My choice

Everyone picks their battles. Recently I've been more focused on international peace issues, but there was a time when I was very active in local abortion-rights groups and actions and of course I'm still interested in the issue and strongly pro-choice.

So, since I moved to the west side of town and would pass by Planned Parenthood on my way to work--actually, on my way to get drive-through coffee that I often need in order to *get* to work--I felt a little sheepish at the occasional sight of men carrying anti-choice signs. I should stop, I would think. I should try to stop them.

Last week, they were out picketing again, but this time there were two police cars and a parking lot full of clinic clients' cars. The cops were talking to one of the picketers. The other one was shouting at people as they entered the clinic.

Because the situation looked more serious than usual, I almost did stop. Then I reluctantly decided against it and went on to get my coffee. But when I'd done that, I found myself turning the car back toward the clinic. A woman's prerogative.

I drove into the clinic parking lot, got out of my car, and went in. An older man stopped me just inside. I told him that I wanted to make a donation. He smiled broadly and said, "Okay!" I went in and wrote my check. (Which the embattled clinic staff seemed disproportionately grateful for at the time; I received an extremely prompt thank-you note later in the week.)

I've long had some political qualms about the pledge-a-picketer strategy for clinic defense, but it was the choice I had time for that day. As I drove out of the parking lot, I rolled down the window and politely told the shouting anti-choice man that I would write a check whenever I saw him picketing. He--not quite so politely--told me that I was going to hell. Maybe, I agreed, but first I was going to work.