Dr. Tiller

Jun. 2nd, 2009 08:16 pm
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I'm having a hard time with Dr. Tiller's murder. I have missed it on the news cycles, thankfully, but it is all over the internet. Having built and birthed my own child I am more sensitive to this issue than I was 2 years ago. I have heard from thoughtful, though dogmatic, individuals that a person cannot be both pro-life and pro-choice, but I think these politicized terms are a false dichotomy. I claim both. Maybe out of a desire to piss off each side. I hate the abortion debate with the power of a thousand white hot suns. It in no way addresses the issues at hand. Yes, abortion is killing the unborn. But an eight week old fetus is not the same entity as a 29 week baby. If you mourn the passing of a first trimester fetus, then I think you ought to be vegetarian. Squid are more intelligent than a fetus. If it's the potential for human life you are concerned for, then why aren't you doing more to support the lives that exist here and now? Approximately 25% of all pregnancies spontaneously miscarry in the first trimester. Are these women murderers or culpable in some way?

And yet, I would weep if one of my close friends chose to abort. I have had a good friend, pregnant, wonder if she should keep her baby, and I have talked with Adam about offering to adopt the baby if she would consent to carry it to term.

Abortion sucks. It is something that I wish no woman ever had to choose. Sure, there are some stupid women out there who are careless and use it as birth control. Sure. But I'll take them as collateral damage to protect the rights of women who are raped, who have no health insurance and are told their child will have severe disabilities, whose partners are abusive and know that her home is no place for a child, who are starting out in life and are partnerless, who didn't have access to birth control to begin with.

There are plenty of professions I don't agree with, plenty of individuals whose morals and choices disgust me. Do I think they deserve to die? No, I do not. Those who rejoice in Dr. Tiller's murder are misguided and cruel. They are as cruel as the man they claimed deserve to die.

ETA: Because of the murder issue, I am coming down hard on the "pro-life" side of things, but I also am not a fan of the "pro-choice" side of politics. When NOW or other sorts of "feminist" organizations start branching out and doing more for women's health in general then perhaps I'll be inclined to give them money. Women's health includes more than just the right to abort. It includes advocating for pre- and post-natal care for women, it involves pressing for the rights of midwives and homebirth, it involves working for access to birth control and education. Etcetera.
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I have a cold.

Bennett continues to sleep only in hour long stretches. Then he "wakes" and fusses. Why won't he sleep?

I have worked a lot this week.

Adam no longer wants to bed share with Bennett. I do. But I understand - the tossing and waking is hard to take. I don't want to sleep train, but something has to change.

I went to a work meeting in the city today and had lunch with several of the wealthiest women in the San Francisco Jewish community. One wore super fancy clothes I've only seen in magazines. She also has two live-in nannies (for two kids) and a personal assistant - and she's my age. Very nice! But I just couldn't relate. Plus, I felt down right dumpy and bland in my ill fitting slacks and bad hair.

Why is that when I'm away from Bennett I can't wait to be with him again, yet when I get home I wish I didn't have to entertain him so I could do one thing with out it taking four times as long?

Tomorrow we leave for San Diego for the weekend.

For all you JDHS alumns, I just heard that Karyn Price passed in her sleep last night.

Great loss

Dec. 15th, 2008 12:06 pm
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I don't know how I missed the entry.... well, I do. I was working all day yesterday and didn't read my friends page. A woman from one of my due date communities lost her sweet, beautiful daughter yesterday. I have been crying my eyes out at work. I cannot even imagine the grief. I have never met this woman, but I respect her so much and I loved her stories and pictures of her little girl.

This puts every difficult day in perspective. I will take a hundred difficult nights of crying and sore nipples and getting kicked in the belly and a hundred zombie days of sleep deprivation if it means another day of little Bennett's smiles and snuggles.

What is remembered lives.
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I made the mistake of watching the cell phone video of the stoning to death of a 17 year old Iraqi girl. It was an "honor killing." As Twisty Faster posted:

The Daily Mail and other reports title the story more or less like this: “Teenage girl was stoned to death for loving the wrong boy.” Implying that the girl, however much sympathy we have for her, nevertheless brought the savagery on herself.

