tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84789749084301363762024-03-13T12:48:24.710-07:00Unmitigated KitastropheThis is the blog of Kit Yona. That's me. I fancy myself a writer and an editor-for-hire. Around here I tend to do the electronic equivalent of mumbling. Feel free to treat the place like your own.Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-53224750345799024512023-07-13T05:40:00.003-07:002023-07-13T13:21:06.156-07:00<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>Not Quite the Golden Fleece, But . . .</p><p><br /></p><p>tl:dr - our daughter got her driver's license. It was an adventure, though.</p><p><br /></p><p>Tuesday, July 11th </p><p> - 6:54am - The morning starts off with the discovery of a teeny weeny problem. In preparation for The Girl's driving test, I had gathered the required documents needed to fulfill this quest the night before. Among other stuff there was proof of residency, her social security card, and the envelope containing her birth certificate. Now I sat here at a few minutes before 7am, with her test scheduled for 9:20am, I doublechecked the contents of the latter. There was indeed a birth certificate inside . . . a photocopy of one. Not an official copy. This was kept in a lockbox. Where the hell could it have g . . . oh, <i>right. </i>The Girl had stumbled into an opportunity to visit Europe as an exchange student, a program resurrected after being shuttered during the Covid years, which required us to immediately scramble to obtain her a passport that would get here in time. The woman at the post office could not have been anymore helpful, right down to giving us a copy of her birth certificate, since the original had to travel with the paperwork and would be returned to us later. Whatever. What else would she need a birth certificate for in the meantime?</p><p>Yeahhhhhhhhh . . .</p><p> - 9:04am - The Girl was predictably stoic when I broke the news that she might not be able to test today, commenting that she has plenty of friends who already have their licenses for rides as well as me, always at her beck and call. Have you met The Girl? She is a peerless ball-buster who wields sass like a scorpion does its tail. She is also utterly charming, something I'm hoping she can put to good use today. How charming? Not only is she going on two separate vacations with the families of her friends, but the parents of another of her friends agreed to board the return exchange student so she could go on the trip (we don't have a private room for one in our wee house, which is a requirement). No, wait, sorry, they agreed to take in TWO exchange students, and their daughter isn't even going on the trip? Turns out that our town is a highly prized destination for exchange students, given the proximity to New York City. </p><p>I've gotten sidetracked. This is about driving test chaos. I apologize.<br /><br /> - 9:18am - We're at the Lodi DMV/test site and there's a moment of panic when I can't find the valid registration for our 2005 Accord hybrid (which no longer hybrids, but that's a story for a different day). It's also due for inspection by the end of the month and is iffy for passing due to the check engine light, but it's the vehicle we have to use because the Prius doesn't have an emergency brake that the tester can reach from the passenger side seat. The panic vanishes as I locate the registration but comes back with a vengeance as I determine there is absolutely no copy of the insurance card in the glove box. Moments later I manage to remember that I have it on my phone (derp) and call it up just as our tester approaches. </p><p>The Girl, meanwhile, has been completely placid and calm. I *know* she's nervous - she has to be - but her expression is one of someone waiting in line at a market. The tester checks my license and the recently gathered car info before I exit the car and go to the waiting area, which contains two fully occupied benches and possibly all of the remaining smokers in Bergen County. </p><p>I can see the two of them talking, passing documents back and forth, but as a couple of minutes go by and they don't head out onto the course my heart starts to sink. They wave me over soon after and, sure enough, the copy of the birth certificate is not acceptable. I'm muttering at myself when he suddenly says, 'But.'<br /><br />Not always a glorious word, but this time it has potential. Turns out he had the same problem with his own kid a few weeks ago and they solved it by running over to the county seat in Hackensack - one town away - and getting a new birth certificate. Took five minutes, he said. Scribbling on her form, he tells us if we can get back by 11:30am she'll still be able to test today, as opposed to trying to make a new appointment (they are booked out for months - we made this reservation in late January). With hurried thanks, I get behind the wheel and we zoom off to Hackensack aka Salvation Land.</p><p> - 9:34am - The tester had told me he got the certificate 'in the building next to the court,' which is a bit of a problem in Hackensack as there's both a county and a municipal courthouse. I have The Girl look up 'where to get birth certificate in Hackensack' as we drive past the county one. It's taking a bit to get an answer so I pull off the main street onto a side street. Her search pulls up an answer and a map . . . which points to the building fifteen feet behind us. Yeah, baby. We find the health department, fill out the form, and hand it in. Everything's coming up Milhouse!</p><p> - 9:50am - Maybe not. It takes the person in the health department a good ten minutes to realize that our form indicates that The Girl was born in Ridgewood, which is where we need to go to get her birth certificate. It's the next town over from where we live. Sigh. Into the Accord and off we go.</p><p> - 10:02am - We pull up outside the Ridgewood town hall. Those of you familiar with the area might be thinking of asking me, "Say, Kit, that's a really quick time to get from downtown Hackensack to Ridgewood, especially on a Tuesday morning." If you were to do so I would likely have evasive eyes as I mentioned 'The Jersey Slide' and 'tactical usage of breakdown lanes' as explanation, so maybe don't ask. We endure the world's slowest elevator as it takes us to the 5th floor, where the speedy retrieval of a new birth certificate will be exposed as a myth . . . yet five minutes and $25 finds us galumphing down the stairs and jumping back in the car, opting for back roads as Route 17 south had been a parking lot as we zoomed by heading northbound. Victory is in sight. Well, metaphorically. We still have to get back to Lodi</p><p> - 10:33am - We're back in line at Lodi, proper paperwork in hand. The Girl is a little fidgety, finally showing some nerves, and with a start I realize that soon I'm going to lose something that was kind of awesome. Sure, I've spent the past couple of years ferrying her around to the gym, work, her friends' houses, etc., but it's been a radio-off, let's-chat sort of situation. On our Great Southern Tour of Colleges in States I Wish She Wouldn't Attend School In we drove for almost three days straight, and it was insanely enjoyable. I *like* my kid, sass and all, and once she gets her license that's time together that's going to vanish. Bittersweet indeed, but like Vince Vaughn said in <i>Swingers</i>, 'They grows up and they grows up and they grows up.' I'm excited for her as I exit the car (again) and this time, they take off a few minutes later. </p><p> - 10:38am - The car is stopped on the course and I'm gnawing on fingernails. The Girl had no problem with parallel parking, whipping the car into the space on her first try (they get three tries now, WTF). Could it have been so easy for her because I had her practicing in a space that was only twenty-four feet long as opposed to the thirty-foot one on the test, without her knowing it? Mayyyyybe . . .</p><p>Anyway, she started making a k-turn and stopped in the middle of it, likely due to the cones from the parallel parking space being where she'd back up if she cut her wheels the way one normally does in this situation. After a good minute or so she backed straight up instead and finished the turn without incident. As I watched she negotiated the rest of the challenges with no apparent issues, but when they got near the end they stopped again, this time for another minute or two. Finally he popped out of the car, giving me a brief wave as he passed by. I walked toward the car as The Girl pouted and used her finger to mimic a tear rolling down her cheek . . . but she's a terrible liar. After she parked the car we hugged and headed into the building to get her license. I asked her what the delays were.<br /> <br /> - "Oh, we were talking. He's got three rescue dogs like we do, but all of his are pit bulls."<br /><br />Championship level schmoozer, this one. Hopefully we'd make it home in time for lunch.<br /><br />(spoiler: we did not make it home in time for lunch) </p><p> - 11:13am - "You can't be in here."<br /><br />This is directed at me, as I'm sitting in a tiny vestibule trying to escape the 90+ degree heat. It's a sunny, cloudless day and the humidity is in the 'wet wool blanket' range, and the air conditioning offered in here is adequate at best, but better than nothing. However, the building is for employees and those getting their licenses only, so back out into the heat I go. I'm both hungry and thirsty, and an amble around the property (there are several other buildings on site, none of which I'm allowed in) reveals that there's nobody selling any type of refreshments I can see - not even a grease truck, the presence of at least one was something I thought was New Jersey law. Expanding the radius of my search arc, I discover that the surrounding area is a mix of industrial and residential, severely lacking anything resembling a deli, convenience store, or even a Dunkin Donuts. I decide to head back before I pull another Sun Beats Down card (one for the gamers!) and climb into the oven that is the Accord. With no other option I fire it up and turn on the AC, grimacing as I notice that all of the running around this morning did a number on our gas supply. I text The Girl for an update. </p><p> - I'm #47<br /> - What number are they on?<br /> - #42<br /> - That's not too bad<br /> - It was #40 when I came in<br /><br />Oh.</p><p> - 12:17pm - I'm sweltering because I've had the car off for a while, hoping The Girl gets taken care of soon. As if she's listening, I get a text:</p><p> - I was at the window and the printer broke while it was printing my stuff<br /> - What does that mean?<br /> - It means the printer is broken<br /><br />I pause and take a deep breath before responding.<br /><br /> - What does that mean for you?<br /> - Unknown. There's a lot of muttering and chaos.<br /> - Can I go get gas before it's resolved?<br /> - Almost certainly</p><p>Okay. I negotiate my way to downtown Lodi, which is heavily developed and will surely have numerous gas stations to choose from. Downtown Lodi does not, indeed, have numerous gas stations to choose from, having instead opted to go with none. Because of my thirty years in the purgatory that was the family business I know of places not too much farther away, and I manage to gas up before I get the Angry Yellow Light of WTF are You Even Doing. I even stop to get something to drink, but am delayed because the cash registers aren't functioning in the 7/11. Rough seas, indeed.</p><p> - 1:27pm - I squeak a little as the passenger side door opens unexpectedly. The Girl has come from a different building, as replacing the printer proved too Herculean a task and instead the license seekers were shuffled elsewhere. Our family now has three drivers instead of two (and as soon as I can get to my computer we'll be able to celebrate Instant Doubling of Your Auto Insurance Premium Day) and I prepare to pass the baton, offering her the keys.<br /><br /> - "No, you can drive. It's not as exciting now that I'm, you know, a legal driver and all."</p><p>Chauffeur for at least one more day, then. I'm okay with that.<br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-49748847164259986122023-04-27T07:48:00.000-07:002023-04-27T07:48:07.105-07:00Twice as Nice at the Same Price - Dispatches from Days 53-67 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<p><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/03/and-in-this-corner-standing-six-foot.html" target="_blank">Days 36-39.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/07/been-away-so-long-i-hardly-knew-place.html" target="_blank">Days 40-42.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/10/time-and-space-have-no-meaning-here.html">Days 43-45.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2021/03/deathscort-in-streets-hellscort-in.html">Days 46-48.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2022/01/we-all-knew-it-would-end-up-here.html" target="_blank">Days 49-52.</a>)</span></p><p><br /></p><p>(Yes, it's been a while. Not for lack of shifts - there's been plenty of those - but rather time. Well over a year between posts isn't great, but in my defense for most of that I was working two jobs - and, for a fun month or so, three jobs to the tune of 65-75 hours a week - and if you mix in another dog adoption - that's three now, if you're keeping count - hopefully it's possible to understand how my ability to get in front of a keyboard for this might have been limited. Bad time for it too, given the wholesale assaults being made by fascists and cultists, but I'll try to do better. As always, thank you for reading and please feel free - nay, encouraged - to share this if you wish. If you know someone who needs help with this issue and isn't sure what can be done please don't hesitate to reach out to me - we have ways to help.)</p><p><br /></p><p>(Day 56)</p><p>"You know, Christopher Yolo, you'd be better off being home keeping an eye on your wife. She's . . ."</p><p>Parker is still talking but I've already walked away, depriving him from delivering whatever zinger he's got loaded up. I'm not sure if he's getting my name wrong on purpose to be, uhm, witty, or if he's incapable of reading it off the myriad of court notices that have been swooshing back and forth for the past year or so. Either way he seems irritated that I won't engage or, two hours into the shift, have not spoken a single word to any of them aside from telling Scrubs to get the fuck out of the buffer zone. Scrubs came in to tell me, for some reason, that there is a bag across the street. While we're always on the lookout for potential clinic bombers, I doubt a McDonalds bag 75 feet away is anything more than what it appears to be (spoiler: it does indeed turn out to be someone's discarded meal).</p><p>This is my first shift in our Post-Roe world and so far, because New Jersey is a state that cares about the reproductive rights of women, it's been pretty much the usual. The clinic is extraordinarily busy, as one might expect, with a hefty number of out-of-state plates making drop-offs. I've got a full escorting team plus a rookie, who is enduring her trial by fire with wide eyes and a ferocious attitude. When she asks me how long I've been doing this I'm shocked to realize I'm closing in on six and a half years of being told that Satan is my daddy. Time flies when you're shielding patients from religious zealots.</p><p>Speaking of zealots, one nice development is that Mr. Preacherman was permitted by the Feds to leave the country to cram his religious beliefs down peoples' throats in other parts of the world, so he and his increasingly violent tendencies are not currently our problem. He's still facing state hate crime charges, but if they decided to drop them in exchange for him never setting foot on US soil again I would sign off on that trade in under a second. And in other legal news, some eighteen months after filing we finally have resolution with regard to the spaghetti bowl of complaints and counter-complaints, albeit a bittersweet one. In essence we all agreed to drop all complaints in order to make everything go away, which is frustrating since pretty much everything they accused us of was malarky they created out of thin air in response to learning we'd filed against them. Having to tell the judge that yes, we wanted to drop the complaints didn't sit well with any of us, but for a number of reasons it was what we needed to do (not the least of which was ending this prolonged nightmare for the attorney kind enough to represent us pro bono). Besides, His Honor didn't offer relocating the protesters to Minot, North Dakota, so our options were limited.</p><p>"Maybe you should be home watching your own kids, instead helping someone else kill theirs!"</p><p>Parker and his crew love spinning passive-aggressive comments like this, straddling the line between attempted insult and vague threat. Having Stepson tell us over and over that we're 'deserving of death' certainly feels like the latter, and considering the massive amounts of misogyny and homophobia that swirl within him can't be easily dismissed. Hopefully he won't be our problem for much longer, as he's a co-defendant with Mr. Preacherman in the aforementioned hate crime trial. For people purportedly spreading the love of Jesus, they sure do manage to summon up a large amount of bile.</p><p>"That's right, Christopher Yolo, your wife is a wicked woman instead of a proper bride of Christ!"</p><p>Damn straight.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"> * * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 64)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. I don't understand why you're here."