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.

Alone Time

I haven't been to the clinic in a while because I had guests and was out of town, but I finally got a chance to go back this weekend. It was another slow morning; there were only two antis there, maybe because it's suddenly gotten unseasonably cold here. I guess saving women from themselves is more of a warm-weather activity.

Because it was so quiet, I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how frustrating this whole process is. If there weren't two seventy-something men trying to shove pamphlets at the women and their companions trying to walk into the clinic, I wouldn't have to be standing out there, stamping my feet and counting down the minutes until they gave up. Because if the antis aren't there, there's no reason for us to be there either. Without protesters, we would be obsolete. Which would be wonderful.

The image of these two elderly white men trying to impose their own views on the women who come to the clinic, despite the fact that they are completely lacking in context or information, is an unfortunately familiar one. It gets played out over and over again in Congress, in the courts, and in everyday life. The idea that women aren't capable of making their own decisions, that if they just had a little more time, a little more information, they would come around to the "right" answer. As if these women haven't spent hours or days playing this decision out again and again in their heads by the time they get to the clinic. As if being told by these men, "Well, honey, why don't you just give it a little more thought?" is in any way helpful. As if by bringing an unwanted child into the world, they could force it to be loved, simply because it was born.

Eventually Phil (the main old-guy anti) and his old-man friend wandered away, and then it was just us, the escorts. Eventually we left too. Because without the antis, there's no reason for us to add one more layer of possibly stressful interaction to these women's days. They're not looking for anyone to baby them, to walk them across the street, to make smalltalk as they potentially head towards a difficult decision. Absent our role as buffers, they don't want us there any more than we want to be there. These women want to be treated like adults, both by the law and by us. They want to be able to make their decisions without being second-guessed by people they've never met, and they want to go about it with dignity and privacy. So when there's no one there trying to disrupt that, we leave, and let them think, walk, mourn, celebrate, and decide for themselves.

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.