I am pro-life. Firmly. I believe in minimizing war casualties as moral imperative. I believe that allowing a single one of our citizens to die from an untreated common illness is societal murder. I believe in minimizing the need for abortion with decent sex-ed and widely available birth control. I believe that extrajudicial killing by uniformed agents of the state is homicide, and that the undeniable racism of it is the moral disgrace of our time. And I think that it’s abominable that people who are willing to malign tiny children because of the bare fact of their birthplace dare use the term pro-life.
The intimidation tactics and fear-mongering of the sort of people who put up Nativity scenes while screaming about the impossibility of housing even small refugee children weighed heavily in my decision to have an abortion.
I discovered that I was pregnant not long after a thing I wrote went viral. It was a couple of pages about what it was like to be exhausted and hopeless and be told that you simply needed to work harder or give up more. It was about my life, and the lives of millions of others. Lives spent working for low pay with no benefits, no ladder to climb, no real belief that anything can change.