Soapbox

The other day I saw a letter in the paper from a man responding to some letter from another reader who apparently had argued that 'good' people should not have to pay for the sexual activity of bad ones in the form of insurance-provided contraception. The second man presented a nice argument about why it is Ok for the government to pay for contraception and pointed out that we all pay for things we don't want, like war. It was a well-written letter, and it missed the point entirely, as most people in this ridiculous and Puritanical fuss over birth control do.

I respond to the "Contraception avoids high costs" letter of March 11th. Mr. Miller sets out well-reasoned arguments, unfortunately, he defeats a straw man and proves that Rush Limbaugh has accomplished exactly what he set out to do.

This is not about the government paying for anything. This is about insurance. Say it with me: Insurance insurance insurance.

Our president is not proposing that the government hand out free birth control pills on streetcorners to wayward college students. He simply says that your health insurance, something you pay for, should cover certain basic health needs. He believes that a woman whose doctor says she needs hormonal treatment for an ovarian condition should not end up having to have that ovary cut out of her body because a group of men believe that their religion should get to control her body. Mr Limbaugh wants you to think about sex videos of coeds instead of women being denied needed medical treatment because of the misogynist rantings of someone's religion.

This was never about how much sex liberals have, or protecting freedom of religion. Rush Limbaugh judged that the battle could be won if he got people to think about it in that way, however, the same way he and others have sucessfully convinced so many that  if their child is able to get treatment for a painful pre-existing (and so formerly excluded) condition… this is somehow evil.
These red herrings are being thrown in our path to drive wedges into society: between left and right, men and women, rich and poor. Because rest assured, the rich will always be able to buy hormonal birth control whether insurance pays for it or not, just as they will be able to get abortions without waiting periods and transvaginal ultrasounds.

This new policy is simply about guaranteeing poor, often married, working-class women the right to get the medication their doctor prescribes them, regardless of their bosses interpretation of the Bible.

Say it one more time, with feeling: Insurance!

We hear it said once again that it is not safe to give a woman control of her own body, that a mere woman must not be allowed to control her own destiny- that such independence in a female is immoral, such liberty is licentious.

For a time it seemed we had defeated this ancient foe, that in the daylight of modern enlightenment, such nonsense was only still muttered  in dark rooms by small, frightened men desperate to turn back time. But  now, like a mob made bold by the setting sun and a lighted torch, they begin to shout it  again in the public square.

And so they say that our daughters' fertility- and thereby their lives- should properly be subject to the whims of their husbands, lovers, employers and abusers and, like unruly livestock, women should not be allowed to choose when to breed. If you have sex, you should get pregnant-– slut!

I do not know why some men are so eager to return to the days when passion and happy sexuality were the province only of men and something no proper woman would  enjoy.  I do not know why they are so determined that sex without risk of pregnancy must be something only men should be allowed to experience.

Perhaps it's that old  fear that a woman free to enjoy sex without physical consequences will choose another, better partner. You know- the way men do.  Perhaps they worry that a woman who is allowed to make motherhood a free and loving choice  rather than an obligation or possibly dangerous burden might start to get ideas… like the idea that her ideas matter, that her education and career doesn't have to be interrupted by constant child-bearing, that she can compete with a man and that maybe there are a few things she'd like to change in this world.

It is being said that a woman, born in blood and beauty, somehow cannot comprehend the reality of new life inside her without the help of a man, cannot possibly judge right and wrong for herself, the way he can.

But we say that a man, born of a woman and begetting his own daughters who  refuses to let them have an equal place in his world is no man.

We have tasted the autonomy that once belonged only to them, and it has not made us want to stop being women, to stop being mothers and wives, stop tending our family gardens.  We only want freedom to make our own decisions. That river has been crossed now, and we will not be pushed back across the Rubicon just because you find our presence on the other side with you inconvenient.

Do not mistake the softer nature of our geography and the nurturing manner of our souls  for weakness of resolve.
Do not think that we will allow you to take from our daughters that which our own mothers fought and suffered and bled and died to give to us, will avert our eyes meekly while you put their bodies, passions and their lives on a leash.