</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's not often you can ruin a miserable person's day just by showing up, so I do my best to savor the ones I get.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Due to a request, our escorting group has expanded to cover another clinic in a nearby town. I'm ringing in the first Saturday of the year with Lena, the two of us feeling out the new situation. The town we're in has stricter noise ordinances than Englewood and right across the narrow street from us are townhouses, so at least we won't be subjected to three hours of amplifiers at 90dbs. In addition, the protesters can only have two of them on the sidewalk in front of the clinic at once. This, combined with the noise rules, ensures we'll never have to deal with the Englewood crew and their inflated egos here.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The nonplussed person stammering at our arrival is white (of course), male (of course), and older (not of course, but there's definitely a preponderance of elderly folk involved in this nonsense). He lets us know how he feels about us intruding on his stomping ground by immediately bumping into Lena as we escort the first patient in, allowing her to let him know what 'zero tolerance' is. He remains absolutely agog that we're both here and willing to defy his wishes, and it starts to dawn on me just how incredibly upset he is by our presence. When the a car pulls up in front of the clinic's front door he's visibly irked that we're now in his way, although that doesn't deter him from being judgmental.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Miss, you've already made one mistake, please don't make another."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Despite knowing I'm not supposed to interact with the protesters I'm not about to let that one slip by, but the patient waves a dismissive hand in his direction and raises an eyebrow to us before addressing him. </p><p style="text-align: left;">"Don't you have anything better to do, old man?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Miss, my wife and I would love to adopt your baby, please let us."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Now she straight-up laughs as she exits the car, walking to the clinic with us on her flanks. </p><p style="text-align: left;">"Are you serious? You're like what, eighty? Ninety? You gonna share diapers with the kid? Hire a nanny to push both of you in a stroller?" She gives us a wink as she passes through the door. Old Dude stands a few steps behind us, looking like a kid who just got his favorite balloon popped.</p><p style="text-align: left;">If the idea of this at least seventy-year-old dude and his wife being put in charge of a newborn sounds both dangerous and ridiculous, it's only because it is. It's also a lie, as without a doubt the child would be given to a family they approve of, one that would never, ever be deemed suitable parents by the agencies that are in place to safeguard against just such child trafficking. Does that sound like a harsh term to use? Maybe, but that's what it is.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The protesters like to brag about how a few months ago they talked 'a witch and a prostitute/pornographer' out of an abortion and into having the child instead, and how they gave it to a 'Christian' family. With a minimum of digging one can discover that this 'Christian' family used the child's adoption as a springboard to launch a GoFundMe to raise funds not for the kid, but instead for the 'intensive therapy' needed for their 14-year-old daughter, also an adoptee. They also claim that they 'had' to adopt the new child because he was related to their daughter . . . which makes my BS detector sound multiple alarms. Given the levels of religious zealotry drenching the mother's Facebook posts makes me hope beyond hope the attempt wasn't to fund some under-the-radar gay conversion therapy, which is illegal in New Jersey (and should be everywhere). In any case, sidestepping proper channels to give away a child isn't great, especially when one of the agents involved is Mr. Preacherman, a person who likes beating his children so much he invented a holiday for it. As much as that sounds like something I've made it, it is not. He calls it 'Spanksgiving' and thinks it's wonderful.</p><p style="text-align: left;">These are the people who condemn <i>us.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">After we deliver her inside our new friend tries to engage us in conversation, becoming visibly frustrated as we ignore him. He wanders across the street to where a gaggle of protesters are standing, a group that varies in size as the morning lopes along. There's a sizable amount of glaring, head-shaking, and pointing in our direction, as the brood appears to be distressed that we interlopers are intruding on their holy labors. One by one they drift away until Lena and I find ourselves with only a single protester standing over by a dumpster, fiddling with her tracts while looking somewhat bored. Not long after that she gives up as well, and when a patient shows up we're able to enjoy the sublime experience of merely pointing at the unhindered access to the clinic's front door. Strangers in a strange land indeed.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 59)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"You see, Christopher, I'm busy praying for your soul because I want you to see the light, to turn from your wicked path and accept the embrace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will be your savior if you'll allow him to be so, and through his love-"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Scrubs has been following me around and issuing forth this never-ending babble for at least five minutes now. What have I done to deserve this?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Well, that's an easy one to answer. After managing to extract a patient from a car being swarmed by Runner Lite and her fellow harpies, I peeled back once I realized that Scrubs had stuck around to harangue the driver. Scrubs - he doesn't wear the top anymore but while I'd be within my rights to refer to him as Beardy McBeardface due to the snow-white abomination jutting from beneath his jaw, I'm set in my ways - has being increasingly more erratic and unstable as each week goes by. As many of the screamers of old have stopped showing up, Scrubs has gotten to realize his dream of being able to spew hatred and misogyny on the mike each and every week. Lacking either talent, charisma, or presence, he makes up for it by being as repulsive as possible. Keep those feet on the ground but keep reaching for the stars, Scrubs.</p><p style="text-align: left;">During my previous shift one of our clinic observers - folks we brought in to film and record the shenanigans of the protesters so we can be free to concentrate on the patients - had wandered into the buffer zone and, in the midst of one of Scrubs' thundering rages, had the temerity to more or less yawn in his face. To say that Scrub lost his shit would be an understatement - he went from whatever thread of inanity he'd been orating about and shifted to screaming about this woman's impending doom and damnation. Not sure what set her off - his tomato-red face, the veins bulging in his neck, or the ridiculous rhetoric he was targeting her with - but she lost it and started laughing.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Hello, Defcon Five.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Scrubs has zero respect for women, often demonstrated by the way he treats his wife, Runner Lite, as if she were a possession rather than a partner. When one dares to mock him in any manner it's like a match being touched to the fuse of a stick of dynamite. His anger kicks into overdrive as he forgets everyone else out here exists in order to zero in on his new arch-nemesis, and if you think this is something we have used to our advantage you're not wrong. As he spluttered and blustered at the still-laughing observer we eased a patient in without him noticing. It's nice when they make it easier for us.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"But you have to want to fight the wickedness within you, Christopher, you have to stop filling the world with your fake news and instead follow the path blazed by the Gospels, in order to -"</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Scrubs, are you this angry because you've never satisfied your wife before? Not even once?" I give him a pitying smile as he stumbles over his words for a second. "Is that why you get so jealous when another guy talks to her? Afraid that she's reach for something you can't give her?<br /><br />I gotta give him credit, as aside from the one skip he's still rambling along. His brow is furrowed, though, and perhaps even more importantly he's so locked in on me he hasn't noticed the Camry that's slipped in behind him and delivered a patient. At the last moment he snaps his head up to see my fellow pink-vested escorts shepherding her inside, beyond his reach. With a snarl he turns back to the driver he'd been harassing before, only to see they escaped while he was distracted. I'm the last resort, but as he starts up again I've got my back turned to him, starting up a conversation with my partner Emmy. There's a few seconds of half-hearted bile before he storms away, allowing Emmy and I to crack up together and high-five. Over my shoulder I see him taking his post up by the edge of the buffer zone, Runner Lite dutifully bringing him a slim red water bottle. A match made in Heaven, indeed.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 67)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"My biggest surprise became my best friend."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Good. Go hang out with your best friend and let everyone else have the same thing you did - a choice. </p><p style="text-align: left;">To borrow from Mel Brooks and Zero Mostel - 'They come here, they all come here. How do they find me?' I'm back on the two-person shift at Clinic #2, hoping for another fairly easy morning but instead having to deal with folks like this one. Apropos of nothing she's started talking to Emmy and me as if we'd asked her to, which we most assuredly did not. The day has started off the right way, with the old guy from my previous shift doing a drive-by and, after spotting us, not returning as of yet. There's another collection of protesters across the street, but aside from brandishing signs in our direction and muttering their Hail Marys loudly enough for us to hear, they're not an issue at this point.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"I'm a chaplain. Did you know that? Would you like one of my cards? Can we talk about how wrong what you're doing is?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">I'm still sometimes taken aback at the entitlement we encounter on the sidewalk, of these people who think it's perfectly fine to take their particular flavor of myth and try to ram it down your throat as if it's their right to do so. Her claim to be a chaplain doesn't impress me much, as the whole religious-person-in-a-non-religious setting always seemed weird and untenable. She tries to engage us for a while, drifting away as Emmy and I start chatting about weed. When patients show up the chaplain proves easy enough to box out, and we've certainly had to deal with worse protesters before.</p><p style="text-align: left;">One of whom shows up a few minutes later, of course. Luis, he of screaming at brick walls and blowing a shofar, makes an appearance. The guy who went bonkers on a Department of Health worker who tried to hand out free masks during the height of COVID? The guy who once asked a fellow escort if she was a virgin? The guy who was so threatening and menacing that my wife filed a harassment charge against him? </p><p style="text-align: left;">Yeah, that guy. </p><p style="text-align: left;">We watch with distaste as he hangs signs drenched with misinformation on his pickup, preparing ourselves for his unbalanced rants. Back before he got entangled in a seemingly endless series of court dates to address the complain from my wife, he was considered someone who was borderline dangerous, an unstable personality promising an explosion that was more a matter of when as opposed to if. On the surface it felt like the results from my wife's efforts were minimal at best - a thirty day ban from the clinic - but aside from the mask incident Luis hasn't been the same. He returned quieter, less strident, less committed. He'd disappear for months at a time, not that we missed him. His reappearance here isn't welcome, and serves as confirmation that the protesters are irritated enough at our presence here to try to turn up the heat, so to speak. Calling in the reserves, bringing back some of the old fireballers. Hellfire and damnation! Old Testament God, the one more interested in killing and revenge than redemption. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Luis doesn't seem up to it. When he comes over to chat with the two protesters in front of the clinic we're quick to let him know the rules. Based on past events I expect either scorn or anger, but instead he blinks a few times before shuffling back across the street and talking with the crew assembled there, including one guy who shows up late and attaches a camera to a telephone pole. As best as we can tell he's livestreaming himself standing across the street from the clinic, and we make sure we interpose ourselves between his filming angle and the patients we're bringing in. The chaplain has been getting visibly more frustrated as she can neither engage us nor get her pamphlets to our charges, and with a shake of her head she gets into her car and departs, leaving our souls unsaved. Luis takes the opportunity to assume her spot but he's a shell of himself, reading Bible verses in our general direction instead of his antics of days bygone. He makes token entreaties at patients, quietly withdrawing when they ignore his offerings. Before long he's denuded his truck and headed off, not even saying goodbye. Other shifts here have had problems that involved summoning the police, but over the three Saturdays I've spent here so far that hasn't been a necessity.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The group across the street slowly dissipates until Emmy and I are the only ones standing out here. As if on cue, the clinic owner sticks her head out to let us know that all the patients for the day are safely ensconced inside, and we're free to go. With a shrug we bump fists and head off to enjoy the rest of the weekend, leaving the non-descript building behind us.</p><p style="text-align: left;">For now.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-1997327605495334472022-01-03T10:04:00.004-08:002022-11-22T09:59:55.085-08:00We All Knew It Would End Up Here Eventually, Right? - Dispatches from Days 49-52 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<p><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/03/and-in-this-corner-standing-six-foot.html" target="_blank">Days 36-39.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/07/been-away-so-long-i-hardly-knew-place.html" target="_blank">Days 40-42.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/10/time-and-space-have-no-meaning-here.html">Days 43-45.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2021/03/deathscort-in-streets-hellscort-in.html">Days 46-48.</a> )</span></p><p><br /></p><p>(yes I know it's been nine months since my last update I'm a bad person)</p><p>(Day 50)</p><p>"No, no, it's okay. He loves it. He totally loves it!"<br /><br />The 'he' in question does not, in fact, appear to be 'loving it.'</p><p>Aside from their ridiculous signs the protesters that plague our sidewalk don't usually bother much with props. Occasionally Luis will pull out a shofar to blatt, which is an odd choice considering he and his brethren take malicious joy in yelling JESUS IS LORD in Hebrew whenever spotting someone heading to the temple down the street. The Runner (who moved farther away and hardly ever shows up anymore, which might cause me to rethink my belief that there are no gods) had her little plastic foetus keychains but those were more of a, well, souvenir she kept trying to force on people. Occasionally we get one of the folks across the street with red duct tape on their mouths, but by and far there's very few objects beyond the omnipresent Bibles that get bandied about by the screamers.</p><p>Mr. Preacherman, though, is cut from a different and far more unstable bolt of cloth. Using a music stand is understandable, I suppose, as having something to leave his Bible on when he darts off to try to restrict access to incoming patients must be handy indeed. He also tried to get away with setting up a largish table 'to hold all the Bibles that he was going to give away' which conveniently (for him) blocked a large approach area to the clinic from the street. The police, at this point extremely well-versed with Mr. Preacherman and his antics, made him get rid of it because he didn't have a permit. I don't usually side with small-town bureaucracy but I'm glad to make an exception in this instance.</p><p>Lately he's resorted to a much more mobile kind of prop - his children. As he constantly reminds us he has a half-dozen of them. I don't think we've had the entire gaggle here at the same time but definitely more than a few underfoot on numerous occasions. It's difficult to feel anything but pity for them as they are doomed to be warped by their unstable father, who pays little attention to them as they stand around for hours looking bored beyond words. Today he's got his wife there to wrangle the brood, and that's who he's talking to as he holds a child who's eight, maybe ten months old.