It has been a long, joyless 342 days since the hard right announced its crusade to eradicate womyn’s rights and to throw civilization back into the dark ages. The Wellsley college campanile sounded shrill in the frigid wintry air at ten a.m. – a harsh reminder of the places in the world where freedom does not ring.
Awakening in the hostile sunlight, I logged into my Facebook. Hysterical reports had flooded into my inbox of a Socon conspiracy to protest neonatal infanticide at Planned Parenthood headquarters at high noon. The revelation jolted me more than any mocha half-caf cappuccino. Here was a spur to action that instantly shook off the hangover of those strawberry wine coolers I drank last night. So I threw on my rainbow leg warmers and laced up my combat boots. Time to return to the grisly profession of war.
My blackberry was abuzz with nervous Tweets about the potential implications of ending late term abortions and infanticide. Would life go on as we know it? How would womyn cope with the knowledge that a lady could not whimsically spread her legs and then snuff out the unfortunate results of the tryst later? If we radical feminists gave the frothing-at-the-mouth “pro-life”sociopaths late-term abortions, or heaven forbid, neonatal infanticide, the next thing you know it’s the return of the malleus maleficarum and the Salem witch trials. Not on my watch.
Strolling out onto the campus courtyard, my sisters were already congregated and ready for action. I was the tallest of the group, and sensitive to the impressions of my sisters, I strove not to flaunt my lithe, lanky body and brown flaxen hair, which I kept tucked in a bun under my Che-style beret. My lengthy army green field jacket also guaranteed no wandering predatory masculine eyes could take in my feminine assets.
As I approached on the white paved walkway, I encountered a stocky girl of the athletic type dressed in a gray Wellsley sweatshirt and black stretch pants, taking in the cool mist of the evaporating dew and the warm scent of the radiant morning sun. It was Becky, my best gal pal. She was wielding a sign “Stay Out of My Womb!” while our nerdy, whip-smart friend Sandra, a diminutive red-haired girl of modest persuasion, had taken up the plight of the condomless with her custom T-shirt “Fluck You, Where’s Our Condoms?!”
We assembled at the pavilion with the Structural Feminist Society and countenanced our plan of attack. Social conservatives were not to be trifled with, having been raised on red meat and possibly harboring communicable diseases like rabies. We imagined the best tactic would be to yell as piercingly as we could, repeating the same chants over and over until we got our way.
“What about… racists, sexists, homophobes, leave those abortion docs alone?” Sandra meekly proffered to the group of seventeen college girls and the Gender Studies professor Ms. Shwarthely.
“What does that have to do with abortion and reproductive rights?” I asked, slightly confused.
“Yes, exactly,” Ms. Shwarthely muttered dryly, a wry smile creasing on her thin, pursed lips.
After forming en masse, we stridently took to the streets, armed only with our witty placards and a ray of hope. What we were fighting for was a more just world for all of us. And we would be damned if some redneck, teabagging socons were going to take away our right to partial birth abortion or neonatal infanticide.
The clack of heavy black Sketchers pounded on the pavement like an advancing army. Seventeen raucous warriors fighting for the cause of all adult womyn ready to do battle with our worst of enemies – the ignorant right-wing reactionary.
The Planned Parenthood office was a flurry of activity, as dozens of white, middle-aged, trailer park trash had gathered on the sidewalk, carrying Bibles and other mysogynistic hate literature. Horribly graphic pictures of healthy infants shocked and stirred us to engage.
“Sisters, let’s mobilize!” Ms. Shwarthely yelled through a bull-horn. The short-haired, bespectacled professor led the charge to the head of the protest group, a priest who was mumbling some Bible verses. She got right in his face.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she bellowed in righteous fury. “Protesting abortion? Neonatal infanticide? What business of yours is this?”
“Why…” the idiotic preacher splurted out, “I just think it’s morally wrong…”
“Morally wrong?” Ms. Swarthely howled magnificently. “Why these…” she wrapped her hand against a placard bearing an image of a fetus “…are just blobs of protoplasm, inconsequential bits of matter, and it is up to we womyn to decide if they live or die!”
“But…” the bumbling fool struggled to make out, “Don’t you see that all life is precious?”
“Precious? Precious?!? How many children will starve to feed this drain on society that you would like to see the light of day? Womyn, enough! Time to chant!”
Our voices raised to the sky, we chanted in unison. Our hymn flooded over our enemies gloriously, more potently than any Christian choir. One suburban WASP female burst into tears because of our stirring chorus. I gave my friend Becky a high-five and took out my camera phone. My friends would not believe the ridiculous teabagging rednecks who dared to mess with our girl power.
An hour of our brigade, nicknamed “Task Force Vagina,” chanting “racist, bigot, homophobe” wore down our adversaries. At last, bittersweet victory. One of the hateful hillbillies yelled, “You are all going to hell!”- only proving they were a bunch of crazy hatemongers. Then finally, the coup de grâce. The invariable “baby killer!” meme was uttered. I caught it all on my camera phone, which brought an irresistible grin to my face. But Sandra was visibly upset.
“Hey, lady!” she cried. “I don’t like being called names!”
This was unacceptable. One of my sisters had been emotionally wounded in combat. I folded up my cellphone and rushed to comfort my wounded comrade by putting my arm around her shoulder. Just then, a womyn showed up to enter the clinic, bravely making her way through the crowd of contorted faces. Meekly, shuffling her way through, she lifted her eyes only to parse the meaning of the confrontation. Her expression was grave.
Awkwardly, I smiled at the young black woman with a reassuring look on my face that communicated ‘just ignore the signs.’ The obviously lonely and afraid girl seemed to pluck up for a moment and then returned to her grim state after she walked by.
Why was this world so cruel? What good were all these protests if a womyn like her was forced to bear the curse of an unwanted child, and left no choice but to terminate it? If only the world were one collective, sharing all, no one would go without want, no one would go hungry, and no one would be shamed for the unavoidable results of free love…
“Hey, you!” a ferocious masculine shout snapped me back to attention. “Whores of Babylon!”
Back to the fray. Back to the cause of fighting for womyn everywhere.
The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.
Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and BeatObamaPac, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.