It’s difficult to articulate what it's like being a woman. Hell, even the spelling of the word is cause for discussion (we see you, womxn). 

But we’re not here to define, we’re here to learn. 

We’re taking a closer look at the complexities of femininity and what it means to be a woman in this era. Our narratives for this theme come from a range of sources and cover a variety of experiences women face on the daily—from sexuality to religion, health, race, jobs and more.

Personal narratives discussing women's rights, equality, motherhood, and sexual assault from writers looking to highlight independence with a female voice.

Women's Rights & Point of View Narratives - The Doe

It’s difficult to articulate what it's like being a woman. Hell, even the spelling of the word is cause for discussion (we see you, womxn).

Women

I stopped retching just long enough to un-mute myself from the call.

“Good idea,” I sputtered. “Let’s ask Leah to—” before quickly swiping a sweaty finger across the mute button just as another wave of hot vomit shot out of me and into the bathroom sink. Not into the toilet—it was occupied.

I was sitting on it to bleed out my first fetus. Zoom call number 57. First abortion.

We were a week or so into lockdown here in Paris when I started to think something was off. Annoyingly, the symptoms of pregnancy are essentially the same as the symptoms of PMS (huge, aching breasts, cramps and headaches, cravings), so, initially, I didn’t think anything of it. I knew it was something to worry about, though, when I couldn’t stomach a glass of wine. Or a vodka-tonic. Or a cosmopolitan. (During a pandemic, being solo in isolation sure does make you reach for the sauce).

Sure enough, the following morning a plastic stick told me there was a croissant in the oven. “Merde,” I said to myself sarcastically, and then laughed into a groan as I remembered that it was also Mother’s Day. Great timing, womb.

The punchline quickly wore off, though, and the horror began to sink in.

I genuinely had believed that I was barren based on an absolute bare minimum of scientific evidence (polycystic ovaries and both a raging fear and loathing of pregnancy). I was convinced that my terror, hatred and anxiety had burnt away my womb into a desert.

Of course, because the toast always lands butter-side-down, I’d made my Nobel Prize-winning discovery during a global pandemic, in a country whose language I do not speak fluently, and at a time when we need permission slips to leave the house. France is as socialist as nations come, but the thud of horror winded me in the chest as I wondered if abortions would be considered “essential medical services” during the confinement, and had a flash of me growing more and more pregnant until all this was over. It felt a bit like the scene from Twilight when Bella’s vampire baby is killing her from the inside out.

Doctors' appointments were down to less than a skeletal schedule, filled with what I assumed were worried Parisians fearing that they had COVID-19. When I clicked the “English spoken” filter to show “appointments near me,” that schedule dissolved to nothing.

Well, this would be a fantastic challenge to test both my skills in French and in mime.

In a queue ten meters long of just three people, I waited outside the doctor’s office for my appointment. A kind pair of eyes above a mask welcomed me inside and went through the basics of using the French medical service. This much I understood. When it got to the actual question du jour, though, I had to apologetically ask if he knew any English.

The shame of it. Of not knowing the language. Of taking up space. Of what I was about to ask him. I am still furious at this shame. I know that I have no need to feel shame about a choice that is better for both me and what would have been a very therapized child. I know that abortion is a human right. I donate to Planned Parenthood; I write articles about it. I debate it with friends all the time and still, I was feeling this shame? 

Even now, I write this piece anonymously so that future employers won’t Google me and find my abortion story.

The doctor, of course, did not share this shame with me. As we continued in Franglais, he told me that the French procedures for this involve a blood test, an ultrasound scan and a week of “reflection” before anything could be done.

Why would I want to bring a child into the world? Why would I want to force someone to unwillingly exist, to experience the enduring pummeling of a lifetime? Particularly into this existence, where countries are literally both sinking and on fire, and a deadly virus is slinking its way around the globe. Why would I want to create something that would be dependent on me, and that I would, no matter how hard I tried not to, probably end up loving way too much? And possibly losing.

The blood test showed that I was indeed avec bébé, and also that I was blood type O positive. (You need to know your blood type in order to receive the most effective and least harmful dose of “the abortion pills”—typically two pills taken in sequence.) The scan showed both that I was about six weeks along and also an image of a little bean just floating along on the lilo of my uterus.

After my week of reflection, back to the doctor I went. She watched me take the first pill (mifepristone) in front of her. This pill stopped the pregnancy. The doctor told me to take the second pill (misoprostol) 28 hours later. The second pill causes your uterus to contract so the pregnancy can leave your body. Basically it forces your body to squeeze it all out of you. I’m advised to take it by letting it dissolve between my gum and cheek.

“Maybe it’s good that we’re on lockdown,” I thought. “I can work from home anyway rather than have cramps in the office.”

I didn’t need my 6 a.m. alarm timer because I was awake all night with unexpected worry. I felt shaky, sweaty and sick, not so much with fear of pain, but more with fear of it not working. I let the tablet dissolve in the gum-spot and placed a sanitary towel as thick as a brick in my underwear. Within an hour I began to get what felt like normal period cramps, slowly increasing in intensity. Nothing unmanageable, and as the pain ramped up, I took some acetaminophen. It was just like a regular period, which was lucky because I had a day full of Zoom meetings, Slack notifications and emails ahead of me.

