Savannah Sipple
Two Days Before Abortion Stopped in Kentucky
Forty-eight hours before Roe v. Wade fell and Kentucky’s trigger ban went into effect, I parked my car at the end of a block near the only operating abortion clinic in the state. I turned to my friend, who I’ll call Nicole, and said, “If you have AirPods, put them in. Walk straight in. I need to pay the meter, but I’m right behind you.” Two white women in khakis and floral tops had followed us down the block. I noticed them because they weren’t wearing the orange vests the clinic escorts wore. When I opened the door, they were already waiting on the sidewalk just outside the car.
* * *
I could have been one of those women. I grew up in a conservative, religious part of eastern Kentucky where fundamental Christianity rules. For most of my upbringing, I recognized the pastors, choir leaders, and Sunday school teachers as the folks who lived the kindness they preached. When someone’s family member died they cooked food, cleaned house, and prayed with the grieving. My childhood home burned down when I was fifteen years old. The churches provided my family with money, clothing, household items, and shoulders to cry on. They regularly took up offerings and gave food to those struggling.
What I didn’t recognize at the time were the microaggressions. They’d say slight comments about Catholicism, which confused me as a kid because part of my family was Catholic. They’d makes jokes about gays. Preachers pronounced lesbians the scourge of the nation because they dared to live without men. I was closeted, but I was both the butt of the joke and then the monster. Still, I was devout. This kind of confusing Christianity where hate is enmeshed with love was the only kind of sacred available to me. Even when my personal beliefs stood in contrast to what I was taught, I remained silent. I heard church folks disparage women who sought abortions. I heard their judgements, the way words like abomination, backslider, and sin always carried a tone of disgust and dismissal. And I stood by.
* * *
As soon as our car doors opened, the two women who had followed us started talking. The elder one encouraged me to park down the street, near another clinic where the parking was free. I realized later the parking was free because this is where they encouraged women to go so they could pressure them out of getting an abortion. I pulled out my credit card and stuck it in the parking meter. The older woman followed Nicole toward the clinic while the younger one stood directly behind me. I could feel her, close enough she didn’t have to speak loudly over the street construction for me to hear her say, “What you’re doing isn’t going to help your friend.”
I paid, turned, scooted past her, and headed to the clinic. She followed right behind me. Nicole had made it inside. Now the older lady looped back to me. I found out later she had tried to hold my friend’s hand, had quoted Bible verses and spat accusations of murder at her. What this woman didn’t know: Nicole is a single mom who has children at home. While she was trying to grasp Nicole’s hand, she didn’t bother asking any questions. Nicole’s experiences as a woman were, effectively, erased. The long hours Nicole works didn’t matter to the women. Nor did it matter that the father of her children continues to try to avoid paying child support, that he abuses and manipulates the family in any way he can.
* * *
A few years ago, I attended a baby shower for a child who was going to be adopted. Most of the women there went to church with the adoptive mother. During the course of the celebration, one of the women expressed their happiness that the baby had been placed in such a loving home. It was a true comment that resonated with me, until one of the other women growled, “Yes, praise God his mother chose adoption. I don’t know how anyone could choose to murder their child. Those women have to be stopped. We should picket every day.”
She spat the word despicable at some point. It hung in the air as the other women nodded their heads. I froze, not because I hadn’t heard these sentiments before. The disdain in her voice truly surprised me. This woman reminded me so much of the church ladies who raised me: soft-spoken, generous, caring. In a split second, her entire demeanor shifted. I couldn’t believe how hateful she sounded. And, again, I didn’t say anything.
* * *
As I approached the clinic, signs displaying fetuses and babies lined the edge of the sidewalk. A few men were marching around in front of the doors, loitering as close as they could while still being considered on public property. The women’s voices faded as I opened the door to the clinic and handed my license to the receptionist. She verified my identity and pushed a button to unlock the door to the waiting room. Nicole was inside filling out paperwork. The nurse called Nicole back into an exam room.
