Will you remember her name?

What If I Could Predict Your Future?

The answers aren’t what you’ve always been told.

The choices we make today will matter tomorrow.

She had so little say in what had happened in her own life since a man with dirty fingernails decided he wanted to touch her.

He didn’t ask when he pushed her panties aside and shoved his manhood into her softest, untouched parts with searing pain. Slapping her hard across her face when she cried and strained to stop him.

She had no choice.

He ignored her begging, sobs, and pleas for mercy.

Her screams fail by the wayside, ignored and abandoned — like all of her choices from that moment forward — gone forever as if they’d never mattered.

He wanted what was beneath her pants, and she was powerless to stop him.

She didn’t matter. She wasn’t a person to him — just a place to deposit his sperm.

When her period didn’t show, she cried. Her mother yelled at her and called her names. No one asked who the father was. No one cared.

His life will not be affected by his actions. His part in this story is spent.

She lives in a little house on a dead-end dirt road on the outskirts of Boyd, Texas, where it’s illegal to get an abortion after six weeks. She wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since that horrible day; all the grown-ups told her, “it’s too late for you,” she had to give birth to a baby.

Today, she will become a mother; she is 13 years old and three months.

She was alone in the delivery room; there was no focal point to meditate on while pushing, no coach to offer ice chips and no words of reassurance or wisdom. She was alone in the room, talking to the moving thing in her tummy while waiting for someone else to come in and “check her.”

Her mother was working and had to help her neighbor move. She wouldn’t be coming today.

She wasn’t sure what the nurses were checking; all she knew is it hurt. And she was scared but didn’t want everyone to see her cry.

Kyra is a nurse who started at this hospital fresh out of college, a few months before Covid hit. After three Covid-19 surges, she opted for the labor and delivery floor, hoping for more happiness, less death, and less heartbreak.

Due to the overwhelming births of unwanted, unplanned babies by people who cannot afford to feed or care for them, Covid deaths have become less painful than births, leading to more pain and deaths.

They call it being “woke” when you’re a realist, Kyra thought sadly to herself as she prepped the stirrups for the delivery table. Wish they’d ‘wake’ the hell up and see the pain that comes out of this delivery room in one day!

This knowledge was a source of sadness and had already caused three nurses from just this station — to commit suicide just since January.

Most of the girls in this ward were young, [had] little education, and [were] predominately people of color. Many couldn’t speak English, and their Spanish was hard to make out some days.

On this floor, too many mothers ignore their babies in favor of their phones. Who could blame them? They were children themselves. They hadn’t experienced much kindness, compassion, or love until now; how could they give it to someone else?

Would they ever learn love? Would it be in time for these tiny citizens?

There weren’t many white girls in this ward; most white folks could afford to send their daughters out of state to “visit with relatives” for the morning-after pill or abortion. Not these girls.

The knowledge that these babies would likely never know love made announcing their birth difficult for Kira. She nodded for Rose to do the honors.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced with fake joy. The midwife offered the baby to Kyra with phony delight as she announced the baby was a boy to his young mother. Turning her head, she asked Kyra to clean him first.

Kyra weighed and measured him, washed his body and placed him in the thin blanket, then swaddled him.

Most newborns from this wing don’t receive flowers, balloons, or even a special outfit to wear home from the hospital. While Kyra showed the young mom how to hold her baby for the first time, she thought of how maybe she could find something to fit the two of them in the basket of hand-me-downs and lost-and-founds.

“Honey, you must support his head. He won’t be able to do this on his own for a few months, so you have to hold his head constantly while moving him and even shifting from one side to another. It will come to you. Don’t worry. You’ll have no trouble. It will be second nature to you before long.”

Why don’t people ask themselves what happens to all those babies? They think Rich white people are bringing them home from the hospital with beds, food, roofs that don’t leak, and moms who are out of middle school, right?

As Kyra watched this little mother try to hold a tiny, wiggling newborn, she was reminded of how grateful she had been to give her sister a morning-after pill after she had made a wrong decision with a boy at church.

This little one’s mother was the same age as Kyra’s little sister. They are both in the seventh grade.

The star of the family was Beth Ann. She had participated in every beauty pageant since she was three years old. As Little Miss Texas, her eyes glistened with stars.

Her parents and Kyra were in love with the baby. Their entire world revolved around her.

Kyra was just as bad at doting on Beth Ann as her parents were because she was so small, perfect, and adored; they called her ‘Angel.’

Angel’s entire life was ahead of her. The risk was worth it to Kyra because she loved her sister more than her job.

Most of the mothers in this ward were teens between the ages of 12 and 18. Suddenly, this poor girl was told that she was pregnant without any thought for her life or consideration for it. Does sentencing someone to a life without hope qualify as pro-life?

Many babies are not held, fed appropriately, or even treated kindly. As a result of too many babies coming through here, we don’t have the time to nurture mothers and babies properly for longer than a moment before they’re gone, returning to their lives with no hope or direction.

Future refills were unlikely. She carried this knowledge with a heavy heart.

During his life, his mother felt powerless at every step; when life became too overwhelming, she found strength in knocking him around.

Jack was long past being wanted, loved, or even noticed. It was impossible for him to miss what he never had. There was one kind of love that Jack knew. A former boyfriend of his mother’s left him a Glock [after his arrest], which was his only passion.

Since Jack didn’t get many presents, when the gun was found between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he claimed it as a gift, a “Christmas present.”

When Jack was “packing” (that’s what you call having a gun on TV), he felt safe, and nobody could harm him. In his mind, this Glock represented power, and it was a ‘gift” he clung to.

From behind the gun, he felt just as important as all those “know-it-all” people in their name-brand glasses looking down on him.