Throughout the day, nausea continued to rise up, hot in my throat. I ran to the bathroom a handful of times thinking I was about to hurl, but it was always a false alarm. The abdominal pain increased and I changed the towel at least twice.

I could feel myself shedding. It was distracting and, during one such Zoom call, the pain really began to get searingly sharp. I was on my laptop and the call was important. Jobs were being dissolved every day thanks to COVID, and I couldn’t afford to make an excuse and leave this call with 12 colleagues and my boss. I could feel the bloodshed change from a steady stream to more of a tsunami, so I muted myself and ran to the bathroom with my laptop, squeezing it with sweaty hands. My camera was off.

I got to the toilet just in time for the bowl to receive what felt like a hot load of thick, lumpy jelly pouring out of me. I screamed as I felt it. I knew this was it. This poor bean was making its escape from a life of pain and fear and being loved too much and not enough, and I was surprised (and embarrassed, the shame for feeling shame again) that I’d started to cry.

I stifled a sob to listen in to the Zoom call for a second. Luckily another colleague was pitching an awful idea to my boss, so I figured I still had a few minutes. As I let myself exhale again, it wasn’t a cry that burst out of my mouth, but that vomit that had been threatening all day. In what may be my most impressive yoga move to date, I leaned over to the sink while still keeping myself hovering over the toilet next to it and ensured everything leaving me found its way into the plumbing that wasn’t mine.

Panting, I rinsed out the basin and splashed water on my face. I sat back onto my China throne. The call was still going and another colleague was pitching an idea. My breathing slowed and I was able to contribute to the call again after 20 minutes of being AWOL, with a pause for the second brief vomit that began this story.

The call ended and I stayed in the bathroom with my laptop awkwardly at my feet. Within an hour, the bleeding and the pain sighed back to “regular period level” and the heaving and vomiting stopped.

It was over. I could finally have that glass of wine.

Science & Technology

Editor's Picks

My At-Home Abortion Was on a Zoom Call With My Boss

The coldest time of each day is the first couple of minutes in the morning, right as the sun breaches the mountains and the heat descends upon the earth below. It was during this time that I realized how cold my saddle was, and how much I regretted leaving my gloves at home. I reached my hands back and put them between the saddle blanket and my horse's back to keep them warm. My dad had told me countless times not to forget my clothes and gear when I came to work, and he was long past the times of lending me his. 

I was raised on the back of a horse and I knew better.

This was my life growing up a cowboy’s daughter: raise them tough and independent, and if you're too slow you'll be left behind. I have never resented this upbringing. I didn’t know at the time it would give me the best foundation my dad could supply me. He made sure I tried my hardest and did everything the guys did. I shoed horses, rode rodeos, raised 4-H and FFA steers to supply my own funds. “Work hard and always respect your elders,” my dad would continually say. “Money doesn't grow on trees and if you can't respect it you don't deserve it.”

I grew up in a town of 350, in a school that had fewer than 100 students total, from kindergartners to high school seniors. I wasn’t raised with a political ideology—that happened after I joined the military. I wasn’t raised to use guns as weapons to defend or take human life, either. That way of thinking was acquired from the military, too.

My life changed in profound ways once I signed it away to serve my country.

I didn’t enlist because I was patriotic. At the time I was enrolled at Western Oregon University studying American Sign Language and interpreting with the intent of being able to communicate better with my dad, who has depended on hearing aids his whole life. But once I’d given college a term as my dad had requested, I decided to leave. He wouldn’t allow me to come home and work on the ranch, so in order to be a contributing member of society, I joined the Army National Guard. Maybe they could babysit my immature self until I decided what to do with my life.

Throughout my eight years with the Army, the foundation my dad gave me to build on set me up for survival in life during and after my deployment. He had raised me to be tough and independent. The only feminist trait I grew up with was my father would tell me, “When a woman is in charge she’s a bitch, when a man is, he is just doing his job. Remember this when you go out into society, and do not take shit from no one.”

Female equality was never a problem for me until I deployed. I was in Baghdad from mid-2009 through 2010. During that time I went to a mandatory all-female meeting, with all ranks in attendance. We all were seated in a circle and were encouraged to air out our grievances.

A particular staff sergeant was complaining that during this deployment she hadn’t yet been allowed to be a convoy commander. While other women encouraged her complaint I spoke up and asked what her convoy security experience was, and what qualifications she had to be put in such a position? Her reply was simple: “I’m a female and a staff sergeant.”

This soldier was willing to put everyone's life at risk merely because she held the position to do so and she was female. This was my first real feminist experience, and it did not disappoint. These situations happen every day and this mentality costs people their lives. I knew from that day forward that I would never put my gender ahead of experience and safety. I would never use it for personal gain or power.

These movements for female equality and transgender people in the military are all the same. Most of the people protesting aren't even in the military. They aren't sacrificing their lives. They’re on the outside complaining. Instead of actions they just have words. Most women who complain about wanting to be allowed to have a combat military occupation can't even pass the physical standards, but instead of failing and realizing that, they complain that the standards are unfair.

Until I started paying attention, I had just gone about my business not even knowing politics existed. Once I was out of my tiny town and into the world, things started changing for me. I saw the vast differences between left and right. These female Democrats and their feminist movements are just like that staff sergeant on deployment. She wasn't there for her soldiers—she was there for her own agenda.