For it is not in the nature of a woman to surrender a child to a predator without a fight no matter how outmatched she may be.
We would die before we would allow you to violate her with your body, with your pinch and tear, your slap and thrust, and  no more will we step aside while you violate her with your laws, with your leering contempt and lecherous statutes, let you play doctor to amputate her rights and cauterize her dignity.

Do not make us choose between our children and you, for that is a contest you will never win no matter what enticements you offer or weapons you bring to bear upon us,
For such is the nature of woman.

This morning, because I had to be sure,
I crept out onto the back porch and watched the rebirth of  the day,
It's a common and gradual miracle that
most of us prefer to sleep through,
counting on the sun to make its entrance
without any help from an cheering section.
But today, sensing it might be a near thing, I had to be sure.
Tree branches rose black against the brightening horizon
like the witch-fingers of night trying to claw the rising blue
back down to the ochre edge of the world
but the sun won it's freedom once again.

I stood, toes curled under
to protect my bare feet from the cold floorboards
and arms wrapped tightly across my chest
to keep myself from flying apart too fast.
I could already tell it was going to be one of those days
when everything in the universe seems to be flying apart too fast.

And where are they off to, these bits of me so eager to leave?
Are they looking for you
and other parts of their original self?
I know that we are all the same primal stuff, 
you and I, and a rhinoceros and an asteroid-
just specks of a shattered cosmos imagining ourselves unique
each turning our own tiny steps
in the  molecular dance of combination,
dissolution and recombination.

Once matter has been connected, even after it separates,
the energy remains joined
which I guess is why my electrons continue humming your tune,
photons in harmony, quantum tuning forks,
energy in slow vibrational dance.
No wonder my fingertips tingle when I think of you.

But "Now" only has meaning
when it observes its reflection the looking glass of "then"
and I have no solid shape without your gravitational pull.
Our past, present and future, united in superposition of possibilities,
are always apart and forever together.
This imagination of self is a vanity, for
I am as unique as a snowflake in a blizzard,
different, yes, yet irrelevant without the whole.
What we call individuality is merely  a season.
I am deja dreamed a thousand times ago and since
and each time, always, a part of me is you.
Like Schroedinger, afraid to look at his own cat
for fear of killing it
I know that, as long as I avert my eyes
you can be both alive and dead, past and present,
here and gone, all in one.
And rather than make you choose I let my gaze slide away
from your books on the shelf, you coat in the closet,
focus instead, on the altitude of the sun
and whether or not the moon will make it home tonight.

    Dear Woman standing ahead of me at the Speedway gas station at 7:30 in the morning,
            Sweetie, I have something to tell you, and you're not gonna want to hear it, but it's the truth: you are NOT going to win the lottery.
I don't care how many times you play your boyfriends' birth date, and whether you go straight or boxed or what cute pictures are on the card you scratch. You are not going to win.

       Normally I couldn't care less what you do with your money and your time, but right now, I am skating awfully close to being late for work. I just stopped in to grab some coffee, thinking I could run in and run right out but I did not count on being in line behind you and your 2 packs of Marlboro- no the soft packs,  and a Snicker bar, and lets see… how can I pay my stupidity tax today? So many bright and shiney tickets to choose from,  all with different names and different gimmicks, like the midway games at the fair with the crappy, sawdust-stuffed prizes, and then there are numbers, so many numbers to choose!
     I sighed heavily a few times but you did not get the hint and kept laughing and joking with the clerk about how you've just got to start the day with your tickets. Look, we all have something we start our day with. Me, it's this coffee I'm drinking even though I haven't yet paid for.  For the guy in the clothes of a road crew  it's apparently a morning slice of pepperoni pizza and Budweiser (ok, that's a scary thought… I"m gonna tell myself the Bud is going in his truck for lunch break) For the lady behind him in the Michelin man parka, sprayed-on jeans and gold stilletto boots it's probably that doughnut…
     You know, you're like the person with 47 items and 48 coupons, half of them expired, who gets in the 12 items or less express lane in front of you at the grocery store.
      Seriously, lady! This is a convenience store! You're are being very inconvenient right now. You are not going to win! I know, it sucks. But it's true. You could turn around and give me the 20 dollars you are spending on lottery, and be just as well off.
      In fact, tell you what: here's a dollar. Take it to walk out the door right now  and you will get more free money from this deal than you are ever going to get from a lottery ticket.

