THE NARRATIVE ARC

With the Vulnerability of Women’s Rights, I am Drawn to the Past

Sometimes the cruelty of the present thrusts us back to when the trouble started

The vulnerability of ignorance

I was a good 17-year-old Catholic girl, struggling against the hots for my boyfriend, with my fears of pregnancy. I saw my mother with her six children and four miscarriages. I did the math. I knew my eggs were just waiting to short circuit my education, my future. It’s probably hard to imagine now, but sex education when I was as adolescent was basically fear induction.

When I was 16, a woman walked the aisles of my class, with a large pickle jar containing an aborted fetus. When she asked if we had any questions, our arms were glued by our sides in terror. We exchanged information that was largely unreliable, gathered from older sisters or Catholic propaganda.

No one told you anything.

But your body told you plenty.

My boyfriend and I had agonizing debates about how close, exactly, we would have to get to put us in a sperm’s striking distance.

I finally made my first trip to a gynecologist. The woman who gave me the referral described him as a “wonderful Catholic gynecologist.” I wasn’t sure of the relevance, but since almost everyone I knew was Catholic, I didn’t challenge it.

Deep disrespect

I was beside myself with anxiety, but I spat it out, “Can I get pregnant without penetration?” He looked aghast and said, “Of course you can! The Florence Crittendon Home is full of girls who got pregnant without penetration!”

“Wait here,” he told me. “I have some literature for you.”

He closed the door, and I heard him yell, “Hey Tom, come here. I’ve got a good one for you.” He repeated what I’d just asked him and how he answered. Tom laughed, “I bet those knees will stay locked now!”

I sat there in my little gown and shivered in fear and fury. I was trapped. And it didn’t occur to me that this would be the first of many times when a man (99%), a doctor or some other asshole in charge, would deprive me of information, of health care, medicine, and basic respect. I would have to make promises I didn’t mean. In my innocence and vulnerability, I was made to feel dirty and stupid.

The real vow

Several years later, when I became engaged to my boyfriend, we were caught unawares by the Catholic Church. In order to be married, we had to swear that we would never use “artificial” birth control.

All that time trying to escape the sin of sex without marriage, and we found out we could still be in deep shit once we were married. We postponed our required meeting till the last minute, with the priest who would determine if our values and behavior were consistent with a Christian marriage.

In our anger, we practiced telling the priest to go fuck himself. But when they have all the power and you have none, your inflated, righteous bravery takes a nosedive. We went through a million questions with the priest, until we got to the only real reason we were there.

“Will you accept children freely and lovingly from God?”

“Yes,” we answered solemnly, praying there were no follow up questions.

He gave us the documents to sign. And then he gave his “divine signature.”

We were allowed to get married. Remembering our peril with a “Catholic gynecologist,” we found a “Jewish gynecologist,” who gave us “artificial birth control” (birth control pills) and if we wanted to experiment, a diaphragm as well. He showed us pictures. No question was too stupid or shameful. He talked about the importance of giving each other pleasure. Pleasure?

Finally, someone “in charge” made no connection between sex and pregnancy. I was more than an empty vessel.

In just one appointment, that doctor rocked my world. I was free — to have sex whenever I wanted. I could enjoy it, and I could simultaneously plan a future that assured my dreams and possibilities.

On trial

But my empowerment didn’t last. I walked to the pharmacy in our neighborhood. It was crowded, but I didn’t care. I held gold in my hand. The pharmacist had an elevated workspace that was somewhat intimidating. The bench was like a judge’s. He could peer down at all of the supplicants waiting for his assistance. Finally, I heard him call, “Manning.”

“Yes,” I answered, ready to step into another phase of womanhood.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Well, I want the medicine my doctor prescribed.”

“How old are you?” It was none of his business, but I vowed to keep him happy.

“I’m 21.”

He frowned.

“Do you know what this is?” he grilled me.

“Well, yes I do.” I answered carefully.

“What is it?” he tested me.

The waiting shoppers found this interesting.

“It’s a prescription for birth control pills.” I threw in “I’m married” for good measure.

“What is your married name?” he asked, pen in hand.

“I kept my own name.”

“What? I've never heard of such a thing.”

He surveyed the ladies waiting for his attention.

“Has anyone heard of such a thing?” he surveyed the audience.

They all shook their heads or called out “No.” I felt like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter.

“How seriously must she take this marriage?” he asked. More murmuring.

He slid the prescription across his desk.

“I cannot fill this.”

“Don't you have to?” I asked.

“No, Mrs. Married Woman, I don’t. Feel free to look it up.”

I wished the floor would suck me up and spare me from more judgment. I slithered out the door and burst out crying. I didn’t know what went wrong. I was only guilty of being a young married woman.

Shame is such a powerful and paralyzing experience. From my first innocent questions to the sense that I was asking for more and more trouble with each decision, sex was the best and worst thing to happen to me.

When will I be legitimate?

Some of our reproductive events are almost universally good or awful. But I am struck looking back, how much we are blessed by a bad ass sturdiness that comes with the challenges.

I can plot my entire life by my sexuality, the complications of my sexuality, the decisions I made, and the care I got. Nothing is free. Side effects abound. But these bodies of ours are wondrously empowered. No one knows it better than we do. Where is the humble recognition of that by people who see themselves as competent to replace me?

The list

This list of coping is long and demanding.

There are infections with drippy creams and cures.

The bodies we defended against pregnancy go on strike, and if you have the cash, you can find new ways that will make you sick and a little crazy. If you don’t, you can know wrenching sorrow.

Pregnancies don’t last. Miscarriages broke my heart and messed with my body. The term “high risk” is dead serious. Women of color are more likely to die in childbirth. In 2024.

When I wanted the option of ending my reproductive life (getting my “tubes tied”), I was subject to disapproval. The nurse said to me, “I can’t understand it. You have one lovely child. You could have more.”

(“Well, I have just had two miscarriages. I know that “one” might not be your magic number, but I’m done.”)

The experience of birth covers a gamut from bliss to nightmare. My daughter gave birth six months ago and immediately said accusingly, “You didn’t think to tell me about the hemorrhoids, did you?”

Postpartum depression is alienating and scary but is now better understood and treated.

Menopause is often no walk in the park, but its culmination has its own plus side.

Joy

To have a daughter and now a precious granddaughter are the greatest gifts of my life. I rejoice in them. I love the role of matriarch, even when my “wisdom” is not always accepted. I long for them to embrace their lives as women, fierce fully and pleasurably.

But I fear for them too.

I used to assume that progress would just continue along a righteous path. So, I didn’t pay attention. I forgot that those vulnerable, painful episodes weren’t really over. We can all be shut down and shamed into helplessness. We must remember.

The Matriarchy

Hunters will track down the elephant matriarchs before other members of the tribe. The matriarchs hold the tribe’s memory — of the best places for food and water, tribal burying grounds, and the ability to elude and defend the tribe against harm. When the matriarch is felled by hunters, the tribe goes to pieces. They make for easy attack. So, we must share the memory of the strengths and vulnerability of our tribes. The generations before and behind us depend on it.

We just have to step up.