Female Democrats in our government are no different. They’re not here for America as a whole because they don't see the whole picture. They can’t get past personal agendas. However, I do believe both parties have to exist to have what America has. They really do complement each other when both parties are working for the same purpose, which should be: America. But it's not.

For eight years during Obama, America became soft. We spent our days trying not to offend anyone, making sure everyone in the world was happy, forgetting what is out our back door.

Then Donald Trump came along. For once, there was someone who was not a politician running for president. Our Republican eyes opened, like when The Wizard of Oz switched from black-and-white to color. Suddenly there was a man for America. “America First”: How long had it been since anyone heard that?

Of course, the first thing that happened was women uncovering his past history regarding comments towards women. So, yet again, they were not and are not seeing the picture as a whole—only for personal gain.

There will never be a presidential candidate who checks every single box but, collectively, they fit the mold. This is a continual puzzle every American has to put together when choosing their candidate. You choose the one who checks the most boxes according to your views. I do not believe this was done during Obama's administration. The Washington Post put out an article that said during Barack Obama's candidacy, “Black voter turnout exceeded white turnout for the first time in history.”

Since Trump’s election, I have never been so jazzed to be an American. This man is for the people. America comes first and he has no problem meeting opposition head-on. For years it was as if we let everything slide, so as to not ruffle any feathers. Then Trump came in and effectively said if you have a problem, then leave. It’s interesting that this offended people, when before the election these same people said they would leave America if he was elected.

We have immigrants here complaining about him. Why? You have your country, why come to ours and complain?

But this is the difference between Republicans and Democrats. While Democrats have been fighting anything Trump does for four years, he’s been getting things done, even during a pandemic. He is not here for personal gain but has been fighting the “Mean Girls Club” since he was elected.

I refuse to join this generation of feminist movements and entitlement for free handouts and participation awards. I am here for the working American. So is Trump.

Politics

As a Female Trump Supporter, I Believe Feminism Is Selfish

During an interview for a job, I learned I would be working at a gentlemen’s club. I was a bit shocked—as that wasn’t stated in the job listing—but it didn’t deter me. I’m someone who will try anything once, plus the job seemed pretty simple: Sell your shots and give dances for extra cash.

I arrived at the agency for my first day of work and met some of the girls.

“Hi, I’m Sadie!” I said. The girls looked at each other. “Oh, is that your stage name?” one girl asked.

I was confused. “No, that’s my real name. Do I need a stage name?”

She explained that every girl gets a stage name for safety reasons, and told me her name was Lizzie. I always liked the name Audrey, and it hadn’t been taken yet. So, Audrey I was.

Suddenly, a well-dressed man appeared in front of me. He told me his name was Cory, and he was my boss. Since I didn’t have a car, I rode with the girls in the shuttle the club provided. When I finally got to the club, I filled out paperwork and was shuffled into a room for training with Cory.

Once training was finished, I changed into my uniform—a bright pink bra and matching thong, covered by a skin-tight, white, mesh dress with a pink garter—and made my way downstairs where I received my tray of shots.

When I got on the floor, I went to the first table of men I saw. I was given a script to use when approaching customers, with room to improvise. So I put on my best smile and walked over. I put the shot between my breasts and looked at my first potential customer. “Can I interest you in a $5 boobie shot?” I asked.

“No thanks, I’m having a beer right now,” he said. I frowned and asked if he’d like a $2 regular shot instead. Again, he turned me down. I tried one more time. “Do you want to buy me a shot and give it to me before I go?” He looked at me, clearly annoyed. “No, really, I’m good.” I sighed but kept a smile on my face. “Okay, doll, but if you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

As I scanned the crowd, I saw Lizzie, the girl I met at the agency. She was already down to her last two shots. I ran up to her, desperate for some help. “How did you sell all of those shots already?” I asked. “You just gotta look like you’re having the best time,” she replied. “Guys love girls who are having fun. Here, come with me.”

She danced me over to another table of four guys. “Hey boys, this is my friend Audrey. Buy her a shot!” The boys looked at me, doubtfully. “Hi!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could gather. “Um, okay,” one guy said.

“Great!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Bye!” And with a twirl, she was gone. After a long moment of silence, one of the men spoke up. “Do you do dances?” he asked.

Finally, something I knew I was good at: “I do!” I said eagerly. I ditched my tray on a nearby shelf and led my first customer upstairs.

He was a small man, and very shy. I could tell he was uneasy. He asked if I could talk to him during the dance to make him more comfortable. “Sure! What did you do today?” I said, hoping to make conversation. He shrugged.

After my first dance, the rest of the night flew by. I gave six more dances and sold all of my shots. At that moment, I understood why women danced. I felt sexy and powerful, like I could get men to do whatever I wanted.

Before I knew it, it was 3:30 a.m. Cory came around to all of the new girls to pull us off of the floor so he could show us how to check out.

The other rookies looked defeated. I had seen them throughout the night: Most of their shot trays were 80 percent full. They looked at mine, which was completely empty.

“How did you sell your whole tray?!” one girl asked. “I don’t know,” I laughed, “I guess they just felt bad for me.”

Cory counted our money, and he informed me that I had made the most out of all of the new girls. “That’s how you do it,” he said with a wink.

