On Reproductive Responsibilities: An “unwanted” Child’s Eye View

I was an unwanted child, born in 1961. Had abortion been legal, I may not have existed. I was the fourth of sixth children, none of which my mother could afford. Higher education was not an option for my mother—it never was, neither for her, nor for her mother or grandmother before her. The underclasses, especially people of color, never had this expectation to begin with. And in my experience with this class of people, whether or not they can feed the child is to this day the primary factor to be considered in deciding whether to abort, give up for adoption or keep any “unwanted” pregnancy.

When my mother was “forced”—not once, not twice, but three times at least, to bring a child into the world which she could not feed, there were no aspirations to be abandoned, no childhood dreams to be shattered, no adolescence or naiveté to be lost: that had already gone down the tubes when she became the primary breadwinner in the family as a teenager—waitressing and cleaning houses to feed and clothe her younger siblings.

I was also the product of rape. Marital rape. It must have been a very difficult decision for my mother: this child, to keep or not to keep. She kept. Even though she could not afford it. Even though she must have known what she was keeping was a lifetime reminder of rape. We both bore the scars of that decision—and to this day, I cannot tell you whether her decision was right. I’ve written about it; many a time. I do not know whether legal abortion would have made her life—or mine--any easier. Whether she’d have chosen to abort. I know that her decision to have and to keep me was hell on both of us. She took her scars to the grave. I still live with mine—and to some degree, with hers. Such is life. Shit happens. Get over it. At least that’s what I tell myself—and it’s what’s enabled me to dream those dreams, aspire those aspirations, exercise those freedoms that were never an option for my mother.

The next child—the little sister I wasn’t supposed to know I had and who finally “found” me after many years of searching—my mother gave up for adoption. But that was a decision she couldn’t live with either. So when she got pregnant yet again, she kept the child. Even though she knew this time she really couldn’t afford it. Even though she knew she really was in no position to give this child half a shot at a half-way decent life. And I don’t believe my mother’s deliberations in this regard were centered on anything but that: whether or not she could provide for these children. Because, as I said, the dreams, the aspirations, the adolescence, the naiveté were luxuries she and others like her could not afford, and many like her still cannot afford today.

Looking back on all this as an adult female—one who fought ferociously for abortion rights not only here in this country, but in Germany as well; one for whom the ultimate consequence was never to have children—uh, er, never to get pregnant in the first place... I think about that sometimes now, when people familiar with my work with children ask, “Miss Lilian, you’re so good with kids. You’d have made such a good mother, why don’t you have any of your own?”

I can’t tell them the whole truth. As I’ve written before, the scars are scarcely visible, after all. Naw. I just say, “You know, there are so many children in the world whose parents really could use a helping hand. If there’s anything I can offer these children—and their parents—well, then here I am. Besides, it’s nice to be able to send them home at 6!”

At this stage in the game, in the year 2006, at a time when we are losing elections to madmen who are putting the entire human and animal population, not to mention the environment, at risk, I think it’s time to look for a different approach to “reproductive freedom,” one that focuses less on so-called “reproductive rights” and more on “reproductive responsibilities.” Again, this is 2006. Not 1966. Not 1976. At this stage in the game, anyone who is having “unprotected” sex is risking more than an unwanted pregnancy—one that may not only destroy the dreams and aspirations of the mother, but one that may in fact leave the child permanently scarred.

Do I blame my mother for bringing me into the world knowing she was in no position to do so? How can I? Not unlike Cali, she didn’t have many options—before or after the fact. Not even birth control. But that was then, this is now. Unless I’m sorely mistaken, condoms were not being sold in vending machines in public restrooms at the time. But they are NOW.

I frankly cannot understand the decision on the part of anyone right now to bring a child into the world, no matter how well-situated they may be. I just do not understand it, and I certainly do not envy anyone seeking to raise a child in this environment—just about anywhere in the world. But, hey, it’s not my place to understand, and not my position to judge.