Why You're Confused

I shouldn't have to be an escort. There's no reason that dozens of men and women should have to get up early every Saturday and stand out in the heat and the rain and the freezing Chicago winter to ensure that women are able to exercise rights that we won decades ago. And yet here I am, just a few hours after my first shift at the West Loop family planning clinic, having now seen firsthand what those women face on the short journey from their cars to the clinic doors.

All things considered, it was quieter than I expected. No shouting, no photos of bloody fetuses. Our anti-choicers obviously wanted to project a kind and gentle image, like they really were there just to help. Three tween girls handed out "gift bags" with baby booties and pamphlets in them, and I have to wonder how much of this was their own "sincerely held religion belief" and how much was just parroting their parents and pastors. One girl, during a moment of downtime, approached us with a spiel she had clearly been practicing at youth group:

"Hi, I'm Maggie. Since we're going to be standing here together for a while, do you maybe want to talk about why you're confused?"

I actually laughed out loud when she said that. I'm not confused. I know exactly how I feel. But the language was so obviously chosen to be non-confrontational, the wording so bland, that I can only assume they've tried more aggressive tactics and found them to be totally ineffective. So I laughed, and then ignored her.

It's a strange feeling, to ignore and despise these people that we're in such close quarters with; Midwestern courtesy is ingrained in my being. But I have to remind myself that they are literally there to prevent women from having reproductive freedom. They may be nice, polite people in some respects, but they are also trying to take away my rights. I'm sure that as I spend more time as an escort, any feelings of magnanimity I have toward them will fade.

Chicago still has a "buffer zone" law in effect, though I'm sure that even as I type, a team of anti-choice lawyers is writing up an appeal, using the recent Supreme Court decision as precedent. This means that within 30 feet of the clinic door, the antis have to stay 8 feel away from patients, unless they're given consent to approach them. Of course, as with so many people who fear and fail to comprehend women's sexuality, consent is a murky issue to them. When an anti yells "Hey you!" and a surprised patient turns around, they consider that consent to engage the patient in "conversation," which means spouting out a string of religious platitudes and scientific falsehoods at lightning speed while trying to shove pamphlets into the patients' hands. And, as always, those on our side of the fence would argue that the absence of a "no" is not the same thing as an enthusiastic "yes." So as escorts, we are also there as physical barriers between the protesters and the patients, because given the chance, the antis will steer them away from the clinic through any means necessary. Intimidation, lies, guilt, and coercion are all fair game. Some have even taken to wearing neon traffic vests to match ours, hoping to confuse the patients.

Over the course of the next few hours, my own most significant contribution is to tell someone where the parking meter is. But, I remind myself, maybe it is our presence that discourages a larger showing of antis. Maybe the quiet doesn't mean that they've assigned too many escorts to this clinic, or that I'm not really making a difference. Maybe it is quiet because we are there.