Unsettled

Revelations can come in funny packages. Like over hummus sandwiches. Like in the middle of otherwise-banal conversation. Like today.

I had an unsettling conversation today with a close friend. We'll call her Molly. I love Molly, and I know Molly loves me. We've relied on each other during times of stress and heartbreak. We've revealed things to each other that we don't widely share. I feel like we know each other pretty well.

Now, before I go on, I feel the need to clarify something. There was a time in my past when I required near-complete ideological agreement with other human beings in order to become or remain their friend. I think this is a common reaction to going to college and also to becoming a 20-something. That period of time doesn't usually last long, as it means you don't get asked to many dinner parties. And besides, variety is a good thing, and yes, conservatives are people, too. But still, like most folks, I have some general measuring sticks. Like, I try not to closely associate with racists. Or with people who don't think women should be president. Or, generally, with evangelical, Anne-Coulter-loving Republicans. I'm just not sure we'd have much to talk about.

Another issue of importance to me (aside from anti-racism and democracy and religious freedom) is reproductive rights. I know this comes as a surprise to anyone who's ever read this blog. :-) Being human, I tend to assume similarities with other people until I receive information to the contrary. So I generally assume my close friends feel pretty much the same way I do about most things, and especially about women's rights and feminism and pro-choice politics. (I also tend to assume that women in their 20s and 30s who wear hip shoes and funky glasses and eschew things like plaid blouses and shoulder pads are, of course, radical feminists with a burning desire to bring down the patriarchy.)

So, Molly and our friend S and I were having lunch today at a cafe near our office. The subject turned to a meeting S and I are attending later this week to discuss ways to fight the looming abortion ban. Molly got kind of quiet. We didn't notice this, so we kept talking. Then Molly, who wears hip shoes and funky glasses and eschews plaid and shoulder pads, said something that made me almost drop my fork. "I think abortion is murder," she said.

Now, Molly has every right to think this (and, given her audience, it was brave of her to say).

I was just surprised to hear her say it. I have spent the past several months fighting against the anti-choice movement in my state; hearing that my dear friend felt something of an allegiance to that movement was a bit of a jolt.

After we had paid our bill and were driving back to work, Molly elaborated on her feelings. She thinks abortion is murder, but she also thinks abortion should be legal. It's a paradox that bothers her. She doesn't know if how she feels is the right way to feel. She knows women have abortions for many legitimate reasons, but she can't get around the notion that the fetus is a human being, and that aborting that fetus is like murdering a child.

As we stepped into the office elevator, Molly turned to us. "So, I guess neither of you thinks it's murder?" she said.

S and I both shook our heads no.

"So you think it's just a bundle of cells that's okay to kill?" she said.

"Well, I mean, no," each of us sputtered.

"Then when is it okay to kill, and when is not okay?" Molly asked. She wasn't being argumentative or accusatory or confrontational. She sincerely wanted to know. Her voice was conflicted, almost pained. I think she wanted to know what we thought because maybe it would help her unravel that paradox.

As I stumbled over an answer about when a fetus becomes viable, and how legally, a fetus isn't really a person (well, in most states), I realized that Molly's conflict was probably more common than my certainty. Because at the heart of her conflict was the emotional, gut-level response to abortion and what it means to say you're okay with ending a potential life.

I've never really stopped to think about this.

I spend so much time thinking about the woman, and her circumstances, and the need to protect her, that I don’t think at all about the fetus that would be her baby. I'm not sure if this is okay, or if it's a problem.

S has a close relative who works in an abortion clinic; S tells me all the time that the pro-choice movement does a horrible job recognizing that abortion can be a difficult and painful decision for many women, that it's deeply emotional, that those feelings matter. S is right. If someone says "I think abortion is murder," you can't answer with, "You have the right to feel that way, but don't infringe upon my choice." That's like saying, "If you think it's wrong to murder your mother, then don't murder your mother. But let me still murder mine."

So what did S and I say instead? We shrugged. We looked at each other. In some ways, it was like we were all three looking at the same thing, but through a prism, so that the contours and colors of that thing looked different to Molly than it did to us.

"This is an important conversation," S said on the elevator. "It's almost like both sides of the abortion issue need to take a step back and look at the language we use to talk about it."

The abortion battle isn't just about passing laws or fighting laws or keeping clinics open. It's about, as it always has been, how people feel. It's about what mothers teach their daughters. It's about what we value and what we fight for. And it's about answering Molly's emotional questions with something that doesn't feel like a court case citation.