Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Politics Is/Are Life Changing

My Dad drives a train. That's not a metaphor. He actually sits in the back of a giant choo-choo and makes it go.

My daughter calls her lady bits her choochoo. That is NOT what I am talking about, here. I'm talking about a train.

Sometimes, he drives the train past my house and waves. Fortunately, my property line sits just a few feet from a set of railroad tracks. It would be very awkward, otherwise.

Perpendicular to those tracks, and still along the edge of my property, is a road. When the train crosses the road, or when it's about to, or both, Dad has to blow the whistle on the train.

That's not a metaphor, either. He has to blow the horn. Not his own horn, the train's horn. Dad doesn't own the train. He just drives it.

My point is, there's a law. It's the warning signal law. Wait. The point is not that there is a law. The point is that this law affects my life, and laws don't become laws without someone having made a political decision. Therefore, political decisions affect my life.

All. The. Time.

I only mention it because Jonathan asked me to talk about a time when a political decision had affected my life. It would be a lot more interesting if I were to tell of a time when one hadn't.

So, here's something for you. How many teenage girls have abortions in America each year? Oh.. Google! Where art thou?

The answer is... 234,000. (Holy shit, that's a lot of babies. Yes, they are. Don't even fucking argue with me.) Girl's between the ages of 15-17 account for 78,000 of them.

That's according to the Guttmacher Institute, 2005, kinda outdated, but whatever, because I was just curious, and those numbers really don't have too much to do with my story.

In January of 1973 (note the date), the Federal Government "legalized" abortion. Guttmacher up there says there were 744,600 abortions that year. The Center For Disease Control says there were only 615,831. Again, whatever. I'm finally gonna make a point.

I wasn't one of them. I was born in March of 1973. My mom had just turned 17.

Now, I don't know what the rules were on late term abortions and blah blah blah. Here's what I know. Law or no law, ruling or no ruling, I'm alive because my mom didn't give a shit about any of that. I'd have been born no matter what, because that's the kind of groovy chic my mama is. Tada! Major political decision, no effect.

However, now that I'm sitting here writing about it (and wondering how many defensive feministas are going to jump my ass), it occurs to me that I am affected, not on a physical level, but on an emotional one.

My inner anarchist is really struggling with this. Thanks a lot, Jonathan. I'm going to go curl up in a ball on the couch, now. Maybe watch Thomas The Tank Engine with my daughter. That always helps. We like trains.

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