</p><p>Holding an infant. </p><p>Who isn't wearing any ear protection.</p><p>As his father preaches through a loudspeaker that hangs perhaps a foot away from the child's head.</p><p>Regularly exceeding 80db.</p><p>FFS.</p><p>His wife, doing her best to keep her rising alarm under control, continues to entreat him to hand the child over. Finally, after several more minutes of yelling through an amplifier next to the kid's ear, he acquiesces and gives her the kid just in time to yell at a couple walking in.</p><p>"YOU ARE PARENTS OF A CHILD, HOW CAN YOU DO THIS?"</p><p>How indeed.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 49)</p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">"CHARLES 'THE DEADMAN' DARWIN WAS, AT BEST, A COMPLETE MORON!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Kettle, pot, black, etc.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Scrubs has been elevated to having a spot as a screamer each weekend, which I have to assume is because of others who previously held the position no longer showing up. Actually, that's not 100% correct as Luis, he of shouting at brick walls and asking women whether they were virgins or not, has made occasional appearances lately. He hasn't taken the mike, though, and in fact has been curiously (and wonderfully) subdued. I do not ask why.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"YOU LADIES THINK JUST BECAUSE YOU BEHAVE LIKE WHORES YOU CAN COME HERE AND ERASE YOUR SIN OF FORNICATION! YOU WILL LEARN THAT'S NOT TRUE WHEN YOU FACE THE LORD!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Scrubs is more than willing to pick up the crazy/slut shaming slack that Luis used to dish out, which doesn't excite anyone. He's monotonous and condescending, labeling anyone who doesn't agree with his Bible-backed 'truths' as some sort of simpleton. That he clearly believes women are second-class citizens is easy enough to discern from his words but even more obvious in the way he treats his wife, the odious Runner Lite. There's no detectable affection between the pair, no sweet moments or stolen hugs. When he's on the mike her job is to make sure he's hydrated and to otherwise stay out of the way because A MAN IS TALKING. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The underlying rot of their dynamic is never more apparent during one of the many times the police show up - in this instance, at my urging after she and Mr. Preacherman have more than overstepped boundaries earlier in the shift by shoving us from behind and blocking access from the street to the sidewalk. After speaking with me the officer approaches her to discuss the situation only to have Scrubs break off from his oration to shout, "RICHELE, YOU GO STAND AGAINST THE WALL! I'M THE HUSBAND AND I'LL TALK TO THE POLICE!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">This doesn't sit well with either his wife or the somewhat taken aback officer (Dude, have you not been paying attention to what goes on here? Like, at all?) but that doesn't slow him down in the least. "I'M THE HUSBAND HERE! OFFICER, YOU TALK TO ME!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Suffice to say the cop does *not* agree with the proclamation and instead has the temerity to speak with Runner Lite while Scrub's stands a few feet away, absolutely <i>seething</i>. Runner Lite basks in the opportunity to spew falsehoods on her own - it shouldn't surprise me how willing the protesters are to lie but yet here we are - and concocts a version of what occurred that doesn't bear even the faintest resemblance to reality. Once she hears that two of us are planning on filing complaints she immediately announces her intention of doing the same, which is how Lena and I find ourselves sharing the small reception area of the Englewood Police Department after the end of the shift. The officer in the middle of all this has gone from being mildly irritated at us for choosing to swear out complaints to being thoroughly irked at the protesters, warning them not to interact with us while the wheels of procedure slowly grind along. Mr. Preacherman's repeated facetious offerings of a can of iced tea to the disinterested cop isn't helping their standing, not that they care. Since they can't address us directly they instead have loud conversations tossing mockery our way, laughing a bit too loud at attempted jokes and putdowns. It's a relief when we can stride out without even glancing in their direction.<br /><br />The antics continued a month later at one of the most surreal Zoom court sessions I've ever been part of - okay, the only Zoom court session I've even been part of. From a hotel room several hundred miles away - I was working a convention - I watch in amused silence as the town prosecutor repeatedly tears into the lawyer representing Mr. Preacherman and Runner Lite (who appears to be alone but I'm fairly confident Scrubs is lurking just off-camera, ready to intercede in case she's called on to say something) over his utter lack of professionalism. The judge tries to seize the reins a few times but it's a good three-quarters of an hour before she's able to get them sorted out and our morass of complaints and counter-complaints is shunted off to the future. Alas, before that legal matter can be addressed Mr. Preacherman decides to up the ante in new and exciting ways.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 51)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"C'mon, Kit! LET'S GO! I knew you had that fire in you somewhere! LET'S GO!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">I'd like to go. Believe me, I'd LOVE to go. But since the camera-wearing Mr. Preacherman wants me to do so with all of his heart I am not going to go. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Preacherman, however . . .</p><p style="text-align: left;">We like to laugh at the antics of the protesters whenever possible but the bottom line is that these are people hell-bent (ha!) on trying to coerce vulnerable women into joining their cult. What also isn't a joke is the escalating of violence in both Mr. Preacherman's rhetoric and his actions. Back in August I was forced to file a complaint against both him and Runner Lite for pushing through me from behind and then blocking access from the street to the sidewalk. But while Runner Lite's response to getting rapped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper has been to switch to snarky, 'cutting' comments instead, Mr. Preacherman has started spouting more insults and upping his physicality. It's a bit unsettling - not because I don't think I could handle him if need be but rather that he seems a dangerously unbalanced mix of zealotry and mental instability. By his own admission he was bounced out of the military for refusing to take the meds he was prescribed, so I don't think my alarm is unwarranted. A few weeks ago the police picked him up outside the clinic and discovered he was toting a knife. He's often shouted that only answers to the laws of his god and not to those of man. Honestly, he feels like a cauldron ready to boil over.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It doesn't take long for things to reach that point today. From a vantage point ten or so yards away I watch Monroe approach the driver's door of an idling car, letting the person inside know that yes, they're at the clinic, and offering suggestions as to where to park.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Then Mr. Preacherman walks over and hipchecks Monroe out of the way.</p><p style="text-align: left;">There was nothing subtle or accidental about it. When an astonished Monroe steps back to where he'd been Mr. Preacherman hipchecks him away again. Not gonna lie, as I rush over the urge to smear Mr. Preacherman against the vehicle is strong indeed - very, very strong - but instead I get between him and Monroe as the patient emerges from the passenger side, being guided by other members of our team. Monroe and I fall in behind them and I'm asking him if he's okay when it's my turn to get hit, this time a shove from behind. At first I'm so stunned it takes a moment to register but before I can react in any manner I'm pushed again and now, now, my elbow is up and cocked as Mr. Preacherman continues to try to taunt me into making a big mistake. For a moment I think I'm going to let it fly and fuck the consequences but something is screaming from deep inside to remind me that <i>this isn't about me</i>. I let my arm drop as he bangs against me again, preparing to turn and yell at him.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Just yell. I swear.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I think.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"You! Stop! Right now! I see what you're doing!" With a fair amount of surprise I realize the words didn't come from myself or Monroe but rather from a member of the Englewood PD, who has come running across the street from his parked patrol truck. "Back off from them right now!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Preacherman, man of God and morally opposed to sin, begins lying instantly. "Officer, I'm glad you're here. They started it by pushing me and -"</p><p style="text-align: left;">The cop isn't buying that. "No, they didn't. I saw the whole thing and it's on my body cam, so what I need you to do right now is back off. Immediately."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Monroe and I keep moving, leaving Mr. Preacherman to his transformation from WARRIOR FOR JESUS to an unctuous, fibbing sycophant crooning his lifelong support for the police. The Englewood PD is quite aware of his shenanigans at this point and my best guess is that his version of what happened is falling on cynical ears. Does the officer really have the incriminating evidence on his camera? If he does, it's not offered up to my knowledge.</p><p style="text-align: left;">That's okay. The protestors aren't the only ones who can wear body cams. And pushing and shoving someone representing the clinic? That is a violation of the FACE Act. FACE stands for 'Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances' and, friends and neighbors, it is a FEDERAL law.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Preacherman has just fucked around and found out.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It takes a little while to get all the ducks in a row but the FBI raids his house and takes him away just a week or two before he and his family are supposed to leave the US and head to Nepal try to ram his religion down the throats of a new nation of people. There's a lot of back and forth before he's finally permitted to leave as planned with the knowledge that he still has to stand trial but believe me, if he wants to thumb his nose at us and never set foot in New Jersey again I would consider that a fair trade off. For all his talk of having a 'great pro bono' lawyer he posts a GoFundMe begging for help with his legal fees which, as of this writing, sits at about ten percent of his goal. Thought and prayers, sir. Thoughts and prayers.</p><p style="text-align: left;">UPDATE: Mr. Preacherman had his arraignment yesterday (mid-December) and is facing charges for Blocking Access to a Clinic Entrance and Using Physical Force to Injure or Intimidate a Medical Professional. Both carry a sentence of a year in Federal prison. Do I think he'll end up serving time? Probably not, but a ban requiring him to stay away from clinics would be just as welcome. Updates as they happen.</p><p style="text-align: left;">UPDATE ON THE UPDATE (11/2022): Mr. Preacherman reached a settlement of sorts with the government - no prison time BUT he's permanently forbidden to be within 25 feet of the clinic and he also cannot approach incoming patients within 100 feet of the clinic. Is it a perfect solution for us? No, but it's not bad. He's currently in Nepal but was in town preaching just outside of his new forbidden zone while in court for hate crime charges. Yeah, he's a real peach.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 52)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"You are a MURDERER! You have BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS and you will NEVER BE A GOOD FATHER!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">How would you react if someone screamed that in your face via an 80+db loudspeaker while standing on a patch of sidewalk he wasn't allowed to be in?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Would you feel threatened?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Would you react?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Would you be justified if you did?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Not gonna lie, I didn't see this one coming during my first shift after Mr. Preacherman's arrest by the Feds. He was released on bail and ordered to stay away from the clinic but I'm exactly zero percent surprised when he drives by in the middle of the morning, swerving across traffic in order to brandish a raised fist and howl something incoherent as he passes by. Him being gone means that others have to pick up the preaching on the squawkbox slack, and given how low their numbers have been that unfortunately means that Scrubs is given additional time to spew his hatred, misogyny, and ignorance. He's all about strutting through the buffer zone while he orates and I'm all about filming him as he does so, as every little bit we can pile up against these folks and their utter disregard for the laws that are supposed to apply to everyone will help.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Right now Scrubs is screaming at a guy who had come back in alone, probably to drop off an ID for the person he'd brought. That happens more often than you might expect, and after emerging he's immediately confronted by the ranting, frothing Scrubs. The guy - let's call him Nigel - Nigel seems taken aback and confused by this lunatic screaming at him through a speaker while standing in what's supposed to be a safe zone. He tells Scrubs that he has no idea what his situation is but of course Scrubs doesn't care and continues to berate him. Josie and I step in to intercede, making ourselves a barrier between the two, but Nigel has had quite enough and reaches through us to give Scrubs a healthy shove. Now we're trying to drag him away before anything else happens - Runner Lite is already on her phone calling the Englewood PD - and we shepherd him down the street to try to calm him down a bit.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"How is this legal?" Nigel is from England and seems perplexed as to why this is permitted. You and me both, buddy. "They'd be arrested where I come from for doing this."</p><p style="text-align: left;">We're still walking him from the site of the incident, pausing as he stops short and gives out a large shuddering gasp, wiping at his eyes. Once we start moving again we're joined by Runner Lite, who buzzes around on her phone telling the police that the deathscorts are 'fleeing the scene of the crime.' She continues to harass Nigel, trying to goad him into saying things that might get him in trouble. She's not even trying to hide it. With a sigh we tell her to get lost and bring him back to a location relatively near the front doors to wait for the cops.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The officer who shows up is kind, patient, and appears to be somewhat understanding of how freaked out and upset Nigel is at the moment. After shooing Runner Lite away - she's still flitting about offering her version of what happened - he takes Nigel's statement. We have no idea if Scrubs is going to file a complaint or not but at least there are no handcuffs involved or anyone hauled away for now. We still need to get Nigel to his car and away from here for now but he's parked (illegally, it turns out, but he luckily didn't get ticketed or towed) on a street on the opposite side of the clinic entrance - in other word, if we take the direct route he's going to have to run the gauntlet again.<br /><br />Uhm, no.</p><p style="text-align: left;">We take the indirect route instead by going the long way around the block, chatting about some of the places he's traveled to and the differences between the US and England. I wouldn't say he's happy by the time we reach our destination but he's definitely in a much better state of mind. We let him know that if anything does come of it he can contact us through the clinic to speak on his behalf. We shake hands and head back to the door to relieve the other escorts who have been covering for us, realizing when we get there that it's well after 11 and time to call it a day. Runner Lite mutters something as we walk past but I can't make it out.</p><p style="text-align: left;">No great loss there.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Be safe and happy in 2022, my friends. </p>Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-91866053457815138472021-03-18T09:28:00.003-07:002021-03-18T09:28:36.763-07:00Deathscort in the Streets, Hellscort in the Sheets - Dispatches from Days 46-48 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<p><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/03/and-in-this-corner-standing-six-foot.html" target="_blank">Days 36-39.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/07/been-away-so-long-i-hardly-knew-place.html" target="_blank">Days 40-42.