I couldn’t wait until my second shift. I got to the club, changed into my uniform, rang in my shots and got to work. Toward the end of the night, an older man approached me and asked if I did double dances (a lap dance with two girls). I told him I hadn’t yet, but I would be willing to give it a try. He turned around and called to another dancer across the room.

I turned around to see this gorgeous, tall blonde walking toward me. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, brown eyes and amazing abs. She wore a metallic-silver bikini and a choker. She introduced herself as Whitney. “Audrey is going to do a double dance with you,” the man explained. “Great!” Whitney said. She grabbed my hand and led us upstairs.

As we made our way to our room, Whitney told me that the man’s name was Arthur, a regular at the club. “He’s really sweet and extremely wealthy,” she said. Arthur gave us each $100. We both grabbed a drink at the bar and headed into our room. Whitney turned on some music, then she and I stripped down and started dancing on Arthur. After about 30 seconds, he stopped us. “Okay, let’s change it up,” he demanded. “Audrey, you sit down on the couch, and Whitney, you climb on top of her. I’ll watch.” We did as he said.

The dance ended and we got dressed. “This is actually a lot of fun! I think I want to be a dancer,” I whispered to Whitney. “Sometimes it gets kind of weird, which is why I drink to get through it, but Arthur is awesome and always takes care of the girls,” she replied. “You should ask Anne if you can be a dancer instead of a shot girl,” she continued. “The club is always looking for more dancers.”

That night, I made $250. I thought about how much more I could make if I didn’t spend time selling shots, so I found Anne, the general manager, to ask if I could make the switch to a dancer instead. “Sure,” she said flatly. “Be here tomorrow at eight for training.”

I found Whitney and told her what Anne said, and we squealed with excitement together. I was so eager to come back.

It was a Friday night, and I was put onto the floor at 11:00 p.m. I felt a bit naked without my tray of shots, but I was confident. I approached a man and we started talking. After a few minutes, I asked if he wanted a dance. “No, thanks,” he said. “I just got here, so maybe later.”

“Maybe later” is code for “never gonna happen.”

I approached nine more customers, with no success. I tried to keep my head high, but the rejection started to get to me.

I heard the DJ call my name, so I climbed the stairs to the main stage. I was never a dancer and I’m not flexible, so the most I could do was hold on to the pole and spin around. The guys watching at the foot of the stage looked less than impressed, and I wasn’t thrown a single dollar. When I was finished, I ran to the DJ booth. “Please don’t put me on the main stage anymore,” I begged. The DJ looked at me with pity. “You got it, sweetie.”

I found Cory in the office, and he could tell I was upset. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They fell from my eyes as soon as I opened my mouth. “No one wants a dance from me,” I cried. “And I was so embarrassed on stage. I’m not good and the guys can tell.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s only 11:30. People don’t usually buy dances until later in the night. You’re fine, I promise,” he said with a smile. “Secondly, you look amazing. Just act like you’re the shit and you’ll be great.”

I wiped my eyes and walked back onto the floor. Again, I approached a table. This time, it was three guys in their early 30s. One of them asked if I gave dances. I nodded. “Good, cause Josh here wants a dance,” he said through slurred words. I turned at Josh, who looked like a dance was the last thing he wanted. “Why don’t you get one, dude?” Josh asked his friend.

“Be confident,” I reminded myself. “I’m really good at them,” I told the man. “And you’re in luck because I have amazing tits.” He paused, looked me up and down, then said, “Why don’t you go get some other girls and I’ll line them up and pick which one I want?”

And then it hit me: I wasn’t a person to this guy. I was an object. I was like a clearance item on a rack of designer goods that he was holding on to until he found something better.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” I said and stormed off.

I ran back to the office, having a full-blown panic attack. I wanted to leave, but the only way home was an expensive Uber ride, and so far, my night wasn’t going to allow me to pay for one. Cory looked at me and gave me a hug. He looked at Alicia, another manager at the club. “Could you give her some advice?” he asked. “Tell her she’s amazing and that she can do it.”

She led me over to the mirror. “Do you see how great you look?” she asked me. I stared at myself, thinking if I looked like the other girls, I would be having a better night. “I thought I was hot until every man I’ve talked to said ‘no.' I saw guys who said they were leaving going upstairs with another girl.” “Just try one more time,” she pleaded. “You can make up your mind at the end of the night.”

By 2:00 a.m., I had stopped approaching guys. I couldn’t stand another rejection. I had moved on to watching the other dancers and crying in the dressing room.

An hour later, it was time to go on stage again, but this time, the DJ put me on a smaller stage. I did my usual routine, and to my surprise, a man approached the stage and threw money at me. I instantly felt better, but I got cocky. I tried a move I saw other girls doing that night, where they put their legs over the guy’s shoulders so that his head is in their crotch. I got one leg up, but I knocked his beer over in the process.

I finally got some money, and it was covered in beer.

I gathered my cash and headed to the dressing room. I counted it and saw I made $75. Pathetic.

The club has a $40 house fee for dancers, so by the time I paid it and tipped out the DJ, I walked away with $30 and no self-esteem. I found Anne and told her that I quit.

I felt like such a failure. As I walked through the club, I heard other dancers cheering about how much money they made. I made a dash for the dressing room and changed as quickly as I could, and got a ride home from one of the bouncers. The thought of having to ride back with the other girls was too embarrassing. I wasn’t one of them. I was a joke.