      Note to self- tomorrow, I am driving thru Tim Hortons.

      My job would be so much more fun if  I got to wear a cape.
     If  only I could stride to the counter when a customer rings the bell and then, hands on hips, feet spread purposefully as my cape settles in behind me (cool theme music clearly implied)  say,  "I'm here to help you"-  I just know the day would go better.

  My work cape would be super-hero length, ending just above the knees and flaring out nicely on every quick turn, which I would do deliberately from time to time, partly just for awesome style points, and also  to let my customers know that they are dealing with a woman of significant taste and ability.
    It would be dark gold with a scarlet lining. The gold color would engender trust, signal that I am honest, competent, forthright, and  they should relax  because know way more about this than they ever will.

   But should a customer get too clingy or whiney, or take a disrespectful attitude with me, I can flip my cape back over my shoulders so that the scarlet lining shows. This flash of red will let them know that I am not a person to be trifled with, say without words  shut up and take my advice.
    If I could stroll into my boss's office in a swirl of scarlet and gold, I can't help thinking that my annual evaluations would go better.  And when driving in heavy traffic, I might let a portion of the cape trail out the window to flutter in the breeze. Other drivers would know that, while I am a safe and courteous driver, they should not mess with me in a merge. You don't cut someone off in traffic when you know they are wearing a super hero cape.   

 I really should have 2 capes, though: Superhero for every day wear, but for those occasions  that require a little more presence, perhaps even a bit of sang-froid, I will need a full length cape of deepest, deepest blue… my Severus Snape cape. One that does not merely flare but positively billows out behind me like my own trailing entourage.

   In my Severus cape, as I stride the halls of the IRS, the BMV, the courthouse or even the opera house, people would step out of my way. Because you simply do not fuck with someone in a full-on Severus cape, now do you?

   You know who else would enjoy his job more if he wore a cape?  The President.

   I suppose his cape would have to be red white and blue, with stars on the shoulders. Which is cliche, I know, but it would certainly put all those stupid flag-pin wearing congressmen in their place.  Just think how it would swirl around him in an aura of power and authority as he walks from Air Force One for a meeting with some recalcitrant head of state! Suck it, Venezuela!  

   But the president really needs two capes as well. When the shit really hits the fan, when the accusations of "Socialist" and "Muslim" are flying, when they're painting his face with a bone through his nose on watermelons and attacking his wife and daughters in all those "I'm not a racist but" ways that they hit him every day; when the white hoods they have tucked into their pockets are starting to come out, he could go to his closet and pull out his other cape,  his "Leader of the goddamned free world" cape .
        And then he could call a joint session of Congress, assembling all the obstructionist, self-aggrandizing party leaders:  the ones  who are out there doing book tours and speaking tours instead of governing, who charge "traitor!" and "Un-American" but would rather shut down the entire United States government than compromise and inch .
        When the Sargent of Arms bangs his stick for attention, before he can get a word of introduction out of his mouth, the President would brush past him and stalk to the podium wearing his Darth Vader cape in it's full, ridiculous awesomeness, Secret Service detail scurrying behind to keep up. Imperial March clearly implied!
     What a treat it would be then to watch the expressions on the face of the Speaker of the House when the President talks of protecting civil rights and health care in his Vader cape. Ah-ah ah… careful gentlemen!   For if some over-excited member of the opposition should have the temerity to hiss or shout "You lie!" while he is speaking the President could pause, slowly turn his head and extend his hand slightly toward the neck of the red-faced man and say, in solemn tones,    

   "Do not fuck with me, Senator, for I am the President of the United States, and you will show some respect. If not for me, then for the office, and if not for the office… then for the cape."   

    Oh yes, I believe everyone's job would be better if they got to wear a cape.