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/10/time-and-space-have-no-meaning-here.html">Days 43-45.</a>)</span></p><p><br /></p><p>(Day 46)</p><p>"Kit, what's that short for? Kitty Cat? Is your name Kitty Cat, is that what it is?"</p><p>Welcome back to recess at your elementary school. There's juice boxes for everyone.</p><p>Since the protesters are out here to bully and harass women trying to access a health clinic it shouldn't be too surprising that when facing a dearth of patients to use as targets they lash at out the conveniently located escorts instead. It's a fascinating juxtaposition from their 'we love everyone' posturing when they start to lay into us with all the wit and candor of overstimulated third-graders.</p><p>"You played rugby? I don't believe that. That's a rough game and you're way too effeminate for that. You could never play that game."</p><p>Alex likes to team up with the Mean Girls for what they no doubt consider scathing mockery, the lot of them giggling as they launch verbal broadsides against myself and my team. As the lone male escort today my character is under attack for 'failing at being a man,' while my teammates are being berated for daring to be anything other than subservient and fawning. THE HORROR. This evokes little more than laughter from them (and a few choice words and/or gestures as well) while my silence denies them the oxygen their fires of hatred thirst for.</p><p>"You play hockey now? I feel sorry for your team. They must be so sad to have you because you're probably the worst player on the team."</p><p>Not sure how trying to belittle me is an integral part of their master plan to save all the babies but they're going to get in big trouble when I tell the lunch lady what they said to me.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 47)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"PSYCHOPATHS WORK HEEEEEEERE! THEY ARE MURDERERS AND THEY ARE EEEEEEEEEEEVIL! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEVIL!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">He's a little too old for castration to affect his voice so we're assuming The Stepson is doing a weird voice thing on purpose. I don't think our uncontrollable laughter is what he's hoping for.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's been a few months since we've been out here on the sidewalk - our leaders made the difficult but prudent decision to pull us in November when it became clear that the 'we're all about LIFE but not when it's a virus that's killing millions worldwide' protesters weren't interested in either wearing masks or respecting personal space. However, for once their hypocrisy has worked against them as our volunteer work against their callous disregard for the health and safety of patients allowed the clinic to secure appointments for a handful of the team - in other words, thanks to the protesters being utterly repulsive and reprehensible people several escorts are now fully vaccinated. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Thanks, cultists! A bit amazed to learn you're actually good for something but it's nice to be surprised.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Anyway The Stepson, clad in two different types of camouflage, has at some point in the interim adopted a new speech pattern that has him dropping in and out of falsetto. If that wasn't disturbing enough he's drawing out random words during his ranting.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"YOUR MIND IS BROOOOOOKEN BUT JESUS CAN HELP YOUUUUUUUUU! JESUS CAN GIVE YOU A NEW MIIIIIIIIND YES HE CAAAAAAAAAN!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">At times he seems to be on the verge of laughter himself, but that could just be an early glimmer of whatever potential mental breakdown he's teetering along the edge of. This is someone in his late teens or early twenties who thinks sex is a bad thing. In any case he's having no difficulty working himself into a lather, which is a problem.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"GET OUT OF THERE! GET OOOOOOOOOOUT OF THEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">I've mentioned before that The Stepson has a bit of an expectoration issue - he spits when he's screeching. A lot. It was bad this summer but now it's much, much worse. Have you watched the Hamilton movie? If so, you might recall that the close-ups of King George show a few globs of spittle on his lips. Now make that a spray, constantly renewing itself, and you have an idea of what's coming from The Stepson's mouth. It's like being around the dilophosaurus from Jurassic Park, and we're doing our best to stay out of his splash zone.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"YOU ARE GOING TO SPLIT HELL WIDE OPEN! DO NOT SPLIT YOUR LEGS WIDE OPEN!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">I . . . ::shrug::</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 46)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Did you hear that car farting? That car definitely farted."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Yeah, I got nothing here.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Things can get a little surreal on the sidewalk, which I suppose is to be expected when you have people there that think it's perfectly okay to demand that women they don't know should be forced to carry a child that they don't want to term. Combine this with the fact that the females who are part of their cult are perfectly fine with being treated like second-class citizens because BIBLE SEZ and it makes for an odd and often noxious stew.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Sometimes it's just plain weird.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"No! You can't take my picture! Stop! You can't!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Ah, how fragile toxic masculinity can be. The Stepson is completely freaking out because I raised my phone to take a picture of his unmasked face as evidence that might be needed at some point down the road. He breaks his oration to hide behind his brandished Bible, turning away as he further exhorts me to stop. I comply, then lift my arm again as he starts speaking. His rising anger is palpable as he yells at me again. Kid, this is a dance I can do alllllll morning.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's beyond confusing. The protesters wear Go-Pro cameras to immortalize their rants. Alex has spent the morning recording the speakers with his phone, and they didn't shy away from him. They take plenty of pictures of us, some of which turn up on random social media sites. The Stepson has told me how proud he is to be a 'warrior of Christ,' so what is he so afraid of?</p><p style="text-align: left;">Others of their crew gather around and begin yelling at me to stop, calling me a bully. My mask conceals the broad grin caused by their hypocrisy as I continue to intermittently break his concentration by presenting my phone. As he ascends to new heights of spittle-flecked rage it occurs to me that maybe I should let him know I haven't taken a picture since the first time I raised my camera.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Nah.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 47)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Hey, I have an audience! Street preachers love having an audience. I'd like to thank you for coming down here to listen to me today! How thoughtful of you!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Yeah, we've got one of *those* guys here today.</p><p style="text-align: left;">There must be a pretty fine line between overweening pride and wanting to be the person constantly exhorting praise and servitude to one's chosen deity. Filming others while also recording yourself would seem to be under the mantle of the former. Sure, one can claim to be posting these sermons/screeds/rants on Youtube is a way to spread the word of your god but it also smacks of LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Case in point, this guy. DeeDee knows him from previous visits - evidently he's someone often traveling the world to ram his flavor of religion down other people's throats but is in our area for the foreseeable future - and while I'm sure he'd love for me to use his real name here I'm not going to do that. He's wearing a hat that's a half-step up from a trilby and a sporting a Smith Brothers-worthy beard. We're introduced early in the shift when he makes as if he's passing through the buffer before hanging a sharp left and heading toward the front doors. His eyes register surprise as I step in front of him and tell him he needs to leave the zone and, surprising nobody, he proclaims in a loud voice that he's not moving. Fine. I ask him to move one more time and, when he ignores me, request to DeeDee (who is recording the violation) to call the police.</p><p style="text-align: left;">THAT gets Mr. Preacherman moving, as it turns out he was arrested the day before by the Englewood PD and once before that a few weeks ago. Well, now he can enjoy responding to a complaint as well. Welcome to New Jersey, bud. Here's your hat, what's your hurry?</p><p style="text-align: left;">"It's a fetus. Do you know what 'fetus' means in the original Greek? You probably do, as you look like intelligent people, so you know it means 'child.'"</p><p style="text-align: left;">(side note: When I tell this story to my wife, a Classics major, she bursts out laughing before rolling her eyes. Mr. Preacherman is not the expert in ancient languages that he thinks himself to be)</p><p style="text-align: left;">He uses a lot of public speaking tricks like that during the thirty minutes of material he has that gets repeated three times over an almost interminable ninety minute slog. Same sort of weak stuff that Parker favors such as 'Everyone knows,' and 'You know I'm right when I say.' They do love to take the right to choose away. Same lies, mumbles, and staggering ignorance about what occurs during most abortions - forceps? really? - yelled over and over at decibel levels regularly venturing into the low 80s. He's so very, very desperate to have us interact with him but his egregious Biblical cherry-picking fails to lure us in.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"The problem is that you live in an emotional fantasy world where you think what a woman wants is more important than a human life! That's your problem, deathscorts!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">The incongruity and, well, utter hypocrisy of being lectured about living in an 'emotional fantasy' by someone whose entire life is based on a book that, among other fairy tales, insists a dude built a big boat and took a pair of every animal on the planet with him is not lost on me. Believe me, I want to get into it with him. It's been a few months since we've been out here and it was not pretty while we were gone - videos of them stacked three deep around a car and not allowing the passengers to emerge had us counting the days until our vaccinations - but you can't win an argument with a zealot. Instead we note his mounting frustration at our unwillingness to play as we escort patients by.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"It's a womb! Don't make it a tomb!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Whatever.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 46)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"I'm going to stay a little longer."</p><p style="text-align: left;">There are certain things you don't expect to hear when you're team leading. This is one of them.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's a little after 11am and about the time I usually signal to the escorts to call the end of the shift. Most of the patients have already entered by this point of the morning. In addition the restaurant next to us opens a half an hour from now and the owner has proven before that his tolerance for the protesters harassing his diners eating outside is non-existent. They don't like to play without an audience anyway, especially the captive one we present, so they often bail after we do. Today's a little unusual because the majority of them have been across the street for the past half-hour or so, hanging out as they chow down on doughnuts and coffee dropped off by someone supportive of their 'crusade.' At times there's a big show being made of how good everything is which, since I have celiac and don't drink coffee, is not as effective as they might be hoping for.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The person who wants to do some overtime is Marli, a seasoned vet with good instincts. Right before the protesters had scampered off for their treat she'd escorted a guy down to the clinic - I'd raised an eyebrow at her approach but relaxed after she shot me a hand gesture - not something to talk about in front of others that weren't us. Now, thirty minutes later and in the company of escorts alone she fills me in on the situation. A couple is sitting in a nearby car. The wife was flat-out terrified by the protesters and refused to walk past them for her scheduled 10:30am appointment. Marli brought the husband down to discuss options with the clinic and he was informed that the latest spot available was at 11:30am, if they were willing to try to outwait the screaming hordes. The husband said that would work, given Marli's optimism that the undesirables would be cleared out by 11:15 or so like they usually were.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Alas, best-laid plans and so on. After sending the other two escorts home Marli and I take up residence in our off-site (we're no longer mustering in the clinic itself, because COVID) but near-by base, keeping out of sight while waiting for the protesters to scram.</p><p style="text-align: left;">And waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . .</p><p style="text-align: left;">Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of the protesters continuing to hang around is that they're not doing their usual annoying crap. Well, okay, that's actually a good thing, I suppose, but not when I'd rather have them gone. Okay I ALWAYS want them gone so that's not helpful but I'd particularly like them to be far away from here now. They're still across the street from the clinic, chatting as they continue with their snacks. Usually moments after we'd vacated they'd have done their prayer circle, taken down their banners, and gone and done whatever religious zealots do on Saturday afternoons. Yet here they are, lingering as time runs down on the couple's window of opportunity. </p><p style="text-align: left;">11:20. Still there. Marli and I venture out for a quick peek, hoping they've started packing up. They have not, which sets us to grumbling as we go back into cover. The minutes begin to zip by at a torrid pace with no sign of them leaving. C'mon, there's a whole book in your Bible called Exodus! Get out of here already! </p><p style="text-align: left;">11:25. We're reaching a point of no return, so after shucking our pink vests we casually amble out to the couple's car. Squatting down on the driver's side both keeps us out of sight and allows us to confirm this side of the sidewalk is clear - well, except for one young man who appears to be the son of a protester who isn't affiliated with the main cultist sect (but is still kinda awful in her own right). There seems to be a different sibling from a rotating crew each weekend, all who do the same thing - stand near the buffer zone wearing a sign and listening to music on earbuds. Well, they also surreptitiously carry a clicker to count how many patients come in, which is super creepy and begs a whole bunch of questions to be answered. Still, since they always look like they'd like to be somewhere else and rarely if ever interact with patients or companions we don't consider them much of a problem. The wife is still extremely reluctant to exit the vehicle and it's starting to look like they may have to cancel and reschedule, if possible.</p><p style="text-align: left;">11:28. As if a queen bee has sent out a command to all drones the protesters suddenly begin to pack up with surprising haste. Sensing the opportunity, we ease the couple out of the car and begin walking down the sidewalk at an unhurried pace, Marli and myself chatting with them as if we're four friends heading into town for bagels and coffee. The wife is about as on edge as a person could be, eyes brimming with tears and the knuckles gripping her husband's hand a bone white. We're almost to the door when a startled 'Hey!' goes up from across the way, and we pick up the pace before anything organized can start up. A large bus rumbling by cements our successful journey, and the husband mouths 'thank you' as we close the door behind them. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Jeers rain down on us from from across the street, As we smile and wave in their direction, they feel like rays of sunshine.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 48)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"I'm not going anywhere! I have just as much right to be here as you do!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">*Somebody* is about to learn a very valuable lesson.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's a little after 8am and way too early for this shit, but here we are. Mr. Preacherman - he of the inflated ego and mortifying hat - is already cranking and, at the moment, doing so without the aid of his bullhorn. He's still loud and clearly standing in the buffer zone, something I duly record with my phone's camera. He's uninterested in moving, despite our numerous reminders, and he waves a dismissive hand in our direction when we inform him that we're going to call the police. Perhaps he thinks we're bluffing, or maybe that he is indeed allowed to be in the buffer if we are.