I See You

This week is all about exposure. About people who want to drag the potentially darkest, most heart-wrenching moments of strangers out into the light, for the rest of the world to judge. It's the same self-righteous, sanctimonious sense of morality that has Internet "journalists" revealing the identity of rape survivors and the antis outside of the clinic filming everyone who goes in. In our case, it's not even meant to silence--the men and women who come to the clinic aren't there for attention. If anything, they want to go about their business unnoticed. It's meant to shame. To embarrass. To make sure they know that as they live their lives as best they can, there's a group of strangers who knows nothing about their circumstances or choices that is passing judgment.

There were double the number of antis that I've usually seen at the clinic this week. Mainly thirty-something men, all wearing blue sweatshirts emblazoned with "WITNESS" on the front. And all with small digital cameras strapped to their chests, filming every moment. They stood next to the clinic doors (blatantly disregarding Illinois buffer zone laws) and documented every person who approached. Across the street, another man with a serious camera on a tripod kept it trained on the clinic door, catching straight-on shots of everyone who left.

People who walked past were disgusted. One man asked if we wanted him to go smash their cameras. We told him that we couldn't encourage him to do so, but that we certainly weren't there to protect camera equipment. (Sadly, he didn't follow up on it.) Another woman asked me if what they were doing was legal. When I told her that, unfortunately, it was, she yelled "Shame on you!" as she walked away. As the cameraman turned around, I pointed at him. I wanted to make sure he knew that it wasn't we who should be ashamed.

We stood in the cold, stomping our feet and trying to pass the time. Then one of the antis, who had been trying to hand out "gift bags" filled with baby booties and scientific misinformation to clinic visitors, pulled out her iPhone and turned to film me. She stood there, ten feet away, with her camera trained on me. And so I did what anyone else does when a camera is pointed at them--I smiled and waved.

None of the escorts are ashamed to be here. We're not trying to hide what we do from the world. (It would be difficult, since we wear neon pink vests that say "PRO-CHOICE CLINIC ESCORT" across the chest.) And even more than not being embarrassed, I'm proud of what I do. If these people consider me some sort of threat to their mission, then I'm doing something right. I hope that somewhere, on some sad, secret Facebook page, there's a video of me, waving at the woman who's trying to take away my rights. Next time, I'll ask her if she wants a close-up.