At 5:00 a.m., after nine long hours, I finally walked into the safety of my own home, where I wasn’t charged any fees.

Long Reads

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Money

What It Was Like Being a Stripper

I worked in kitchens as a line cook for ten years and I loved it.

I was an absolutely kick-ass grill cook and, if I may so humbly say so, just a generally talented culinary artist overall—even though I never received a formal education in the field. I started as a prep cook at age 15 and worked at the same restaurant for eight years, steadily moving up the ranks. During the last five years of my time there, I was a head line cook, working the grill alongside a fantastic crew.

During that time, I saw so many nut sacks.

Three of the other line cooks—two men, one woman—and I worked together for five years and had the type of camaraderie that can only come from being in the weeds together, night after night. Many other personalities came in and out of the kitchen during that time, and most of them became part of our big messy family. And it was—as I imagine nearly all back houses of restaurants are—truly dysfunctional, in the sense that what held us so close together were pranks, vulgarity and general abuse.

For those who’ve never had the pleasure of working in the restaurant industry, allow me to share a few examples of what a typical day in the kitchen was like.

I’m facing the grill, trying to keep track of the temperatures of 30 steaks at a time, when I suddenly realize that my back is wet because a dishwasher has sprayed me down with a hose.

Oh, Joe’s organizing the freezer? Let’s lock him in the cold and dark there for a few minutes!

The bartender just ordered a salad for dinner. Since we have to get back at him for puking all over the rug at Asa’s house last night, we toss his salad in nothing but Tabasco sauce, then hide and snicker while we watch him take the first bite.

Devilishly funny. Also, completely normal.

It’s the middle of the dinner rush on a Saturday night and I’m out of filets. I head to the walk-in to grab a case and there’s Jeff in the corner, chuckling because he’s been standing in there for five minutes with his pants pulled below his waist, waiting to present his nut sack to the next person to enter.

If you’re appalled at this point, I don’t blame you, whether you’ve worked in a restaurant or not. But what can I say? I grew up in that kitchen. Mischievous scoundrels as they were, those twisted sons of bitches were my kin. I didn’t mind the soaked back of a chef’s coat. I didn’t even mind the nut sacks.

Eventually, I moved on from that spot to work at a few more restaurants, always as a lead line cook. And from that point on, at every new kitchen I’d ever cook in, I was still the only woman.

Now, you might think female cooks and chefs weren’t as rare these days as they are. You might think my work experience and accolades—eight years, dammit—would be enough to warrant a little bit of respect from my new coworkers. In my experience, neither was the case. Every time I joined a new crew, it was the same story.

Anyhow, it went a little something like this:

Day one, I’d walk into the kitchen, with my jacket bleached, pressed and folded over my arm, and introduce myself to the first person I’d see behind the line.

“Hi, I’m Rachael. I’m starting today.”

No, dude. But I loved it when they would ask that because I used to relish in seeing the look of shock and dismay on their faces when I’d tell them what job I was there to do.

The assumptions didn’t end there. The guys would coddle me, speak softly to me—even explain kitchen basics to me like how to cut a carrot. All the while, I judged them for their poorly seared scallops and the béarnaise that they could never successfully make by hand.

I had to bite my tongue a lot, nod and—yep, you guessed it—smile.

It would go on like that for about two weeks, which is about the time it takes me to get acclimated to a new setup and a new menu. And then they’d change their tune. At first, it would be remarks like, “Wow, I never thought a girl could cook on a line.” But then the gender-charged sentiments would wear off and they would start saying genuinely complimentary things like, “We’ve never had a grill cook as good as you.” (I told you I’m an absolutely kick-ass grill cook.)

To be honest, I didn’t mind having to be patient with their behavior and their coming to terms with my capabilities. It was worth it to watch so many men undergo the ideological journey they needed to realize that a pretty, well-mannered girl could hang with the big dogs behind the line and take the heat.

From there on out, it was always fun. I’d run circles around the men in the kitchen while keeping my composure, and even though I’d still get the occasional sexist remark of disbelief over my abilities, they generally went from treating me like a girl to treating me like one of the guys. We’d drink beers and smoke cigarettes behind the dumpster. They wouldn’t be afraid to crack crude jokes around me because they knew I had an even dirtier one up my sleeve. The nut sacks started to come out. I formed new dysfunctional families that treated me with real respect, and I think I imparted a few lessons along the way.

Fast-forward three and a half years from my last restaurant job. These days I’m working in an office and seeing far fewer testicles. I love my job, and I feel respected there in many ways: for that, I feel lucky. I continue to work with a lot of men that mostly treat me as their peer—beers and dirty jokes and all. But, from time to time, I still sense them tiptoeing around me or excluding me from certain banter because I’m a “lady.”

“You’re a lady”—a phrase that’s so problematic to me, yet so widely accepted in our society that when it comes out of a man’s mouth, it’s usually meant (and received) as an expression of respect. What it tells me is: You think that because I have a vagina, I’m dainty. Because I have a vagina, I’ll faint at the utterance of a dirty word. Because I have a vagina, you can’t be yourself around me, because you want to shield me from the self that you will inevitably reveal anyhow, despite your concerns for my perceived frailty.

And herein lies one of my greatest struggles as a woman, something that’s hard to unpack over a round of beers at the bar with men I feel mostly equal to. I wrestle with the fact that my instinct to attribute the way they exclude me from raunchy banter to sexism will in itself be perceived as a form of female sensitivity.