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Either way, he's mistaken.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Bringing in the police is not something we want to do but if the protesters' toxic mix of arrogance and entitlement is so great that they can't respect an ordinance keeping a few square feet free for access then they leave us no choice. Mr. Preacherman continues flaunting the rules as he brays on, bellowing at the top of his lungs for a few minutes until additional troops arrive in a shiny new minivan - shaming women pays well, it seems. The Stepson hurries over to Mr. Preacherman and tells him that he'd better get out of the zone because the police are coming (does Shiny New Van have a police scanner? Who knows?). This is met with more scorn and sneering . . .</p><p style="text-align: left;">. . . until two police cruisers show up. Abruptly Mr. Preachman is VERY concerned and runs down the sidewalk to try to talk to them before Lexi can, but they're more interested in talking to her since she's the one who called in the complaint. Hubris in check, he's now pacing around trying to hear what's being said and to insert himself into the conversation, which is not is not going his way. Lexi has brought paperwork confirming that yes, we're allowed in the buffer zone and no, the protesters aren't. A bit later I'm summoned down to show them the video I recorded. One officer is open and friendly, nodding as he watches. The other one looks likes he's sucking on a lemon the entire time I'm there, his responses curt and dismissive. When a supervisor shows up and asks some simple questions we begin to get the idea that while the higher-ups are aware of the ordinance the patrolmen might not have been clued in. </p><p style="text-align: left;">After a while the police ask Lexi to come to the station and finish the paperwork now, leaving behind an extremely agitated Mr. Preacherman to pace about while The Stepson, who has taken over the bullhorn, struggles along in his place. Maybe it's like being a relief pitcher who needs warmup? He does change up from calling us 'deathscorts' to 'hellscorts' and we are DELIGHTED by our new metal nickname. A good forty-five minutes later Mr. Preacherman suddenly runs past, pausing only long enough to tell The Stepson to keep an eye on the Go-Pro he taped to one of the light posts, before jumping in his own van and tearing off. It doesn't take a genius to know where he's rushing off to in such an agitated state.</p><p style="text-align: left;">(An aside - later he accuses us of 'taking selfies so we can post pictures on Instagram because we're guilty of the sin of PRIDE' which is some epic-level projection coming from someone who films himself with multiple cameras each week but what do I know, I'm just a Son of Satan)</p><p style="text-align: left;">We have fun making banner messages on our phones and holding them up to his Go-Pro, which prompts the remaining protesters to threaten to call the police on us for 'harassing the camera.' Mr. Preacherman returns in the nick of time as The Stepson continues to flag - by now the kid has forgotten about employing that weird-ass inflection thing he was so proud of last time - and hoo boy he's full of 'oh-shit-that-did-not-go-the-way-I-wanted-it-to' energy, doing his best to harangue us and anyone else he can find on the sidewalk. He mocks us for wearing masks since COVID has a 99% survival rate. Pretty odd stance for someone who claims that 'every life is sacred' to take, especially since over half a million Americans have died from it so far, but glaring contradictions are something you get used to quickly out here.</p><p style="text-align: left;">He also leaves me high and dry when, after claiming that I'm a 'fallen angel,' I demand to know where my flaming sword is. Instead he tries to spin that into yet another conversational opener but we know better, ignoring his beseeching hooks. Whether it's his default setting or because of the unhappy outcome of his clash with the law today Mr. Preacherman is even more confrontational than usual, his haughty insufferableness cranked to extreme highs. When one companion steps out to smoke a cigarette he's all over him, trying to bully him into going inside and dragging his girlfriend out. He's dismissive of any and all explanations, which soon puts us into the unfortunate position of keeping him from getting his ass kicked.</p><p style="text-align: left;">As usual, Mr. Preacherman is the instigator. A car pulls up and when a woman emerges from the passenger side we're there to surround her in a sea of pink, guiding her to the clinic doors. By the time we get back Mr. Preacherman is yelling at the car, condemning the driver as a coward and an accomplice to murder. The window rolls down and the occupant begins to explain that if his wife carries the pregnancy to term both she and the baby will die. It's a medical condition. There's no way either of them can survive.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Get a second opinion." </p><p style="text-align: left;">There's a moment of stunned silence as the driver processes - or tries to - what just got said to him. When he tries to respond Mr. Preacherman yells it again and now, well, now the guy is pissed. His door opens and out he pops, fists clenched and nostrils flaring. While seeing someone thump one of these sanctimonious ghouls would be satisfying on certain primal levels we can't let it happen because they are so very much hoping it will, their Go-Pros and lawsuits at the ready. With heavy sighs Monroe and I intercede, getting in front of the now-incensed companion and doing our best to talk him down. It doesn't take too much - he understands what we're doing and why - but for a moment the situation feels like it's tilting toward a ruckus. </p><p style="text-align: left;">As the tension starts to ease the husband makes a sound of disgust and shakes his head at Mr. Preacherman. "What's wrong with you? Seriously, what is wrong with you?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Preacherman smiles broadly. "I'm just God's servant, doing his will."</p><p style="text-align: left;">If that's the case, perhaps somebody should check into his god's motives.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Plus, NO SWORD.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-81677358516823188652020-10-12T09:04:00.002-07:002021-02-17T09:45:13.964-08:00Time and Space Have No Meaning Here, Especially When You're Just Making Things Up - Dispatches from Days 43-45 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<p><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/03/and-in-this-corner-standing-six-foot.html" target="_blank">Days 36-39.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/07/been-away-so-long-i-hardly-knew-place.html" target="_blank">Days 40-42.</a> )</span></p><p>(Day 45)</p><p>"And I'll tell you what, Donald J. Trump better get himself right! Appointing a woman to the Supreme Court? He can't do that. He needs to appoint a man because only men have conviction!"</p><p>Nothing highlights your devotion to seeing the scourge of abortion brought to an end quite like railing against the appointment of the frothingly religious Amy Coney Barrett, who would almost undoubtedly be the demise of Roe v. Wade. Almost as if it's not <i>really </i>about the abortions for Alex and the rest of the crew out here. So weird.</p><p>Misogyny is never in short supply while the protesters are around, despite a goodly number of their cadre being elsewhere this morning. When I ask Parker where they are he tells me they're at a "men's retreat for abortion," which sounds like a strong contender for the top spot on the Scale of All Things Oxymoronic.</p><p>"Ruth Gader Binsburg, she's in a very warm and uncomfortable place right now, you can be sure of that."</p><p>Some people who, upon learning that I'm an escort, tell me they would love to do it but wouldn't be able to keep from punching one (or more) of the protesters in the face. I get it.</p><p>"Hey, you watch Richard Maddow on MSNBC, right? Richard?"</p><p>I *totally* get it.</p><p>"Hey, Fake News! What's the name of your blog? Northeastern Regional Overseer was looking for it the other day but couldn't find it."<br /><br />It's a bit of a logical dilemma he's brought up - how can he call me 'Fake News' if he isn't able to find where my blog is and thus see what's written here? Has he ever actually seen it? Last time Runner Lite told another protester that my name was 'Chip' so maybe they've been haunting someone else. With this crew, who knows? I feel sorry for that guy if that's the case. "Honey, people I don't know are telling me I'm going to burn in a lake of fire, gnash my teeth, suffer with the backbiters. Did we do something I don't remember?"</p><p>When I press him (yet again) on what 'fake news' I've written he sputters for a while before claiming that an opinion I gave about his brother wasn't true . . . as if an opinion is subject to a veracity test. Not sure how you lose a web address - is using Chrome an affront to God? - but I'm not inclined to make his life any easier. His frantic typing (and assumed Googling) doesn't provide him with what he's looking for, and his inability to find a site he's claimed to have visited before is no doubt some sort of Deep State conspiracy.</p><p>Maybe Richard Maddow had a hand in it.</p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 45)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"At three-and-a-half weeks the baby has a heartbeat!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's a shame when Parker can't keep his lies straight. To be fair (toooo beeeee faaaaaair), he's got a lot of them to keep track of.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Since my first day on the sidewalk almost four years ago (!) Parker has espousing the flat-out lie that an zygote/morula/blastocyst has a heartbeat at two-and-a-half weeks, sometimes more than once per preaching session. It's laughably untrue but that never stops him from trotting it out. I'm a wee bit curious as to why he'd switch up the timeline, but not enough to ask. He's a polished orator so the question is more of whether his ignorance is willful or due to lack of knowledge. I'm not all that interested in finding out as, of course, he's not wearing a mask.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Go ahead and ask Toys R Us why they went out of business! Could it have been because of their support of murder mills like this one? Because there weren't enough kids to support their business?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Well, no. While they were getting clobbered by Walmart, Amazon, and other giant retailers that sold toys, the main reason is because it was carved up into pieces by capitalists who had bought the company and then saddled it with the debt from its own purchase, which is weird and sad and uncool and somehow not illegal. Parker's information likely comes from <a href="https://www.texasrighttolife.com/toys-r-us-spent-years-contributing-to-americas-largest-abortion-business-and-now-doesnt-have-enough-customers/" target="_blank">this comically bad 'article'</a> that is jammed full of lies and propaganda, something wouldn't deter him in the least. Hell, that's a feature, not a bug.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"We don't have hate speech here! We love everyone and want to save you."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Indeed. I assume that's why the week before The Stepson, while preaching, sneered at Black Lives Matter and offered 'Dog Lives Matter' instead. Loads of compassion there. </p><p style="text-align: left;">It's okay. No matter how they dress up their lies and intolerance we know what they're saying.</p><p style="text-align: left;">"We're out here fighting against abominable sorcerers!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Well, most of the time.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 44)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Listen, I'm not lying when I say you're looking down on me. After all, you're much taller than I am."</p><p style="text-align: left;">Ye gods. I've got a wannabe comedian. Send help.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The fact that this conversation is taking place at all isn't my fault, for once. Victor (I know his name because he made it a point to introduce himself) is new to me and a late arrival this morning who decided he needed to be in the buffer zone while saying hello to the other protesters. When I politely - okay, semi-politely - okay, fine, not super aggressively - ask him to move he introduces himself and launches into a barrage of pedantry. It's not quite as irritating as he might be hoping it is but certainly I'm not enjoying countless insipid questions designed to draw me further into some sort of deep discussion when all I want to do is get him to move three feet to his right.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Just when I think his obstinance is going to drag on long enough to draw the guard out of the building he says that he understands what I'm asking him to do. Moving a few steps away, he looks up at me and asks if this is good. When I nod he asks to continue our conversation, at which point I body-shield him from the sight of the patient who had come up behind him. Once she's past I walk to the other side of the buffer zone, lean against the wall, and enjoy a marked lack of nitpicking.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 45)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"Look, I'm just saying that you seem to have a lot you want to talk about. So why won't they let you take a turn on the speaker?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">So, yeah, I'm doing that thing I'm not supposed to do and engaging with one of the few Mean Girls here today. She - this one hasn't done anything memorable enough to earn a nickname yet - has been standing on the edge of the buffer zone doing that conversation-with-herself-out-loud thing that seems to be one of their go-to staples. Armed with the absolute certainty provided by youth and inexperience she's kept up a fairly steady patter of something - I'm not paying attention so I have no idea what she's going on about - and when she pauses for breath I ask the logical question posted above.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Her first response is continued silence, which is most welcome. When I ask again she looks away, so I turn to Parker and tell him to give her a turn. He makes a couple of faces and waves a dismissive hand in my direction. In the past his response on this subject has been 'God's house in is order' but he doesn't offer that one up right now. Palms up, I ask him again to let her speak.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Looking discomfited if not actually uncomfortable he shrugs and, with a total lack of conviction, says, "She can speak if she wants to." </p><p style="text-align: left;">I spin back to her and gesture at the speaker hanging on Parker's chest. "Well? Go get it!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Still not looking at me, she clears her throat and says, "God put men on Earth to speak for us."</p><p style="text-align: left;">At times in my scribbled blathering here I've referred to the protesters as 'cultists,' which may or not have been believed by those reading. If those words didn't chill you to the bone and convince you my terminology is appropriate I would suggest reading them again. Here, I'll repeat them:</p><p style="text-align: left;">"God put men on Earth to speak for us."</p><p style="text-align: left;">This is a young woman, late teens or early twenties, who has completely surrendered herself to the notion that she's not equal to men. When did this insidious brainwashing take place? Was she raised this way, essentially programmed from birth? Or did she wander in at a later date, maybe brought along by a friend, and decide that free will and respect were things she no longer required? Does she intend to spend her entire life subservient, hoping and praying for a man to come along and control her every thought and movement?</p><p style="text-align: left;">There are some battles we can't fight for others. With a sigh, I shake my head and walk away.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">(Day 45)</p><p style="text-align: left;">"That's disgusting! You Deathscorts are depraved!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's near the end of the shift and I think everyone on both sides is looking forward to getting out of here. A car driven by an older woman pulls up by the buffer zone, likely the patient's grandmother. The passenger hops out and, bracketed by my team, zips inside so quickly the protesters don't really have time to harass her. Perhaps frustrated, they target their vitriol on the driver, who listens for a few moments with a calm expression on her face. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Then she cranks her stereo, blasting 'WAP' and drowning them out.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Crowe and Karina, two of my fellow escorts, immediately jump next to the driver's door and start dancing. The woman inside is laughing and bopping along as well, all of which appears to be both disgusting and enraging the protesters. Alas, much like the Pride flag flying on the flagpole across the street at the library, there's nothing they can do about it but seethe. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The driving bass beat does not convince the moniker-less Mean Girl to throw off the shackles of her oppressive religion and join in. Not today, anyway.</p><p style="text-align: left;">There's always tomorrow. We can hope.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;">Going to break from recapping for a moment to make a plea. Almost four years ago the American political landscape changed in a monumental and catastrophic way. Our country has declined both internally and externally, becoming a shell of what it should be. In less than a month we can address this grave misstep and make it nation to be proud of once again.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Please vote to take power away from those who wish to control women and their bodies. I understand if Joe Biden is not your preferred candidate - I was big on Liz Warren myself - but now is not the time to sit out or make a 'protest vote' because you didn't get your unicorn. I do not think it's hyperbole to say that if those currently in power are granted four more years it will be the end of a great many things we hold dear. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Please.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Vote blue.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Thanks for reading. Stay safe out there.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">UPDATE: WE DID IT!!!! Thank you!</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-65189086808421881852020-07-29T07:00:00.004-07:002020-09-25T07:48:46.001-07:00Been Away So Long I Hardly Knew the Place - Dispatches from Days 40-42 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2020/03/and-in-this-corner-standing-six-foot.html" target="_blank">Days 36-39.</a> )</span><br />
