In the years since my miscarriage, there’s been this cute little trend by American (Republican) (male) politicians: they want to make miscarriage a crime.
Really, what they want is to make abortion a crime – a debate which I’m not even going to get into – but they’re so delusional that they think, if abortion were criminalized, women would have abortions and then claim we’d had miscarriages. So now they want us to prove that our miscarriages happened naturally, that there was no “human intervention” in the deaths of our zygotes or embryos or fetuses, and if we can’t, we will be considered criminals.
Let me pause to say that thankfully, because there are still more sane people in the American government than there are supporters of these bozos, none of these proposed bills have made it very far.
But in the latest incarnation of this idiocy, Georgia Republican Bobby Franklin not only wants to make abortion and miscarriage into crimes, he wants to make them into crimes punishable by the death penalty.
So under this law, a woman who’s just had a miscarriage would have to – I’m speculating – collect samples, get doctors notes, have printed ultrasound photos of her blighted ovum or dead fetus. She would then have to present this dossier to a review board, or better yet, go argue her case in a court. The article says it best when it summarizes, “Prove you didn’t murder your baby, or we might have to kill you. That’s the ‘pro-life’ way.”
Does this guy honestly think that a woman who’s suffered a miscarriage – or even a woman who’s actually chosen abortion, which I’m sure comes with some terrible and conflicted feelings of its own – is in any position to defend herself in a court setting? In a debate over this bill on a friend’s facebook page (because yes, apparently I have a friend who has a friend who thinks killing women is a good idea), I made the point that, in the weeks and months following my miscarriage, there were days when I would rather have died than continued living with the grief, the trauma, and the panic attacks.
Not that I think hoardes of spontaneous aborters would be flocking to Georgia for assisted suicide if this thing did pass, but obviously, we are in no emotional state to take on the added stress of facing legal action. The very proposition of such a bill is fucking insane, downright outraging, and yeah, a little laughable.
In other news, my mother, who has been adamently not reading my blog ever since its start date coincided with a vacation she was taking with her mother, to a place with no internet, told me last night that she’s giving up “not reading my blog” for Lent. She wrote me a beautiful, zillion-page letter about her feelings after having read the first few weeks of entries, and I am only a little apprehensive about what she’ll find and how she’ll feel going forward. She’s my mom, and I love her, but no relationship is perfect, and there have been moments where – because she wasn’t reading, though I always figured that one day she would – I’ve felt safe (lovingly, respectfully) talking shit about her in here. I went back last night and reread the most direct example, a letter I wrote her out of love and frustration, and I decided I am still prepared to own those feelings.
(It’s still a little scary.)
I started stitching as a favor –
cutting out parts that said too much,
or somehow not enough,
and mending up the holes.
I swore I’d never do this,
but you asked, and I cared.
And now my ring finger is heavy,
click-click-click-click, and still I sew.
The missing pieces aren’t lost to us,
but it’s not the pieces that I miss,
and I’ve caused death by my tight lacing.
(April 8, 2002)