Instead, I’m often made to sit quietly and bitterly stew in defeat at the hands of subtle but deeply ingrained prejudice. To this day, every time someone reminds me that I’m a lady, I want to tell them about the phenomenally vulgar work environments where I was forged. I want to say to them that I’ve seen and heard way worse than whatever bad joke they just cracked. And so, regularly, I find myself sitting amongst men who are supposed to be my peers, excluded, momentarily downtrodden and flirting with the idea of just coming out and telling them, “Dude, you don’t know how many nut sacks I’ve seen.”

Food

As a Female Line Cook, I’ve Seen Plenty of Nut Sacks

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

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Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

The Doe's editorial team takes a look back at the year and shares its favorite narratives.

Best of 2021

A woman has a right to decide. That’s the typical argument of a pro-choice person. This is also what I repeatedly told myself when I made that choice. A choice I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

When Roe v. Wade was overturned, I felt relieved because thousands of women would no longer subject themselves to a traumatizing experience that I still regret to this day. Despite that relief, I felt alone, as most women in my community, including close friends and family members, rallied together to speak out against the Supreme Court’s decision. “My body, my choice” posts and hashtags were posted in feed after feed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if those individuals have had to make that choice themselves or understood the negative repercussions it could have.

I made that choice nine years ago. Although I try to bury it, the procedure is as clear to me as if it happened yesterday. As much as I wanted to have a child and start a family, at that time, I didn’t feel like I was ready for several reasons. I was 23 and in college, just a semester short of completing my undergrad. I was afraid that a child would hold me back and that others would judge me for it. Looking back now, trying to make sense of that decision, I realize that there was always a negative stigma built around children being such a burden to women; as I saw it then, women could not be successful if they had a child.

I made that decision mainly out of fear. I was raised in a traditional Filipino Catholic home with a strict mother. I thought that if I kept the baby, there would be pressure for the baby’s father and me to get married, and I feared that I’d have to give up on pursuing my undergrad. I questioned my future and the likelihood of disappointing my family. I’m a nonpracticing Catholic with a firm belief in science and logic. I believed in God, but that did not mean that life did not have gray areas. Because the abortion was a procedure legally available to me, and one that could be kept a secret, I ultimately carried through with it.

When I arrived at the clinic, I tried not to think about how I felt or what consequences I’d face. I focused on how I’d be in and out, back to living my everyday life soon as if nothing had happened. I repeatedly told myself this to keep from changing my mind because I was deeply conflicted. During the procedure, I wanted to find every reason to say that I didn’t want to go through with it, but I remained silent.

The doctor informed me that I’d be awake but groggy during this procedure and that the anesthesia would take several minutes to take effect. I heard the device switch on, which sounded like a vacuum with loud suction—a noise that reminded me of being terrified by a vacuum when I was a little girl, running away from my mother as she plowed through the carpeted floor. I always thought that the vacuum was a monster, ready to suck the life out of me. Ironically, as an adult, I was the monster allowing a vacuum to end the life of my unborn child.

The procedure began. I felt the pressure, and then I felt the suction. I held my breath as I felt the doctor maneuver the thin tube around my canal. I held the nurse’s hand throughout the procedure, my right hand tightly sandwiched between her two hands. I remember painfully looking up at her in tears.

It felt longer than I anticipated, and I wanted it to end. Then, the suction stopped, and the doctor swiftly removed the tube and the clamp simultaneously. I breathed in deeply, letting out a trembling exhale and whimpered. The nurse brought her head closer to mine while still holding my hand and said, “You are no longer pregnant.”

These words still painfully haunt me to this day.

I will always live to regret what I did. This has been an unbearable emotional burden to carry, and now being a mother of two boys, I know there was no good reason to justify why I did it. My decision was out of convenience because of what I felt then.

Becoming a mother has shifted my perspective in many ways, notably in ways that could have shaped a different decision back then. My two boys are the best things that have happened to me, and the world did not stop for me because I chose to be a mother—because I did not let it.

The more research I’ve done on this controversial topic, the more I discover that, logically and scientifically, it doesn’t make sense to me to prioritize one life over the other. Although I understand that there are special circumstances that warrant getting an abortion, such as rape, incest and medical conditions that endanger both the mother and baby, I believe the narrative that terminating a pregnancy is a woman’s right regardless of her reasoning is hypocritical and needs to be challenged. There are other ways to support each other as women than to deprive lives.

Similarly, the narrative that an abortion is a common, everyday medical procedure is problematic. It sensationalizes ending the lives of unborn children, and I find it no different from sensationalizing murder and suicide. Supporting these narratives, in my opinion, perpetuates the idea that women don’t have any other choice and they must choose one over the other: a career over a family or their life over another’s.

Having a baby is scary. There are many uncertainties, fears and worries that stem from an undefined future. As much as we try to plan and prepare ourselves, we’ll never know what can happen. But having a baby is also filled with an overwhelming sense of love and hope that we can, in turn, instill in our children.

We hope that they grow up to save the world. We hope that they have better opportunities, better relationships, better chances and better lives than we did because there’s a possibility that things will get better. We choose to have faith that it will. Otherwise, why would we be living? Children give us that hope. They grow to question, wonder and dream—things that we adults have done and should give children the chance to do.