<br />
(This time the long delay between posts wasn't my fault. Blame the virus! Our leaders made the right decision to stay away for a while, much as it hurt to leave the sidewalk undefended. As always, thanks for reading and please feel encouraged to share - Kit)<br />
<br />
(Day 40)<br />
"While these deathscorts weren't around we saved a child from being murdered here. I know it's not right to say but in that way COVID-19 has been a blessing."<br />
<br />
I am constantly asked if I make up any of the things the protesters say and I can assure you that I don't.<br />
<br />
Not even this one. 150K+ dead but sure, it's a good thing.<br />
<br />
It feels weird to be back out on the sidewalk, close to four months since we chose to stop due to the pandemic and our unwillingness to expose the escorts to possible exposure. That's a legit concern since maybe two out of the fifteen or so protesters here today have bothered to wear masks, which is why we've limited this trial balloon of a shift to team leaders only. We're not messing around either, as evidenced by the following (disclaimer - since I wouldn't want to be guilty of the 'fAke NeWs' the protesters groundlessly accuse me of I must point out that the picture is from my most recent shift [Day 42] but features the same PPE):<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--rjerncZDDg/Xx77WhC3QgI/AAAAAAAAM5A/IeF2-hdAS7UWk5r9pS0zpeV9W4ONHsVqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/kitppe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--rjerncZDDg/Xx77WhC3QgI/AAAAAAAAM5A/IeF2-hdAS7UWk5r9pS0zpeV9W4ONHsVqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/kitppe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
You might think that since they're not bothering to wear masks the protesters would do their best to social distance from the patients but no, it's business as usual for them. This forces us to shift up our tactics a bit - our original plan was to spread out and guide the patients in from afar, but it quickly becomes obvious that the protesters have no qualms about behaving like parasites and so we become, by necessity, a bit more pro-active. I guess being 'pro-life' doesn't preclude being a vector for a highly infectious virus.<br />
<br />
A weird thing is that the protesters seem almost pleased that we're back out here, given the endless chirping of brainwashed mumbles emanating from the Mean Girls that are clearly intended to make us feel shame or something. When I'm reminded that Satan is my father it almost feels like a homecoming, if my home was a place filled with controlling misogynists spouting an endless torrent of lies.<br />
<br />
"Let's talk about Adam and Eve in the Garden and what they did wrong."<br />
<br />
If only PPE covered the ears as well.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
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(Day 42)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Would you be whiter, much whiter than snow? There's power in the blood, power in the blood!"</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm not sure, but I think they're trying to recruit vampires.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The above is being sung by an older guy with a thick Germanic accent, which is giving me a real Franz Liebkind vibe (it's from a movie called The Producers, kids. Go watch the 1967 version, thank me later). The screamers haven't started up yet on this grossly humid morning and our erstwhile songbird is belting out tunes with a dirge-like intonation. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"ARE you ready, ARE you ready, ARE you ready for the judgement day?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm struck, yet again, by how miserable the religion of this cult offshoot appears to be. Unless it's a joy focused on glorifying their god, it's taboo. Combined with the vision of Heaven they've presented me with, which is pretty much about continuing to do the same worship and praising that they do now but on a different plane of existence, it seems so . . . bleak and colorless. Do the Mean Girls even know what they're missing in life, or aware of what they'll be subjected to as future brood mares within this sect? Sure, they're allowed to harangue me on the side, but aren't they curious as to why they aren't allowed to take the microphone as well? It's depressing to witness.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it some day for a crown."</div>
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::stops singing::</div>
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"Yes, and the reason we have this coronavirus is because of abortions!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I've been polite and quiet during his concert, even respectful, but at this I burst into laughter. How can I not? Their disconnect with reality is too much to take sometimes, and while I felt no compulsion to interrupt his singing I'm not about to allow bullshit like that to go unchecked. Problem is, I can't stop laughing because it's just so absurd. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He's not pleased. "You laugh now, but he who laughs last is the last one laughing."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It is *really* difficult to wipe away tears through a face shield.</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 41)<br />
"Yes, I will spit on you! You deserve to be spit on!"<br />
<br />
Love thy neighbor, indeed.<br />
<br />
One of the many nice things about the buffer zone is that if I stand with my back against the building wall on a diagonal from the current screamer it puts about six feet or so between us. It helps to lessen the impact of their 80-90 db rants and, in the case of The Stepson, keeps me out of his spittle range. And ye gods, there's spittle.<br />
<br />
The Stepson is probably either in his late teens or early twenties, a volatile combination of youthful arrogance, religiously-induced ignorance, and what must be overwhelming sexual frustration. He channels all of these things into his unhinged screaming, which usually equals or surpasses the lunacy offered up by Luis - no mean feat. He's big on repetition and sweeping arm gestures, which caused him to both hit and expectorate on Dee Dee the previous week. Both were unintentional, but as evidenced to his above response to my request that he try not to spit on me, he doesn't care. He had also tried to wave away hitting Dee Dee saying, "It doesn't matter that I touched you." Given the way women in their cult are treated it's hardly surprising that he has that dismissive attitude.<br />
<br />
I'm not interested in either getting hit or spit on. "Can you take an extra step back? You're not even wearing a mask."<br />
<br />
(I'd like to digress for a moment to mention that the Englewood Department of Health sent an employee out this morning with a box full of N95 masks to basically beg the protesters to wear them and that, upon spotting him, Luis promptly freaked out and ran across the street to confront him while waving a finger at the others to keep them from putting them on. Luis isn't only anti-mask, he's anti-hand sanitizer as well. Yeah, I don't know either.)<br />
<br />
This earns me a look of contempt. "God holds my breath in his hands."<br />
<br />
What does one say to that? Should mention that his god might not want him to spread disease to his other creatures? That he shouldn't play god himself? It would all fall on deaf ears, which reminds me to put in my earplugs as he starts shouting. At least I'm out of the splash zone.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 42)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Has it ever occurred to you that other people might consider you calling them 'murderers' offensive as well?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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The police are here for their second visit this morning. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We didn't call them either time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Today's shift has been, in the most scientifically accurate terms available, coo coo for cocoa puffs. Part of it could be because of the temperature - it's already in the mid-eighties and humid AF by the time we take our positions - but maybe it's just because the protesters are who they are. I mean, I don't even know where to start with trying to recap today. The cops, I guess?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Police #1</u> - Dee Dee and Marillion are trying to escort a patient through the screaming lunatics, who of course are neither respecting distancing nor, for the most part, wearing masks. At the chokepoint created by a streetlight pole and a planter both Alex and Marillion go for the same spot and bump into each other. Marillion keeps going while Alex stops and begins to scream bloody murder. Claims he's going to call the cops, which we dismiss because there's no way he could be serious.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Turns out he *is* serious and the police show up deal with his complaint of being hit by Marillion, who stands an even five feet tall and weighs maybe a hundred pounds, if that. The police are not invested in this and after a little while tell us all to behave before leaving. I burst into laughter as Alex stalks by me. Marillion is immediately renamed 'Bruiser' and long may she reign as the Terror of the Sidewalks.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<u>Uber driver</u> - A SUV pulls up by the front and discharges a patient. The driver is descended on by the Mean Girls, who launch into their usual you're-as-bad-as-the-patient-is schtick. The driver tells them that she doesn't believe in abortion but she's an Uber driver and needs to be able to put food on the table, so here she is. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This proves an unsatisfactory response for the Mean Girls, who redouble their efforts. When the driver protests that she's a Muslim the claws REALLY come out as their misplaced sense of superiority takes over and they switch from shaming to converting.<br /><br />When she drops off someone else later they're even more livid. Hell, fury, scorned, etc.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>UFC Fighter:</u> After earlier attempts to engage me in conversation prove fruitless Alex begins to ask me about my UFC career - what's my record, have I lost recently, did I tap out, etc. He's fairly insistent that I'm a fighter, which is both flattering and bewildering.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about - maybe he only read the title of my last post instead of the recap itself and drew the wrong conclusion? I mean, FFS, I'm 52 years old, which is a little beyond the optimal age to compete in bare-handed gladiatorial combat, but it's tempting to create a career for him on the spot. Alas, despite their instance that I am fake news (and never taking me up on my offer to show me exactly what I've allegedly lied about in these posts) I do not do so, merely continuing to ignore him.<br />
<br />
Allow me to bare my soul here, Alex - I do not now nor have I ever fought in the UFC. My nose has been broken before, sure, but not in the octagon. Those folks are crazy.<br />
<br />
<u>Police #2:</u> The protesters manage to tick off the wrong guy, an absolutely huge dude who is incensed by the time he gets his now-weeping SO inside the clinic. I try to calm him down a bit and he assures me he's fine, but when he comes back outside he starts screaming at the protesters. Loudly.<br />
<br />
They do not care this and scatter (except for Scrubs, who is a good foot shorter than the guy, but he gets pretty much ignored). Big Guy keeps up the bellowing and strangely enough it turns out the protesters don't like to be on the receiving end of shaming, as opposed to being the ones dealing it out. For a good ten minutes they go back and forth, and while it wouldn't be fair to say Parker runs away from him he does move with a bit of alacrity to a spot up the street a good sixty feet away and stays oddly quiet. When Luis breaks off and heads across the street the Big Guy follows him, engendering panic among the others and invoking the second call to the police. This time three cruisers show up to find a scene devoid of any confrontation. Luis comes back and soon after so does the Big Guy. There's lots of talking, some yelling, but nothing much happens. The protesters are upset about the language he used and claiming that they were offended (Parker and his wife brought their toddler here for the morning, earning them early votes for Parents of the Year), and there's a considerable amount of pouting when the officer offers up the quote that started this section. Apropos of nothing, Alex tells the cops that the deathscorts want them to be defunded. It does not appear to have the effect he's hoping for.<br />
<br />
I wander over to the Big Guy as things settle down. He says that he crossed the street because Luis told him he was going to preach by the Big Guy's car in that passive-aggressive way he has of baiting people, which didn't happen as Luis ducked into the bus stop shelter when he saw he was being followed. Does it sound like something Luis would say? Absolutely, but as I didn't hear it myself I can't comment on the veracity of the Big Guy's account.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't bet against it being truth, though.<br />
<br />
<u>And finally</u>: It's near the end of the shift and we're all wilting under the intense heat and humidity. A woman the protesters appear to know pulls up in a pickup truck and gives them a few boxes of ice pops, which they devour with relish. Not long after that a guy in a car stops in the middle of the road and calls to them.<br /><br />"You're all warriors (or something like that, it was hard to hear). Let's do the Lord's Prayer."<br />
<br />
And so they do. After he drives off the protesters are excited, happy that instead of the usual middle finger they get from passing cars they've had a moment. The car behind him creeps forward as a young woman leans out the window.<br />
<br />
"I think you're all assholes and I hate you. Fuck you!"<br />
<br />
Mean streets, indeed.<br />
<br />
Stay safe out there.</div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-64850906372671357992020-03-12T08:18:00.000-07:002020-07-27T08:39:46.574-07:00And in This Corner, Standing Six-Foot-Two-Inches and Weighing in at One-Hundred-Ninety-Four Pounds, From the Fighting City of . . . Dispatches from Days 36-39 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/11/when-bar-goes-so-low-its-almost.html" target="_blank">Days 34-35.</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;">(yeah there's no set schedule anymore, stuff sometimes happens and when it does I write about it. Be safe, be well, and be happy. Thanks for reading and feel free to share.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Day 39)</span><br />
"'LITTLE GUY?' 'LITTLE GUY?' OH, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"<br />
<br />
Turns out Scrubs is a *wee bit* sensitive about his height.<br />
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In my defense, I'm in no way looking to get into a scrap (or two) this morning. Not that I would have time to even if I so desire. The sidewalk is pure bedlam, with over two dozen protesters doing their best to make things impassable while pretending that they aren't. Not sure what got added to their cornflakes this morning but from the get-go they're been aggressive, confrontational, and agitated. Not that those are new traits emerging, but the combination of vitriol and high-energy appears to be approaching fever pitch.<br />
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No doubt much of that is due to the buffer zone, which still sticks in their collective craw like a popcorn hull caught in their back teeth. Parker starts the morning off blatantly standing in the opening closest to the street, ignoring my protest. He moves over enough to allow passage when confronted by one of the clinic guards, but he's still in violation. We dutifully take pictures that will be forwarded to the city council, each one of their childish nose-thumbings serving to further bolster our case for the buffer zone to be equipped with protections that carry the legal equivalent of sharp teeth. It's doing my best to protect the sanctity of the area that leads me into having someone bellow into my face - uhm, chest.<br />
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I'm try to shoo Parker's stepson - a tall, lanky kid who drank all the kool-aid, made another pitcher, and drank that too - out of the zone. He's screaming at the door while walking through at a snail's pace, something he knows he's not allowed to do. His pace increases as I get behind him, clapping my hands and yelling at him to move it along. As we get to the edge Scrubs says something - I have no idea what - and drifts into the zone himself, getting in the way. I allow myself a half an eye roll and say, "Out! Out! You too, little guy!"<br />
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As indicated above, this off-the-cuff remark punches Scrubs' buttons and sets him off. Now he's stepped in front of me, chest all puffed up and spittle flying from his mouth, as he starts screaming about a variety of things - I don't catch most of it, but I'm pretty sure I'm threatened both physically and with eternal damnation. My response is a smile, which serves to make him ever more apoplectic. He's full on-ranting at me now, which is fine as two more sets of patients with companions slip by while the protesters focus on me. Scrubs is practically speaking in tongues by the time some of the others pull him away. Runner Lite, his wife, is staring daggers in my direction. At least the stepson is out of the buffer zone for now.<br />
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Settling back into my post, I thank my amazing team members for staying on point while things almost dissolved into a live game of Street Fighter. I'm glad it didn't descend into violence - nobody needs that - and the surge of adrenaline I hadn't realized had kicked in begins so subside. The possibility of a sidewalk brawl appears to have passed. Scrubs won't find his desired fisticuffs on this sidewalk.<br />
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Not today, anyway.<br />
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(Day 39)<br />
"YOU CAN'T HIT AN OLD MAN! YOU HIT ME! I'M AN OLD MAN AND YOU HIT ME!"</div>
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Oy, here we go again. </div>
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To the immediate south of the clinic's entrance is a fairly high-end restaurant. Over the past few years they've been expanding their presence on the sidewalk: tables; plants; valet parking kiosks, propane heating towers; and so on. All their stuff reduces the amount of open space available, which doesn't help us much. The fact they open at 11:30am is a boon, though, as the owner has zero patience for anyone bothering his customers and is no doubt partially the reason the protesters break camp before then. Still, navigating obstacles isn't much fun, especially when the sidewalk is jammed with shrieking cultists.</div>
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Coming from that direction there's a choke point right at the edge of our buffer zone, a narrow passage delineated by a large planter and one of the gas towers. While the impediments can be useful for scraping off unwanted tag-alongs like barnacles from a ship they make for very close quarters indeed. Before the return of the buffer zone it was even worse, as Parker would do his best to claim a spot on the side of the planter closest to the front doors. Given the piss and vinegar the protesters seem fueled with this morning the narrow passage has become a hotly contested sort of no-man's-land. Staying there would impede passage, something they know they aren't permitted to do, but they're not above pausing in the space while we're ushering patients through or making sure they can squeeze into a flanking position. Wary of the ever-present threat of litigation via The Runner, we do our best to avoid contact. Given how we're outnumbered and crammed into tight quarters, that's not always feasible. Arms bump into arms, hands against coats, elbows against signs. It happens. </div>
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As evidenced by my earlier confrontation with Scrubs, hackles are already up. Each time we bring someone through the bottleneck it feels like the space is getting smaller, more constricted. As two of my team start bringing a woman and her companion our way the protesters surge in that direction like hyenas sensing an unguarded carcass. I move as well, back toward the street with left arm extended, trying to set a human barrier for those who are incoming. I'm leaning forward and a little off-balance when I'm solidly struck just inside my left shoulder blade by what I assume to be one of the protesters' signs. </div>
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There's no thought, just reaction. I straighten up and throw my shoulder back. My intent is to get the sign off but there's much heavier contact than expected. The caravan of escorts and patients starts to stream by and - and suddenly I'm getting screamed at.<br />
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Again.<br />
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I turn around to discover Angry Grandpa in my face, livid and yelling at the top of his lungs. I've detailed his <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">grossness</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">before,</a> and it's safe to say he hasn't become any more palatable as time has marched on. Evidently he was the person who'd run into me from behind and whom got knocked back when I'd reacted. Words are pouring out of him, the specifics of which are lost on me, but the gist of it is that he's quite displeased. Other protesters have crowded in behind him and joined in the cacophony, some insisting that I'd hit him on purpose.<br />
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Given the circumstances I make what could - well, should - be deemed a poor decision and state that I didn't deliberately hit him because if I had he'd be flat on his back several feet away. My intention is to clarify that any contact between us was accidental but yeah, I didn't phrase it well. There's another twenty or thirty seconds of shouting from the lot, during which I offer to get the security footage from the clinic and let us all see exactly what occurred. There are no takers for that offer - just more vitriol - and, not seeing the point in standing there any longer, I make a dismissive hand gesture and walk away.<br />
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There's more sporadic shouting but for the most part it seems over as I retake my position of standing between Parker's stepson, who is on the loudspeaker, and the clinic. He doesn't like this at all and tells me numerous times during the interminable hour-plus he spends screaming that it's illegal for me to do so (it is not). I don't think Angry Grandpa is going to try anything but from time to time I mark his location, so I'm not startled when he approaches me after the stepson takes mercy on us and shuts the hell up. I'm not sure what's going to happen but . . . an apology? That catches me off guard. .<br />
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He's contrite, ashamed for whatever it was he said to me, and now I find myself thrust into a strange position. Do I stay silent? Do I tell him to piss off? Do we hug it out? I don't like him and likely never will, but being out here on the sidewalk isn't about me or my preferences. The patients, here for what will likely be one of the most difficult, stressful, and upsetting days of their lives, need to encounter less drama, not more. Anything with even the slightest possibility of engendering a small modicum of peace out here is more important than how ruffled my feathers might be (which by this time is 'not at all,' as I can't remember much, if any, of what he said).<br />
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I accept his offered olive branch and we exchange 'shouldn't have happened, just an accident' before shaking hands. For a moment I'm almost tempted to raise my opinion of him, even just a little.<br />
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One of the protesters, a young woman who earlier was kind enough to inform me that I was going to hell unless I changed my ways, comes over to check on Angry Grandpa. His eyes light up as she asks if he's okay.<br />
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"I'm fine, honeybunny! How are you?"<br />
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Eww. Nope.<br />
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(Day 39)<br />
"See, she's crying because she doesn't want to go in there!"</div>
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There's lacking in self-awareness, sure. But this is some next-level shit.</div>
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As a CIS white guy I will never have to know what it's like to have to run a gauntlet of people screaming at me because they think they should be the ones making decisions about what I do with my body. I'll never have to endure being shamed from all sides, having propaganda thrust in my face, being told distortions and straight-out lies by those who seek to add me to their flock. I won't suffer trying to head home, perhaps a bit woozy from the procedure, and being mocked and reviled, cajoled into regret at a vulnerable moment. To witness it shift after shift is maddening, infuriating, revolting - but it's nothing compared to what it must be like to be the focus of their toxicity.</div>
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As escorts we only spend brief moments with the patients, tossed together for a journey of a few dozen steps. It's a somewhat impersonal relationship by necessity, as expediency is often more important than familiarity. Still, there are times when a personal connection behooves the patient, a way to help us calm and prepare them for the seething mob of repulsiveness they're going to have to pass through. Every person is different, and so is what they require. Some wave us off and stride through the protesters as if they weren't even there. Others rely on earbuds, drawn-up hoods, or, most often, us.<br />
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Maya, today filling the role of an escort but also one of our best and most experienced team leaders, emerges from the clinic. Moments before she'd gone in with a young woman leaning against her as the rest of our crew, myself included, got them there with a shifting, moving caravan besieged on all sides. Angry Grandpa states the above and we marvel at the utter denial of reality it must require to believe that. Maya shakes her head and I notice a stain on her vest, a dark spot high on one side of the pink material. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that it's from where the patient's face had been pressed against her on the trip in, the moisture from her tears.<br />
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It's possible, via my inadequacies as a writer, that sometimes I don't cover every aspect of what takes place on the sidewalk. By dint of the narrative the focus almost always remains on the protesters, the patients and companions, or both. Their interactions, existing on several levels, provide the conflicts that make for a compelling story. They're ones I wish didn't exist to be told, but that doesn't make them any less real. Along that same vein, escorts are real people with real emotions as well.<br />
<br />
(::Cue sad music:: 'Tonight, on a Very Special Episode of Dispatches . . .')<br />
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Weak attempt at humor aside, it's impossible to look at a tear stain left behind on an escort's vest and not be affected. It doesn't help that the cause for them are all around us, still braying, still arrogantly refusing to accept that what they want us to believe is altruism on their part is instead bullying of the worst kind. At most I'll be at two shifts a month, and given our rotating pool of escorts it's difficult to spend enough time with any of them to feel comfortable claiming that I know them well. Will this trigger someone's PTSD? Will someone have a breakdown in front of the jackals that surround us? Do I even have time to attempt some sort of emotional triage before the next patient arrives?<br />
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It's a complicated dance but when I catch Maya's eye she understands what I'm asking without needing to speak and, with a shake of her head, waves me off. If it's gotten to her she's far too savvy to let her guard down in the midst of such antagonists and besides, another patient is already on her way in our direction. The rest of us join the duo bringing them in.<br />
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.<br />
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* * *</div>
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(Day 39.1)</div>
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Above I said that Scrubs seemed to be looking for a fight. Well, the week after my shift, he got one. </div>
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According to others (I wasn't there) Scrubs was saying some pretty awful stuff to a woman after she'd exited the clinic. Her husband took exception and, to put it in simple terms, laid him out.</div>
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That's a bad thing.</div>
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I'm not going to pretend I care about the day-to-day well-being of the protesters. I abhor the things they do and say. They represent so many of the aspects that are wrong with organized religion. They're sad, pathetic people who think they'll find happiness by controlling others and bending them to their beliefs. They repulse me on numerous levels.</div>
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That being said, violence should never be the answer.</div>
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I am, if anything, surprised it took this long for this to happen. I had <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">a hand in preventing The Runner from getting clobbered a while back</a> and while she's made me consider regretting it numerous times I still know it was the right thing to do. The sidewalk is already chaotic enough without mini-brawls, and having folks throwing hands at each other is not going to make getting patients in and out any easier. </div>
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That's it. I don't have any snarky asides or snide comments to tack on. While I can understand why the husband became irate enough to attack, I hope it proves to be an isolated episode.</div>
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Stay safe out there.</div>
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-71690739026359223932019-11-14T10:06:00.000-08:002020-07-27T07:30:05.617-07:00When the Bar Goes So Low It's Almost Underground - Dispatches from Days 34-35 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/09/hey-la-hey-la-my-buffers-back.html" target="_blank">Day 33</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(YES I know I previously said I'd get recaps out more quickly by doing them after each session regardless of length and YES that was my intention and YES I know that this one has two days crammed into it and YES that wasn't my intention but life can be busy sometimes and YES I know I'm blessed with readers who will forgive me for this transgression and the others that will likely follow. Be safe, be well, be happy. Thanks for reading and spreading the word - Kit)</span><br />
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(Day 34)<br />
"You know, these Deathscorts, these people want to ban AR-15s yet they're out here protecting abortions, which are the same things! Both are used for murder!"<br />
<br />
Yeah, it's going to be that kind of morning.<br />
<br />
The sidewalks are PACKED this morning with protesters, including the Northeastern Regional Overseer who is batting leadoff and providing the hot, piping false equivalency that's evidently an important part of a well-balanced breakfast. One of the other escorts informs me the reason we have NRO and some of the other guest screamers is because at this time of year they're working their way north to be able - and I swear, I'm not making this up - to protest the Haunted Happenings in Salem on Halloween. I guess it shows diversity to take a weekend off from shaming women to focus on trying to cram your religion down a different set of throats. Are they allowed to have candy apples while they're there, or are those also tinged with iniquity and sin?<br />
<br />
Then again, maybe I'm misjudging them. Perhaps they'll spread love, tolerance, and understanding all over Massachusetts.<br />
<br />
"Gay couples can't have kids! And there's no such thing as a 'gay' child!"<br />
<br />
Well, maybe not.<br />
<br />
The indifference with which NRO and the others say such callous and hurtful things tends to undercut their proclamations of concern for everyone's well-being. While they claim to be devoid of hatred there's a fair amount of bile and barely-muted anger thrown our way, although with the buffer zone reducing interaction that has lessened a tiny bit. A fire can't thrive without both fuel and oxygen, but that doesn't stop them from sputtering along, trying to get us to engage. Homophobic comments like the ones above are intended to set us off, but at the same time they're showing who they are. We're outside a women's health clinic and they are ostensibly here with their claimed objective of 'saving lives,' so why are they instead ranting about sexual orientation? Why are those preaching from a book that calls for understanding and love for all advocating intolerance and non-inclusivity?<br />
<br />
Perhaps there's a method behind the madness that we, as outsiders, aren't privy to and thus can't fathom. A master plan that works on several levels, the oratory version of four-dimensional chess. An intricate and cunning blueprint crafted to influence minds and sway hearts with existential questions designed to force us into deep contemplation.<br />
<br />
"You know what? Men can't have abortions!"<br />
<br />
Or maybe it's just a bunch of dudes who get off on trying to shame women.<br />
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(Day 34)</div>
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"I see you laughing, and I know what it means. It's not what you think, no, it is not what you think."</div>
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Ye gods, I think Parking Meter Guy is back.</div>
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Given the sheer number of protesters infesting the sidewalk today I figure we'll have rapid turnover at the mike, but little do I know that the screamer taking over at 9:30 has been booked for an extended slot. Tall and thin with a shaved head, he seems vaguely familiar as he launches into his spiel with a voice reminiscent of the one informing you that the white zones outside the terminal are for picking up and dropping off only. I think he's <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" target="_blank">this guy,</a> whom I haven't seen for about two years and have missed exactly zero percent. It doesn't take long for his patter to become judgmental, somewhat nasty and, during lulls with no patient intake, laser-focused on the escorts.</div>
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"Your laughter is nervous because you hear my words and they cause turmoil inside you. You're laughing to keep from admitting that I'm right."</div>
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Realizing his freshman-year-Intro-to-Psych stuff isn't going to goad either Greta or myself into violating the non-confrontational stance required while we're within the buffer zone, the Reverend (as I later learn he has been dubbed) aims his toxic words on the clinic and those inside as he prowls along the outer edge. After a bit I move to stand in front of him, with my back turned, to try to partially muffle his sonic river of hatred and shame. When he moves a few steps to the right I mirror him, and so begins a dance that stretches over the next ten minutes or so. Our waltz ends when this gentleman, who when not predicting hellfire and damnation has been letting us know he's loves us and trying to save us, holds his powerful speaker up by my ears.</div>
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This is when I remember my industrial-strength earplugs, sitting next to my alarm clock back home. Sure would be nice to have them right about now.</div>
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It's loud, but my hearing is already lousy and so we continue this stupid game of Aural Chicken Dancing. It ends a few minutes later when our northerly escorts bring in a patient. While we're getting them inside, the Runner-Lite continues to yell at them as she cuts through the buffer zone. This is patently illegal and, given that we have the laws about the zone posted for all to read and have made sure that they understand them, likely intentional. I make shooing motions with my hands as I loudly and firmly remind her that she can't be doing what she's doing.<br />
<br />
Her outrage at being scolded is palpable. For the next hour she bounces from protester to protester, angrily gesturing in my direction as her mouth moves a mile a minute. I don't care what she's saying and anything that distracts her from harassing patients is a bonus, but it proves to be the opening act for the rest of the circus. The Reverend, still droning on, follows her example by walking across the upper tip of the zone while still orating. I yell, he ignores me. We record him from several different angles, realizing that this was planned act of defiance against the defenses used to protect others from their abuse.<br />
<br />
How very noble.<br />
<br />
He continues to cross back and forth, still spewing malice coated with the thinnest veneer of feigned compassion. After all, what are we escorts going to do? Yell back? Wave our fists in frustration? Stamp our feet?<br />
<br />
In the distance, a siren begins to wail.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 34)</div>
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"What I know is that when I walked up here you and the others were blocking the sidewalk! You know you're not allowed to do that, so make room and don't do it again!"</div>
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What? The police showed up? Imagine that! What *ever* could have brought them here?<br />
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::blinks innocently::</div>
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The officer that's showed up already looks irritated beyond words, although he's doing a good job of being polite and courteous. I can't blame him, as this has to be an unwanted and wearisome visit, but the effect his presence creates is what the situation requires. The Mean Girls are trying to complain to him about something but he's still focused on how they were restricting ingress. When he's done with them our security guard talks to him for a bit as the protesters huddle in clumps, casting furtive glances his way. They're not afraid - this is not the first time the cops have been here, not by a long shot - but it's definitely changing the tenor. I, for my part, am more than willing to keep to myself unless he approaches me. While I might be this week's team leader it's not like I'm wearing a badge or epaulettes as identification, and as I had the guard call it in I'm more than content to let the two of them chat.<br />
<br />
It always feels strange and a bit unsettling to have the police show up. This is the first time they're here at my behest, as I've only had a few shifts as team leader with the buffer zone so far. I hate to bother them - they almost certainly have better things to be doing - but aside from setting up trip wires there's not many other options available for me.<br />
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As the officer moves on to talk with what can be considered the 'brain trust' of the protesters, the Reverend launches back into his patter. He crosses through the zone again, at which point I become aware (somewhat late to the party, to be honest) that he would LOVE to be arrested for this. Exposure, notoriety, 'street cred' among those in their movement, another legal case to claim 1A rights violations - all features in their book as opposed to bugs. Sure, the Go-Pro cameras most of them sport allow them to post their toxic harangues online, but video of one of them being led away in handcuffs would make for a red-letter day. Past legal scuffles have demonstrated that the shadowy entities that fund this so-called crusade would be there to provide counsel as well. The lawyer who represented Luis also litigated for the couple demanding the removal of New Jersey's ban on conversion therapy.<br />
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Yes, the protesters love all of us, as long as we're the *us* they want us to be.<br />
<br />
Since the patrolman seems focused on easing tension the Reverend's antics go unnoticed for the moment, denying him his martyrdom. We keep filming, the footage saved for the civic and legal battles that loom in the future. His insistence that everywhere is 'God's ground' indicates that he feels he can break any law he wants as long as it's in the Lord's name which, in a perfect world, would land him on an FBI watch list. Then again, in a perfect world we wouldn't need to be out here every Saturday morning.<br />
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Out of the corner of my eye I see Runner-Lite hopping around while she speaks to the officer, but it's not until she angrily points in my direction that I realize she's imitating what I was doing in front of the Reverend. I don't possess a law degree but I feel confident that I'm in the clear here, which is confirmed by the sour twist of her lips as the cop says something to her before walking away. The glare she sends my way causes me to laugh, which triggers the Reverend to accuse me of self-doubt once again. It's a vicious cycle, indeed.<br />
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After a few more brief conversations the officer heads back to his car, gaining refuge from the lot of us. The Reverend stomps through one more time but his heart doesn't seem in it, and soon after he shuts off his mike. Maybe he can find the arrest he wants up in Salem.<br />
<br />
Do they still use stocks?<br />
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(Day 35)</div>
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"Sorry for your loss."</div>
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Sometime you have to wonder how a person can become so incredibly broken.</div>
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If you've been reading these entries from the beginning you're aware of how vile the protesters are capable of being. This morning, for example, the Northeastern Regional Overseer shouted "WELCOME TO AUSCHWITZ!" at a pair of nurses on their way into the clinic. Escorts endure a never-ending litany of verbal abuse from the so-called Christians, much of it straight-up projecting: we're racists (uhm, okay); we're misogynists (wut); we're worse than a murderer who only killed one person (yes, this was said in all seriousness, which is part of the reason my wife and I will never escort at the same time for fear of our children being made orphans); we're liars (says the same person who, after sprinkling holy water on the sidewalk and telling the demons to begone, states that a nearby Planned Parenthood is shutting down - an unfounded lie); we're effeminate (that's me, it would appear); we don't know our place (that would be every woman who dares to be out here instead of being home waiting on a husband hand and foot); we're entitled (as the Runner rolls up in her brand new Mercedes); and many others as well. Refusing to accept their would-be labels is a necessary survival skill. Being the loudest does not make them correct.<br />
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"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
How long it takes for an escort to become dismissive of the taunts and insults sent our way varies, but I can't imagine someone lasting very long if they couldn't. For people who say they're trying to spread the love of Jesus Christ they seem eager to try to reduce young, frightened women into tears, to shame and mock those doing nothing more than claiming control over what to do with their own body. A screamer, new to me - young, dressed in duck hunting camo, and of course male - starts off his time on the amp by calling out a woman's name and then saying her brother is out here and doesn't want her to kill his niece or nephew. Is this real or just part of an act? Given that he doesn't return to it again in any way leads me to believe the latter is the case, but who knows? Is there anything these people won't say in their attempt to tell women what they can and cannot do?<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
I get the reasoning as to why they attack so vociferously as patients are going in. I don't approve, but at least it makes sense. They are trying to dissuade, to take control, to make inroads into luring them into their church under the auspices of providing assistance. As of late they've been pushing the narrative of 'We'll have a gender-reveal party for your baby!', which sounds a bit odd coming from old men who seconds earlier were telling the whopper of a lie that there's a detectable heartbeat at *eighteen days.* The Runner referring to patients and companions as 'Mom' and 'Dad' respectively is repugnant beyond words but at least I can grasp the (loathsome) logic behind it.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
That doesn't explain the comments fired at those leaving the clinic. What's the point? Beyond arguments based in ignorance that certain procedures 'can be reversed,' there's no tangible reason for the protesters to interact with patients once they emerge. All they can do at that moment is try to inflict guilt, remorse, and pain. What sort of petty, emotionally stunted people would traffic in such behavior?<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
Runner-Lite, evidently, as she was the person who yelled this at a patient as she was leaving. I keep thinking that as a whole the protesters have hit rock-bottom, but they continue to prove me wrong. This isn't yet another attempt to lure vulnerable women into their religious sect; it's not The Runner offering the facade of kindness after being utterly repulsive to them when they arrived.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
It's nothing more than a bully picking on someone when they're perceived to be in a moment of weakness. It's a comment crafted to cause guilt, designed to inflict pain, intended to invoke remorse. It cannot reverse the procedure, make someone pregnant again, or make it as though the morning had never happened.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
It comes from someone who believes that she is better than others because of her belief in mythological beings, ones who purportedly advocate for love and understanding. Her way of expressing this faith is by showering scorn and hatred at those who are seen as sinners through the extremely narrow vision of her worldview. Smug and arrogant while wrapped within her mantle of intolerance, she spews bile like this at people she's never met. She wants to control their choices and, being denied that, resorts to lashing out in a toxic manner.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
Minutes after saying that she's chatting with Bad Dye Job, the two of them laughing and having an animated conversation that features a great deal of hands being waved about. It's clear she's not going to dwell on what she said, that she saw nothing wrong with it, and will likely do it again in the near future. Perhaps her deity is real and, when she passes, will pat her on the back for her zeal and righteousness. Or, maybe, at some point she'll have a moment of self-reflection and realize that what she said was horrible and that she is horrible too.<br />
<br />
"Sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
The odds are pretty stacked against that, I fear.<br />
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Stay safe.<br />
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-41451808954389241122019-09-27T09:56:00.000-07:002020-07-27T07:29:35.311-07:00Hey La, Hey La, My Buffer's Back! Dispatches from Day 33 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/08/just-because-i-cant-eat-it-doesnt-mean.html" target="_blank">Day 32.</a> )</span><br />
<br />
"So, why do you support a pedophile?"<br />
<br />
Sometimes not being allowed to respond to protesters is a feature, not a bug.<br />
<br />
Our buffer zone is back (for now) and I hadn't realized how much I missed it. Standing inside the yellow-lined semi-circles which bracket the doors once again was made possible by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit by reversing the previous ruling. This is by no means over - it's likely that The Runner and her rabidly anti-choice lawyer will continue to fight tooth and nail to the bitter end - but for now the half-circle of peace and sanity is back.<br />
<br />
The return of the buffer means that escorts within it have to keep their political and religious feelings to themselves - in other words, Kit needs to shut up. We're wearing pink vests instead of our rainbow ones and my Pride flag stays in the center console of my truck. I'll miss the both the fashion and the versatility of the cape, but since being here isn't about me it's a pretty great trade-off.<br />
<br />
"Hey, you know, I believe in climate change now! I do. Don't you want to know why?"<br />
<br />
Have I mentioned how much we love having the buffer zone back?<br />
<br />
This is not to say it's transformed the area outside the clinic into a hassle-free zone - the protesters have a large turnout today and the sidewalk beyond the lines of yellow paint (and one hastily scribbled chalk line) is crowded. While they're not allowed to preach, demean, harass, or shame within the buffer they are allowed to pass through. