I was told to hold an 8’ beach umbrella and advised not to speak to anyone holding a picture of a mauled baby. It was my first time at what the people in the business call Clinic Defense. What it meant, essentially, was that we were at A Choice for Women clinic in Kendall shielding the visitors from the displays of Jesus statues and a full-grown babies covered in blood. It was quite the job for 8:00 am on a Saturday morning.
Immediately, the first thing I noticed was that the “opposition” was composed primarily of older men with gray hair. One older woman, who tried to hold her nose above the level that the young women in pink stood at, was there holding a sign about murder. They had a monstrosity of a display set up—a white outdoor party tent, a few Jesus statues, blue coolers and big sticks holding protest signs. Our beach umbrellas had quite the view to block that day.
I asked the leader of the Miami Access Clinic Project, Julia Dawson, if it was always like this. She was along side us in a neon traffic vest and visor with a clipboard and beach umbrella in hand. She said that it usually was on the weekends, and that many of their clients aren’t able to get time off from work for their procedure. “Actually,” she said, “many of our guests are just here to pick up birth control.”
When the clinic opened, a car began to slow down quite a ways down the road and put their turn signal on. As if a secret code, that was the signal for the beach umbrella ladies to get into formation. We stood side-to-side in a tight line forming a wall with our umbrellas. The car drove slowly, giving us enough time to block out every last grossly misrepresented dead baby sign. The man driving the car waved to us and the woman in the passenger seat smiled.
I was not emotionally prepared for this—seeing the extreme system MCAP had to devise to protect the emotional well-being of the clients and seeing how familiar the car was with it made me want to cry. The visitors were quite aware that every time they came to the clinic old men were going to try to yell at them through their car window and flash signs saying that they were going to Hell.
When the first car left the clinic, our umbrella routine changed. Cars must exit to the right, and that’s where the “circus tent” (as the MCAP ladies call it) was set up. Jesus statues, men, and rosary beads galore. Our umbrella wall stood on the curb, waiting until the exiting car had a chance to go.
When it did, it drove slowly and Dawson yelled, “Keep moving! Keep moving!” We all side-stepped quickly and the car stayed close to our wall. We kept side-stepping until we had blocked every last protester. At that point, the car quickly accelerated and honked goodbye to us.
After a while, I was switched off of umbrella duty and moved across the street. Here, we were to hold matching circle signs that read “Keep Abortion Legal” and stand straight across from the exit of the clinic. This way, the clients know that they have supporters—not only haters—out there.
To my right, a young woman was wearing pink sunglasses and listening to her iPod, just holding her sign and smiling. To my left, four women were chatting above the noise of passing cars.
An older man and the one protesting woman, who appeared to be his wife, noticed us on the other side of the street. They brought their misrepresented fetus signs and crossed the street to join us—noses still to the sky.
The man tried to talk to us—asking if we knew what we were really doing. He talked to us like we were five instead of adults. “You’re going to go to Hell,” he said, “do you really want to burn eternally?” The woman next to me, turned her head away from him, softly said “What if I tell him I don’t believe in Hell?” and grinned.
We didn’t respond to this man, like we were advised, but kept holding our signs and smiling straight ahead at the umbrella girls across the street. The man was clearly getting agitated with our lack of response.
He took out his cell phone, held it close to his face and while peering over his glasses he hit the buttons. He put down his sign and walked closer to us. Inches from each of our faces, he began to take individual photos. The women I was with looked very uncomfortable with this—but I turned around, put my hand on my hip, and smiled when it was my turn. I knew that he was just trying to intimidate us, and figured the worst that would happen would be my pixelated face going on a list of people denied access to their church. Unless these men of God are into sending out hitmen these days.
“When I told my parents about it, I didn't necessarily ask them and they were worried,” Hali Cohen, 21 and standing beside me said. “The anti-abortionists are irrational in their beliefs, so it's hard to know the lengths they will go to to preserve their protest.”
Seeing that his threats of Hell and photo shoot didn’t phase us too much, the man began to yell.
“You girls are so pretty,” he yelled over to us. “Aren’t you glad that your mothers didn’t abort you?” Our feathers still weren’t ruffled.
New protestors began to pop up as the morning went on—first a man with presumably his son, who was about seven or eight years old. By 11:00 am, a whole nuclear family—Dad, Mom, three small children and cooler of snacks—had arrived.
I was taken aback at first. I had expected protesters. I had expected fake “photos” of mauled babies on signs. I hadn’t expected the protesters to be mostly old men, but it didn’t surprise me. But I definitely did not expect to see a five-year-old in OshKosh B’Gosh jeans and Disney cartoon sandals holding a sign that read “They murder here.”
I wondered how these parents explained a complicated topic like abortion to a young child. Do you tell them how the poorest demographic in America is the young single mother, because she usually needs to drop out of school when she discovers that she is pregnant and then never sees a penny of child support? Or do you tell them that behind the shrubs is a scary place where people in lab coats murder babies—so we’re going to go stand a few feet away from that and hope that they don’t catch you?
My best guess is that the children aren’t old enough to read yet, so they didn’t know what the sign they were holding said. I still don’t know how you explain the grotesque “photos” to them though.
As I stood there, I decided that my beliefs were stronger than ever—each woman has the right to decide for herself if she is pro-life or pro-choice. Whatever she chooses is best for her and I will support her in that. However, things get complicated when people try to make decisions for others. I have a right to my own body, just as I have a right to choose my own religion, and I have a right to decide on my education and career.
A 60-year-old man waving rosary beads in my face and yelling at me would never change my religion. My Sunday school classes always taught me that I can form my own credo and decide what I believe. And this man, and thousands others like him, are working to change legislation so that it correlates with their religious beliefs. Unfortunately for them, America is comprised of a vast variety of religions.
My thoughts were interrupted by the protester children. The boy in OskKosh had abandoned his “They murder here” sign. His parents were busy waving signs at the oncoming traffic, and the little boy was running around with a stick pointed towards his little sister.
“Bang, bang!” He shouted. “I just shot you! You’re dead!”
The little girl responded by taking her “Life is Precious” sign and repeatedly hit her brother over the head with it.
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