I knew better than to watch it. I think there are more than one? I've gotten emails, seen various posts, but finally went back and clicked on one. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I did not need to see a mostly dead girl, with her skirt up around her waist, bloodied, surrounded by a circle of men yelling and picking up huge rocks and hurling them on her.

Do I cry? Do I throw up?

Men are scary. How can women thrive, much less live, in a place where making a personal choice violates some other man's claim to property and he can, with a little help from his friends, kill you? In broad daylight. And no one will stop them.

And people roll their eyes when I talk about feminism and patriarchy.


Jan. 26th, 2007 09:40 am
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No one ever finds another's dreams terribly interesting. Knowing that I plow ahead anyway to report that I had another death dream last night. I will spare many of the details leading up to the act, except to say that a man and his teenage son were killed by a large lurking dark executioner: their hair grabbed from behind and stabbed in the back. Upon replaying the dream in my dream, I was caught by the executioner witnessing the death of the boy in a garden. I ran to the dark shed where the man had been strung up and killed. Strange that that's where I chose to run to - I was hoping I could merge with the already dead man and fool the executioner. (Upon getting my bike this morning I realized the shed was an awful lot like the bike storage unit in my apartment building.) Unfortunately, the enormous executioner caught up with me before I could merge with the man. From behind he stabbed me in the back. I slumped to the ground and he closed my eyes and took off my shoes and left. I was relieved that he hadn't noticed I was still alive. I hoped my coat would block a lot of the bleeding. Blood began to fill my mouth: thick, warm and iron. I sat up to gush it out of my mouth. I did this twice. I heard someone outside. Getting up laboriously, I went to the door. "Help me! I'm starting to get cold," I said. The man, so distinct and blonde, had a strange sort of amused look on his face. He turned to leave. "Wait!" I said, "Who are you going to tell?" "The narrator," he replied, as if "of course." Who is this narrator, I thought? I went back to lie down in my spot. A very very tall, pale, older man entered the door frame: the doctor. He bent down to check my pulse. More blood pooled in my mouth. I don't think there was much hope for me.

I woke. Wondering if I had been drooling I checked my mouth. Nope no drool. But there was a tight chill in the place in my back where I had been stabbed in my dream.
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"They" say that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. I know that not to be true. Twice in my late teens I died in my dreams. In one, one of my few black and white dreams, I was the victim of a drive-by beheading. Yes, you read that correctly. I got to see my severed head and slumped body lying in a ditch on one of the Valley roads. In the second one I was shot and could taste the metallic blood in my mouth and feel my lungs filling up with fluid as breathing became shorter and harder. Those dreams were not scary and happened well over 10 years ago.

Last night I had another strange death dream. I was in an apartment and someone strange, someone who shouldn't have been there, was in the apartment as well. He had a gun and shot the man in front of him, turned and shot the person to his side, and then shot me, just below my collar bone, dead center. I slumped to the ground and he shot me in the small of my back. I could feel the warm, sticky, viscous blood seeping from my body, pooling around me as I lay face first on the carpet. We are not entirely dead. I wonder if someone has a cell phone they can reach to call 911. Help must come quickly. We know we are dying with every breath. The door opens and a man and woman and the strange shadowy third, like the being that shot us, enter. They take one of the men outside and do something horrible to him involving a blow torch. They set him on fire. I am put on a dolly and trucked upstairs. I notice on the hallway floor the shiniest sharpest butcher knife I have ever seen in my life. In the bathroom the woman begins to undress me. Somehow I can stand. I am dressed in overalls and layers and layers of clothes; I am reminded of Halloweens as a kid when I would be triple layered: clothes, snowsuit, costume. I ask the woman if she is here to put mercifully put us out of our misery or if she has a weird kink. She smiles at me as she reaches the naked and unstained flesh of my belly. She says it is a shame I have to die.

I wake. Even my subconcious knows this is too disturbing. I do not want to know what would have happened next.


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October 2010



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