Write Your Abortion Story II
Folks have asked me to offer this generative class again, so here it is.
I remember clearly where I was when I heard that the Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade back in June. It was my daughter’s high school graduation and also the ninth anniversary of my brother’s death. The day was already dense with emotion. When I heard, I put my feelings in a little box for later consideration. It was all too much.
Yes, we knew this was going to happen. Yes, the news was no less gut wrenching.
I spent days watching the protests on TV, engaging in online conversations, talking to friends, and wondering what I could do, how I could get involved.
What came out of this was my first online Write Your Abortion Story class that happened on July 2nd. The response was tremendous. Since then, I’ve been repeatedly asked to offer the class again. I heard you.
The next Write Your Abortion Story class is Wednesday, August 31st, 7-9pm Eastern. It’s pay what you can. To register or ask questions, email: writingourlivesworkshop@gmail.com.
Why this issue is so important to me? I had an abortion when I was 18. I have never regretted it.
How am I equipped to facilitate this class? My essay about the experience, “1994”, is forthcoming in an anthology edited by Aracelis Girmay. Here’s an excerpt:
When I think about the year 1994, I hear a line on loop in my head from Pete Rock and CL Smooth’s “They Reminisce Over You”: “Irresponsible, plain not thinking…”
I was 18, a freshman at Columbia University, in love with a drug dealer from uptown.
I met him when I was 12. He was 20, one of the guys that hung out on the corner of the block where my grandmother lived. I passed by that corner every chance I got. I made sure when I did, my long hair was neat, half up, half down; shirt fitted against my budding breasts, pants hugging my ass. I batted my lashes. Pursed my lips. I was so hungry for attention, and those guys were more than willing to quench that hunger. They commented on how beautiful I was, what a nice body I had. “Que nena tan linda.”
I was also rageful in that adolescent angst way that happens as a result of trauma. I didn’t hesitate to sneer, “Get the fuck away from me” if they got too close. One grabbed my hand and I shoved him away, “Don’t fuckin touch me.” They said I had that Brooklyn stank attitude. I didn’t care. But I still wanted them to want me.
Then there was him. Bottle bottom glasses, missing front tooth, deep, scratchy voice. He didn’t get too close. Knew he’d get a hard glare and a “véteme de allí.” He’d always smile and say, “Hi, Vanessa.” I’d roll my eyes and keep on walking, but I couldn’t hide the pull at the corners of my lips. I was pleased by his worship of me.
I was walking by their huddle one day, the summer after my freshman year in boarding school. Being away on my own made me even more ravenous for attention, but I played it off better, or so I thought. I didn’t see him coming.
He put his lips close to my ear. Whispered: “You’re gonna be mine one day.” I pushed him away. Said: “You wish.” He laughed and watched me saunter away.
I was 14. He was 22.
When I was 16, he got me like he said he would. He was 24….
It was the second semester of my freshman year at Columbia University, and I was living in campus housing. He stayed with me every night. On the morning after Valentine’s Day, I snuck out of the twin bed we shared to go to the student health center, conveniently located on the ground floor of my dorm.
“The pregnancy test is positive,” the nurse said in a deadpan tone that shocked me more than the news. I couldn’t stop staring at her wrist, so thin and fragile, it looked like it belonged to a child. She handed me a pamphlet and said as she walked out, “You can find resources in there. Good luck.” I looked down at what she’d handed me. “So you’re pregnant…” stared at me in large, bold font.
I miscarried days later. It was too easy. I didn’t learn my lesson.
When I went back to the health center in April, the nurse looked up at me after scanning my chart. “It says here you were pregnant in February.” She stared at me over the glasses she had perched on the tip of her thin nose. She held my chart in one hand and a pen in the other. I imagined the pen poised over the note on my first pregnancy.
I stared at the white walls, the counter with its jars of cotton balls and tongue compressors, the box of sterile gloves.
“You’re pregnant again,” she said when she came back into the room. The door wasn’t fully closed behind her. It felt like she was spitting the words at me. I hopped off the examination table. The tissue paper stuck to the back of my legs and ripped. I made to leave with it still stuck to my thighs. She reached down and pulled it off.
“Here,” she passed me the “So you’re pregnant” pamphlet. “Do you still have it from last time?” I snatched it from her and left.
There was no question for me that I couldn’t have a kid. When my mother found out I was with him, she flipped out. Yanked me by my hair. Punished me by denying me her love. She was right about him. He was trash. But I didn’t want to see that then. I felt so alone, I didn’t tell anyone but him.
I had to do some shady shit to pay for the abortion. He said he didn’t have it. When he showed up with brand new Versace glasses, I said nothing.
I needed to write that story. And maybe you need to write yours too.
I believe in the power of story. That’s why I do the work I do. Why I write what I write. Why I created the Writing Our Lives Workshop.
And it’s why I created this class.
Had an abortion? Want to/need to write your story about it?
Or maybe you had a miscarriage and had to have a D&C,
Or maybe it was an ectopic pregnancy.
Whatever it is/was, I created this class to help you write your story.
I will lead you through various exercises & prompts to get you underway.
Do you have to be a writer to take this class? No.
This class is for folks who:
are writers
are not writers
are published
are not published
hope to publish their stories
aren’t even thinking about publishing
want to write their stories for themselves
are undecided but know they need to write it now
When: Wednesday, August 31st, 7-9pm EST
Where: Zoom
How much: Pay what you can
Interested? Have questions?: writingourlivesworkshop@gmail.com