Showdown in the Hometown

Have you heard the joke about the past, present and future walking into a bar? It was tense. And, so it was Tuesday evening in the front yard of Greg Abbott's childhood home.

Nearly 20 orange-clad constituents showed up at Abbott’s press conference and barbecue picnic in Wichita Falls with legitimate tickets in hand, and no one was more surprised than the newly-minted candidate himself. By the time he got to the third orange-shirted person in line to shake his hand, it had dawned on him what the color signified: he was being called out on his home turf. It obviously never occurred to Abbott that Wichita Falls might be harboring progressive, or, dare we say, liberal folks seeking to express their support for women’s reproductive health. 

It was the stuff childhood nightmares are made of: the unruly mob had tracked him down. Monsters, Inc., Nightmare on Elm Street, Twilight Zone - take your pick. Scenes from all the above could have been flashing through his mind. As he searched his memory for practiced talking points when confronted with a fellow Texan with a different point of view, Abbott visibly grimaced then gritted his teeth and finished shaking hands with each person in line. He might have been in his humble homestead, but he was not in his happy place.

Neither were some of the GOP organizers, as several women with Abbott for Governor stickers affixed to their blouses stared agape at the interlopers, and backup for the lone police officer was called in. Within half an hour, several deputies from the sheriff’s department had arrived to stand in a line in the street, ensuring no possible rabble-rousing without dire consequences. As Abbott was being introduced, a stocky man in a cowboy hat pushed his way through a group of women wearing orange and stood with his back to the speaker, inches from the women and deliberately blocking their view. Clearly, he was the intimidator. 

But, if he was looking for a scuffle, he was sorely disappointed. We didn’t have to raise our voices or respond with an actual physical show of force. We only had to wear orange and show up. Because of Wendy Davis’ brilliant filibuster, because of our Democrat senators’ and representatives’  vocal stance, because of orange-adorned protesters filling the Texas Capitol and cities across the state, because of social media spreading the news of an uprising like wildfire, we only had to be a presence. We were there to remind Greg Abbott and all those intent on robbing women of constitutional rights that a large and growing opposition not only exists, we vote, and we won’t back down.

Deja Vu

I time-traveled 30 years back in the last month or so, with nary a blue Tardis or DeLorean in sight. It happened in Texas, but reverberated across the nation and even the world. In a strange nod to my fifth decade on the planet, I was suddenly thrust back into my high school and college years' memory of first becoming aware of what reproductive rights even were. The Roe v. Wade decision was barely 10 years old, but the sexual revolution for women in the 70s was strong and empowering. We naively thought it was a battle to be fought and won, then passed to the next generation fully intact. How very wrong we were.

The Moral Majority backlash during the Reagan years forced us to once again rally in number to remind politicians they had no business sitting in the exam room, weighing in on a decision between a woman and her physician. With the election of Ann Richards as Texas governor, the message seemed to have been received and embedded in memory, especially in a state which prides itself on personal liberty and rugged individualism. "Don't Mess With Texas" was a stick-in-your-memory slogan with multi-purpose applications: littering, guns, property, livestock, liquor, even motorcycle helmets. Anti-seat belt activists tried to apply it to their preference, and though seat belts became the law of the land, I know many die-hard, free-styling driving enthusiasts to this day. I would just relegate them to the Darwin Awards category today, along with those helmet-free motorcyclists. Process of natural selection, y'all. However, we can now add "Don't Mess With Texas Women" to the lexicon of state sloganeering, and how apropos it is. Littering, guns, property, livestock, liquor, motorcycle helmets and...VAGINAS?

If you had told me then I would be fighting alongside my 20-year-old daughter in 2013 for the very same reproductive rights I had in 1983, I would have laughed in your face. No way, not possible, I would have said. We won that war, I would have said. Our society is moving forward into a new millennium, with staggering technological advances and scientific breakthroughs, I would have said. The very thought of women being treated as anything other than equal and capable beings with the intelligence to make personal reproductive choices was simply incomprehensible to me. How very wrong I was.

I accept full responsibility for what has happened. I blame myself and my generation. Complacency won, and now look where we are. We focused on building careers and families, and checked out of feminist politics like fair-weather friends. We thought our daughters would reap the benefits of the battles we had fought early on, but we didn't tend the garden and heed the signs of encroaching parasites who sought to consume not only the fruit, but the roots of our labor.

The alarm has sounded loud and clear, and we know what we have to do. Don't back down or pretend not to hear. Don't hide behind "no longer my issue" excuses. We had choices, and this generation and coming generations deserve choices, too.