When it comes to abortion, both sides rarely speak the same language, and this is especially true at pro-life rallies. I doubt the pro-life signs my mother and the other adults carried did anything to persuade the counter-protesters. And as far as I was concerned, the pro-choice signs may as well have been written in ancient hieroglyphics. “Keep your laws off my body!” and “My body, my choice!” meant nothing to me.
In my paradigm, the theological was personal. To quote a Bible verse I had to memorize as a preteen: “You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” My body didn’t belong to me. In fact, it seemed to belong to everyone except me — God, my future husband, and even my father, who was charged with protecting my purity. My body belonged to men. [...]
It wouldn’t have ultimately mattered, but I almost wish that the pro-choice signs I saw as a kid would’ve had a message directed at me: “You own your body.” I couldn’t begin to understand “My body, my choice” because I didn’t know anyone owned their body, least of all me. If I had been able to comprehend that I had autonomy over my body, it would’ve naturally followed that so did everyone else. But when even something as private as masturbation was banned because it would diminish the value of God and Future Husband’s property, it was impossible for me to comprehend the idea of anyone being able to exercise personal choice when it came to abortion.
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