1972 Freedom

The summer of my 17th birthday, I became pregnant. My best friend and first feminist sister, Katie Bug, sifted through the ads in the back of the “Rolling Stone” and quickly found an abortion clinic in New York City that would do an abortion on an out-of-state 17 year old with no parental involvement.

I was barely 18, and toward the end of completing military training cycle at Fort Sam Houston, TX when I found out I was pregnant. Training can affect a woman's menstrual cycle so I thought nothing of it when I missed my period. Plus, I was using protection when sexually active, which left me no reason to suspect pregnancy.

I was 20 when I ended my first pregnancy, my partner 19. We had been together almost three years and were very much in love.

I grew up in a home with a violent, alcoholic father who began to molest me when I was three and frequently, violently raped my mother within my hearing.

I entered Planned Parenthood. Was patted down by the security guard. Admitted to the waiting room. Called into the clinic. Put on a flimsy pastel hospital smock. Treated by very professional and compassionate female-bodied doctors.

I thought I got pregnant with my boyfriend, and we agreed that neither of us could take care of a child. He was about to go to prison anyway.