Before the abortion procedure, women are subjected to several prenatal exams, including a pregnancy test, urine test, an ultrasound, and extensive discussion and counseling about the decision they have made. There’s a much less obvious reason for removing the women from the waiting room as soon as possible, and it became clear soon after Nicole was called back. A preacher shouted outside with the protestors. He had a megaphone he used to directly address those inside the clinic. I sat close to the window that separated the waiting room from the sidewalk outside. Despite the thick tempered glass and the closed blinds, his word were clear: “To the women inside the waiting room, you do not have to do this.”
He continued on to quote Bible verses and make accusations about sexual promiscuity. He made appeals to the men in the waiting room. His words echoed in my head to the point where I decided to play Lizzo via the speaker on my phone. I knew I was risking being an annoyance as well, but I didn’t want anyone in that room to hear him. For close to three hours, as more women came into the clinic, the preacher would periodically start addressing the waiting room. He was relentless. Each time he started, I played a new song. It’s a form of privilege to be the woman in the abortion clinic waiting room who can play music to drown out the hate speech. I recognize that.
* * *
I don’t recognize many of the people who raised me. Their “practice what you preach” mentality only extends so far. They’re unwilling to discuss, much less vote for, changes that actually need to be made. They don’t favor paying a living wage, paying slightly higher taxes, or even taxing multimillion dollar corporations to support the healthy building of families. They aren’t in favor of comprehensive sex education because “that should be left to the parents.” They seem to have little interest in holding men accountable for their actions, particularly when it comes to sexual assault and domestic abuse. I hear some of them say “love the sinner, hate the sin” when they’re talking about my queer community, but most of the time I hear them speak against us. I don’t hear much about racial inequity beyond, “I treat everyone how I want to be treated” or “Racism doesn’t exist anymore.” I hold close one foundational teaching: to love other people. Period. And that’s in the Bible, in both Matthew and Mark. Somewhere in the evangelical church there has been a shift. To love other people (and to legislate against them). To love other people (and impose your own beliefs on them). Love other people (and judge them).
Here is what I can tell you: it can take time to deprogram a mind. It took me almost ten years. From the outside, it’s easy to see it as hate culture. From the inside, it’s a confusing mix of proclaimed love coupled with hate. Perhaps I first learned just how much words matter while growing up in the evangelical church because I constantly saw the way they were used to control and manipulate others. When I lived surrounded by the mountains of fundamentalism, it was hard to bite the hand that feeds you. Sometimes the pastor and his buddies are the only ones who come to help when catastrophic floods hit. That makes it hard to speak up when he preaches against Roe v. Wade or drag-queen story hours. It’s hard to write this essay.
I don’t have the answer. I could have spoken up at the baby shower and told them about the experiences of women I know who have had abortions. I couldn’t yell back at the preacher, so I played music. I have to start somewhere to process the ways fundamental Christianity has influenced the government to chip away at basic rights so many have fought to maintain. Every day I have to start somewhere to see how fundamentalism has influenced me. So, I write it. My first book, a collection of poetry, is about coming out in Appalachia, about growing up queer in a rural, religious space. One reason I write is to process and expose injustice. Writing is the one way I know to move forward.
* * *
The abortion protestors left the clinic around 11:30 a.m., around the time the intake of patients slows and procedures begin. Nicole and I were at the clinic for around six hours. On the way home, she ate a few bites and slept the rest of the way. She was given ibuprofen for any pain. I watch her with her children, and I know she made the right decision. They are loved and cared for, but it’s a struggle. Nicole works hard and is fortunate to have a small support system. I say all those things as if I should have to justify her decision. I don’t. Neither does she.
It took me ten years to deprogram my mind, but the clock has run out. Fundamentalism is no longer a threat. It’s right here: in our doctors’ offices, in our judges’ robes, in our voting booths, on the sidewalk, waiting for us to get out of the car.
Savannah Sipple (she/her) is the author of WWJD & Other Poems (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2019), which was included on the American Library Association’s 2020 Over the Rainbow Booklist for recommended LGBTQ reading. A writer from east Kentucky, her writing has been published in Salon, Go Magazine, Split This Rock, and other places. A professor, editor, and writing mentor, Sipple resides in Lexington, KY, with her wife.