. There is calm, quiet, reason too -- and trust. Believe that. It's real. And I trust my daughter to know what's best for her."
And then dad put his hand on my shoulder and moved us toward the door where we waited in silence for the ticket check.
This time, I didn't care if Daddy saw the tears in my eyes. And I thought the tears in his eyes were beautiful.
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