Unplanned: The Dramatic True Story of a Former Planned Parenthood Leader's Eye-Opening Journey Across the Life Line by Abby Johnson, Cindy Lambert Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Abby Johnson, Cindy Lambert
paused and listened. The woman outside the fence had a kind face and continued speaking in quiet tones. The Planned Parenthood volunteer was trying in vain to get the client’s attention but hadn’t been fast enough. I watched as the client stepped toward the fence, then she and the pro-lifer walked side by side with the fence between them toward the open gate, where they came face-to-face.
“Uh-oh. They got one,” my trainer said. “I wish they’d leave these poor women alone. Do they have to harass them over such a personal decision? Why can’t they just accept that not everybody sees the world as black and white as they do?”
I watched as the pro-lifer handed our client some literature—she didn’t look like she felt harassed to me. Clearly, she’d chosen to talk to the pro-lifer. Her Planned Parenthood escort stood glaring at the pro-lifer for a moment before managing to get the client’s attention. The two then walked into the building.
I felt confused. That client had looked truly interested in the information from the pro-lifer. If we are prochoice , I thought, then we believe in women making their own choices, right? So why do we feel we need to protect clients from conversations about their choices? What does it hurt if they hear information and make the choice to leave? We want them to consider their alternatives and to make the decision that’s right for them. Right? I found myself wondering if I belonged here.
But another look across the fence jolted me from such thoughts—the marching woman with the horrid photo, the Grim Reaper now waving his scythe silently in the air, the sign with blood-red letters spelling out MURDERERS . Some of these people hardly seemed balanced, helpful, or reasonable. Clearly, they had an agenda of their own. They aren’t here offering women choices, I thought. They just don’t want them to choose abortion . I thought of the professional demeanor of the clinic director, Cheryl; the sparkling clean office inside with clinicians, a doctor, ultrasound equipment; all of the professionals able to offer cancer screening and STD testing. Surely we were on the right side, weren’t we?
Unsettled, I found myself looking forward to the end of my shift.
When my two-hour shift was finally up, I couldn’t wait to hand in my vest. I walked briskly toward my car, down the street. The female pro-lifer with the kind face I’d watched earlier fell in beside me.
“Hi. I’m Marilisa. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she said.
“No. It’s my first day.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from her, and I was a bit on guard. She was about my age—in fact, we’re only six months apart, we found out later—and she seemed nice.
“Can you tell me why? Why you’re volunteering?” she asked.
“Well—I don’t know for sure that I’ll be coming back. I’m just kind of checking it out.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Abby.”
She looked more serious then, and she said, “Abby, do you know they perform abortions?”
I’m not sure why I let my guard down so completely with her, a woman I’d never met before who definitely worked on the other side of the fence, but I told her something I’d told almost no one else at that point: “I’ve had an abortion myself. It was a decision I made, and I don’t have a problem with other women making the same decision.”
She nodded and looked thoughtful. “I’m so sorry you had to experience that, Abby.”
I was a little taken aback by the kindness in her voice.
“No, I’m okay with it, really. It was my decision. No one forced me.”
“All right. But you know, Abby—if you ever need help with any of that—”
And just then we heard a shout. It was Cheryl, the clinic director, literally hollering from just outside the side door of the clinic. “Leave her alone, Marilisa!” Her voice pierced the air.
I remember being startled. It had actually been a pretty pleasant conversation up to that point.
“Uh-oh. They got one,” my trainer said. “I wish they’d leave these poor women alone. Do they have to harass them over such a personal decision? Why can’t they just accept that not everybody sees the world as black and white as they do?”
I watched as the pro-lifer handed our client some literature—she didn’t look like she felt harassed to me. Clearly, she’d chosen to talk to the pro-lifer. Her Planned Parenthood escort stood glaring at the pro-lifer for a moment before managing to get the client’s attention. The two then walked into the building.
I felt confused. That client had looked truly interested in the information from the pro-lifer. If we are prochoice , I thought, then we believe in women making their own choices, right? So why do we feel we need to protect clients from conversations about their choices? What does it hurt if they hear information and make the choice to leave? We want them to consider their alternatives and to make the decision that’s right for them. Right? I found myself wondering if I belonged here.
But another look across the fence jolted me from such thoughts—the marching woman with the horrid photo, the Grim Reaper now waving his scythe silently in the air, the sign with blood-red letters spelling out MURDERERS . Some of these people hardly seemed balanced, helpful, or reasonable. Clearly, they had an agenda of their own. They aren’t here offering women choices, I thought. They just don’t want them to choose abortion . I thought of the professional demeanor of the clinic director, Cheryl; the sparkling clean office inside with clinicians, a doctor, ultrasound equipment; all of the professionals able to offer cancer screening and STD testing. Surely we were on the right side, weren’t we?
Unsettled, I found myself looking forward to the end of my shift.
When my two-hour shift was finally up, I couldn’t wait to hand in my vest. I walked briskly toward my car, down the street. The female pro-lifer with the kind face I’d watched earlier fell in beside me.
“Hi. I’m Marilisa. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she said.
“No. It’s my first day.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from her, and I was a bit on guard. She was about my age—in fact, we’re only six months apart, we found out later—and she seemed nice.
“Can you tell me why? Why you’re volunteering?” she asked.
“Well—I don’t know for sure that I’ll be coming back. I’m just kind of checking it out.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Abby.”
She looked more serious then, and she said, “Abby, do you know they perform abortions?”
I’m not sure why I let my guard down so completely with her, a woman I’d never met before who definitely worked on the other side of the fence, but I told her something I’d told almost no one else at that point: “I’ve had an abortion myself. It was a decision I made, and I don’t have a problem with other women making the same decision.”
She nodded and looked thoughtful. “I’m so sorry you had to experience that, Abby.”
I was a little taken aback by the kindness in her voice.
“No, I’m okay with it, really. It was my decision. No one forced me.”
“All right. But you know, Abby—if you ever need help with any of that—”
And just then we heard a shout. It was Cheryl, the clinic director, literally hollering from just outside the side door of the clinic. “Leave her alone, Marilisa!” Her voice pierced the air.
I remember being startled. It had actually been a pretty pleasant conversation up to that point.
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