As women, we should ask ourselves if we should let fear and uncertainty dictate denying a life. That very choice would be to deny the possibilities of a better life and a better world. A choice that will continue to perpetuate fear.

As the proverb reminds us, it takes a village to raise a child. As a community, we can all benefit from working together to be proactive rather than be remedial and resort to abortion as a solution. We can be proactive with better policies that support working mothers and fathers. We can choose love. We have the choice to support our community, build stronger foundations to help uplift the difficulties and burdens parents face and raise our children to think beyond themselves as individuals. We have the choice to rally together on this highly controversial subject and choose to prioritize educating our youth about prevention through contraception and the other choices that women have, such as adoption and safe haven laws in certain states.

Everyone has a different experience that shapes their opinion on abortion. Unfortunately, my experience is living with the reality that I chose my life over that of another. Although I don’t think it's right to shame any woman who has made this difficult choice, it’s one that I’m not proud of.

The Choice I Wish I Didn’t Have: The Abortion Scar I’ll Always Carry With Me

My daughter was born in a village. I didn’t mean for it to be that stereotypical, that the village was like a precursor for having a home birth. I didn’t feel like I had to do it the way our great-grandmothers did it, but rather, I saw my options and chose the one most suitable for me.

When I found out I was pregnant, I hit Google hard. Home birth Bosnia, home birth Balkans, birthing center Bosnia, midwives Bosnia—anything that didn’t put me in a hospital. That was a choice not tied to some strong anti-medicine mentality but more because I was anti this particular medical establishment. My town is still ethnically divided, a result of the war we passed through between ’92 and ’95, so choosing a hospital feels and is much like a political decision, choosing sides. And because of our country’s poor economy, good hospital treatment often means an envelope with an extra tip for whoever is taking care of you just to be sure you, with the money, are treated generously. Aside from that, I’d been to the hospitals. The bathrooms were missing toilet paper. The place was void of a smile. Patients looked more like prisoners to me. People leave my country because of the medical treatment; that’s where we’re at.

Online, I found information about a Bosnian woman who had birthed her child at home with the support of a traveling midwife from the U.K. A combination of local laws and her prior mistreatment at the hands of Bosnian doctors while giving birth led her that way. It wasn’t that the act itself was illegal, but rather, having the assistance of a Bosnian midwife was. By attending, that midwife would risk jail time, loss of licensure, who knows what else? Here, no registered midwives were willing to take such risks anymore. Instead, women from my country would find midwives living outside of the Western Balkans—Austria, the U.K., Slovenia—to come and support in home birthing here if they were able to cover the costs and if they were able to find someone. That’s how it goes with women’s rights: They’re not always outright forbidding a right in itself—in this case, the right to choose how one births—but instead are left to manage the obstacles obstructing one’s journey. 

Sitting on the grass with my phone in hand, I searched for the woman's contact information by Googling the first and last name I had found through the article I read about her activism toward women's birth rights in Bosnia. When we connected, she warmly gave me resources—names, numbers, helpful hints. It felt like female camaraderie at its finest.

I made dozens of calls, emails and text messages to a handful of midwives in Europe explaining my position, asking for their time or to scan their networks for anyone who might be willing to travel to Bosnia to help me. If I managed to reach anyone, I was either referred to someone else or just rejected due to distance or availability. Somewhere down the reference line, an Austrian woman agreed. Some weeks later, we realized there was a misunderstanding and that she actually wasn’t willing to travel to Bosnia for the birth, but rather, we come to her.

That was an option—we meet her in Croatia. For her, this was just a few hours over the border from Austria. I would pay several thousand euros for her services, plus the cost of travel, renting a home in the town we planned on staying in and whatever additional costs can usually be calculated into a month of not being home. It was a lot on many levels.

Though the plan was seemingly set, I still kept an open window in my mind for having my birth in Bosnia. As much as I tried to settle, something just felt off. During that time, there was one wild card—a woman in Bosnia who actually attended births here. She was one I’d previously played phone tag with, attempting to schedule dates to talk outside of scattered messages that never resulted in an actual conversation. She always stayed in my mind, but her inability to quickly respond to my requests for a meeting made me insecure and distrustful. I was entering my third trimester. I needed some certainty.

By the end of my seventh month of pregnancy, I was exhausted. The birth was approaching faster and faster. I realized that the idea of traveling nine hours by car to sit in an Airbnb that wasn’t mine, in a country that wasn’t mine and working through the loops of registration and embassies during a time when I should be recovering just sounded exhausting. I didn’t want to find out how the actual act of it would pan out.

I tried her again, the wild card. Just in case. Finally, we spoke. Firmly, she said, “Yes, I’ll be there.” Not a midwife but a birth keeper. Someone who had trained like they did in the past: by attending many births themselves. No certification, no Dr. before her name. This was new to me, but I trusted her experience. She told me that I must keep her name private and that she would arrive when I called her. 

I still felt uneasy. We hadn’t met, not even for a video call. She skipped our appointment to do so, and then I didn’t hear from her for days. I began to get paranoid that she’d been caught, that her offering her support was finally the thing that exposed her to the authorities, that our unforgiving country would make an example out of her. I felt panicky. My partner fumbled between reassuring me she’d be there and then questioning how open I’d been with others about her offering her support. I was skeptical of my smartphone, of colleagues who suddenly felt like spies. I felt guilty for not being more careful, for mentioning home birth in text messages or announcing I’d be birthing here at home.

