I would say that I am ashamed that I have to write this, but that would imply there is some kind of inherent wrongdoing in my womanhood and the way I choose to express it. Instead, I’ll say that I am angry, and I am embarrassed. On July 1, North Carolina joined the shameful wave of states that have effectively banned abortion after Roe V. Wade was overturned last June by the Supreme Court. I am not ashamed, but North Carolina legislators should be.
I am angry because North Carolina is my home and has failed me and every woman here. Women who are still girls, who are mothers or who one day hope to become one, and those who never will. I am angry because I have spent the better part of my life so far, short as it may be, fighting for a better North Carolina for all who call it home, and it has done nothing but fight me back. This is why they call us a purple state. Not because there’s true balance between conservative and liberal power and ideologies, but because that’s the shade a bruise leaves when you’re knocked to the ground, again and again.
I am embarrassed because, one day, if I choose to have a child of my own, having a choice at all will be a miracle to make alone. Embarrassed because god forbid that child would be a daughter, and instead of telling her stories of triumph and growth, I will have to tell her that my mother had more rights at my age than I do, and that her story will be the same. It was written for all of us. But what is truly embarrassing is that somewhere in our state’s capitol, there is a group of (mostly) men gathered in a stuffy office who truly believe that they know my body better than I do. They believe this blindly and ruthlessly, not only at my expense, as a privileged white woman living in true-blue Chapel Hill, but also at the expense of LGBTQIA+ women, women of color, women in the rural parts of our state, and others.
Not every woman has the privilege of living down the street from a Planned Parenthood, who offers much more than just abortion services, or has the advantage of the head start that comes with legislators who look like them. If our government is so concerned with “protecting” women and children, maybe they should concern themselves less with the kind of protection that comes in a foil wrapper and more with the kind that’s decided in hushed conversations and the hallowed halls of a senate chamber. Inclusive, thoughtful and informed lawmaking should not be a pipe dream, but for women in our state, that’s what it’s become.
What I struggle to admit, though, is that I’m scared — terrified, even. I don’t know what to do next. But perhaps poet Danusha Laméris has the clarity I haven’t yet learned, when she writes, “how lightly we learn to hold hope, as if it were an animal that could turn around and bite your hand. And still, we carry it the way a mother would, carefully, from one day to the next.”
It’s ironic how moments of crisis, pain and grief are the ones that push you to the front lines of change and ignite your instincts the way little else can. I am angry, embarrassed, and yes, deeply afraid. But I am also awake, and aware. If mothers are what they want — our legislators, our nation, our futures — that’s what we will give them. I will mother my hope, my anger, and every bit of my fear. Thankfully, the General Assembly isn’t the only thing with teeth.
(feature image via AP Photo/Hannah Schoenbaum)
Jade is originally from Southwest Florida but has lived in North Carolina for over a decade. She graduated from UNC Chapel Hill with a double major in Political Science and Artistic Management, spent most of her time in college campaigning for local and state elections, and is a proud alum of The Daily Tar Heel. Today, she works in public communications at UNC. You can find her on Twitter here and read more of her work here.
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