Kyra never regretted giving her sister the morning-after pill. A few years later, Kyra stepped up to help Angel when she became pregnant again.

When Angel began pursuing her Hollywood dream, she didn’t want to give up her “career,” so she left her baby with her sister and parents.

Kyra was a proud aunt and did her best to provide for her parents and niece. In order to be actively involved with her niece, she put her own life on hold.

Angel gave birth to an exquisite, pink, tiny angel named Princess by her family.

Kyra gave up her dreams and dedicated her life to giving Princess the life she felt she deserved.

This morning, Princess was getting ready to start 6th grade. Her pink high-top sneakers matched her pink denim jacket and pink backpack with white polka dots. She had gone shopping with Aunt Kyra for school and was eager to show off her new iPhone.

On her phone, Princess swiped up. Her wallpaper was a selfie of her and her aunt enjoying a Cinnabon at the Mall just before watching the movie for which they’d waited in line for three hours.

It was one of many memories Princess and Kyra cherished together.

“I promise, my phone will not be on while I’m in class, but I’ll call you and tell you as soon as I get off the bus, Aunt Kyra.”

“Ok, baby. When you get home, let me know, and I’ll come by and grab you for dinner. “Then you can tell me about your first day at middle school, your new teachers, and your new friends.”

“I will, Aunt Kyra. I love you the most!” She laughed. Then she slipped her phone into her backpack and headed towards her locker.

In school, the first day of class is generally about learning, and teachers worry about being alone in the room with you.

He was not enrolled because of his learning disability, despite being a special education student for most of his life. It was a caring problem that he had instead. No one else did. Why should Jack? The people here did not want him here, and he knew it. As for today, he wanted to see if this year would be different — and eat because if he wanted food, this was it.

‘I need lockers starting at 399s. Can you help me?’ A person who appeared considerably smaller than Jack was holding out a yellow slip with directions to the locker bank and instructions for entering the combination to the lock.

Since his reading skills were not the best, he didn’t need her to ask questions he couldn’t answer.

“No!” He said it meaner than he intended. She didn’t deserve his aggravation. He wished she hadn’t spoken to him.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m new here and, well I’m lost. I tried reading their stupid directions, but they don’t make any sense. Would you mind telling me where I can find locker number 399–003? ”

He shrugs, “I don’t use a locker.”

“How can you attend school without using books?” I love books! My aunt took me to a bookstore…” Her bewildered look faded as she rattled on, and Jack stopped listening.

Three large guys rounded the corner, and Jack didn’t want to be caught chatting with this little blonde thing wrapped in pink.

“Listen, kid — it’s cute.” He took her by the shoulder and pushed her toward the hall to the right, “Go look that way; your locker should be in that direction.”

As the group of guys caught up with the boy she was asking directions from, Princess glanced back at them. She didn’t hear the hushed, angry conversation behind her when she turned left, searching for the lockers.

“You hanging with the little kids since you can’t get out of 8th grade again, eh Jackie Boy? ”

He was the most famous, loudest, and richest kid at school. He was used to getting what he wanted. He never let anyone forget how important the Granger family name was for the town, and the library and football field were named after members of his family. Like Dalton, his cronies were loud, rich, and spoiled but not as entitled. Close, though.

Despite the jeering boys, Jack walked on, ignoring them, as his neighbor had advised him the last two times he had come home with a black eye.

Dalton grabbed the back of his shirt, causing his Glock to shift in his pants waistband. “I asked you a question.” He ordered.

Jack stiffened and pressed the gun tight against his back while holding his hand in his shirt.

“What “cha got there?” Dalton’s taller buddy grabbed his arm and tightly clutched the heavy black metal object in his right hand.

The boy pressed his thumb into Jack’s wrist on the arm holding his gun. Jack was trying hard not to let it go. God, I don’t want to lose this gun.

“Leave me alone. I don’t want any trouble.” Jack didn’t dare look away from these assholes. Dealing with a bully was one thing, but dealing with three bullies could get ugly fast.

He sneered at him. “Where did you steal from?” the round, short-haired dude from the wrestling team sneered at him.

“It’s mine. I didn’t steal anything.” Jack tried not to lose his grip on the handgun.

“My dad had a gun exactly like this, which wasn’t cheap! How did you get your sweaty palms on this gun?”

The boys stepped closer to Jack at that moment, just when the girl dressed in pink rounded the corner, still holding her locker number and directions.

The gun, Jack was sure the safety was securely in the correct position, must have moved in the scuffle. It was still in Jack’s hand, though Dalton’s fingers tried to pry it from his grip as he pulled the trigger, releasing the bullet.

Princess had no choice. She couldn’t say no, because the bullet didn’t respect her. It ripped through her pink denim jacket, white t-shirt, and bra with a tiny pink bow.

Despite her love for unicorns, big fluffy clouds, and the sound of rain on her car’s roof, the bullet didn’t appreciate her heart.

In addition to hitting her heart, shrapnel exploded, passing through the arteries in her chest, and shards of metal sank into the concrete wall behind her and stopped there.

Princess was a victim — a victim of a bullet released because we refused to legislate guns but legislated against abortions.

Jack was a victim because we refused to legislate for the child when we legislated for the fetus.

A reporter stands in front of the school. On a hot day, she wears stringy hair, and sweat glistens on her face. While she’s explaining the screen to the viewers, there’s a split-screen with a timeline and bullet points of the shooting details; questions people needed answering.

Do you think she will remember to ask for Jack’s mother’s name?

GRITS is an acronym for “Girls Raised in The South.”

Anti-abortion legislation reduces girls raised in the south to breeders by reducing pregnancy prevention and abortion access. What went wrong in this story for all the GRITS-Girls Raised In The South is we’ve allowed politicians to devalue children for our political gain.