My contractions started in the middle of the night. I sent her a text message to tell her what was happening, and she began to follow me and my progress. She was located several hours away, so updates ensured she knew where I was at and would make it in time. By eight that evening, it started—real labor. I was riding waves of contractions while simultaneously messaging her to check in on her whereabouts. Please—I wanted to, but didn’t say—assure me you’ll be there.

She said she’d be leaving her location in the afternoon, so I expected her in the late evening. At one point, her phone was off for two hours. There I was, in the middle of what really felt like birth, and she was gone. All my fears—affirmed. My friend who had flown in to be there with me began Googling “free birth” on the couch next to me. We thought, “OK, I might land in a situation where I do this mostly on my own.” Several scenarios swept through my mind. I tried to focus on the more loving ones. Regardless, I was silently scared. If something went wrong, how would I forgive myself?

Several hours later, sometime around 11 p.m., my phone buzzed. The clouds parted—it was her. “Just come,” I said. Directing was the next thing. In between contractions and screaming, I calmed my voice to try to understand exactly where she was and what signposts she’d missed to get to us. Eventually, my partner got on his bike to direct her through our streetlight-less village. Just after one in the morning, she was there. 

It was the first time we’d seen each other. There, in my most vulnerable, primal state, I was shaking hands with and hugging the woman who kept me in a state of suspension—will she make it, will she not make it? She made it. Outside, her partner waited in their car, an act he was probably used to by now. Inside, she spoke gently about the movement of my birth. I asked her to measure me, to see how far I was dilated. She asked, “Why?” That was how her assistance was: power-giving, nonintrusive. She wasn’t there to guide my birth—that was my job. Rather, she was there to support me, and I felt that.

The village was so quiet at night, I felt like I’d awakened everyone with what I tried to make moans but turned out to be screams. At some point, with my legs spread open to her, my amniotic sac, which hadn’t yet ruptured, popped in her face like a violet water balloon. Then the head, then the shoulders. My partner caught our baby in his hands and, with a smile on his face, put her in my arms. I fell back onto the bed, which we’d covered with a plastic sheet, with our baby in my hands, shivering. Exhausted. Relieved. Our four dogs were the quietest they’d ever been, just sleeping in the room with us.

The midwife gave us one hour while she kept her partner company outside. When she returned, she helped direct the act of cutting our baby’s umbilical cord (the scissors are still sitting in a pencil case on our shelf). Then, she asked if we minded that she do her morning prayers in our one-bedroom home. She set her rug directly in front of my bed, facing the rising sun in the east. It was four in the morning. Still in my euphoric state, I remember the streaks of orange and yellow coming in through the windows and thinking, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She said she’d be back in a few days to join us for dinner, to check in on me and breastfeeding. She said she’d be passing our way again. She said she enjoyed our company and that she’d like to stay in touch. She said, “Just go to the hospital and register your baby. Don’t tell anyone my name.” She said that for her, it didn’t feel illegal; it was what should be done. She said that they have a motto, the women who do this work—those who need us, they will find us.

Registration was a witch hunt of its own. We were tossed from building to building, with words like “social services” and “court” and “law” thrown around. The midwives in the local hospital looked at me like I was a criminal. I still felt like an open wound, holding our newborn daughter in my hands and feeding her in various bureaucratic locations, just wanting to be back in the safety of our home, just wanting to know no one would touch us, would touch her.

We told no one anything, just that we had the assistance we needed, that I was healthy, that I trusted my body to do what it needed to do. It was the first home birth anyone we went to remembered. Our story made them dig through old file cabinets, find paperwork they forgot existed. Eventually, it happened—her birth certificate with the name of our village listed under her place of birth. To celebrate, we bought flowers and apple juice to bring to the women working in offices who initially had no idea how to help us. It was big.

And as for the midwife, the birth keeper, the brave soul who came to us in the night, I never saw her again. Messages—unanswered. Nothing.

Why? I don’t know. It happened, this I know to be true. The dark maroon stain from where I pushed her out and into the world on the front side of my bedpost tells that story, and my body remembers it.

Health

I Had an Illegal Home Birth

For some strange reason, it was far easier for me to love and accept my body during the start of the pandemic and the isolation that came with it. As a body positivity advocate, I feel like a fraud for feeling like this, for disliking parts of my body I once preached to love.

Growing up, I had a tough relationship with my body. I was never a slim child or teen, and I’ve never been slim throughout my early, mid or late 20s. I battled bad body image throughout school, but at 18, I discovered the body positivity community on social media and felt like I was on the right track.

Having always been a bit bigger—plus size, if you will—it has taken a lot for me to get comfortable with my body, and the lockdowns at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic seemed to be the ultimate solution. For me, the series of unexpected stay-at-home orders in 2020 felt like a chance to heal and explore—maybe even to find self-love. I learned to love my body in ways I never knew possible and began to accept what society had taught me to loathe.

Keeping myself isolated and secluded from the world in order to stay safe meant I only had myself to compare myself to, leading to the biggest boost in my confidence in ages. There wasn’t anyone around to judge my body or what I chose to wear. I wore bikinis for the first time in years, and I found ultimate happiness when frolicking around my home in nothing but knickers and a T-shirt.

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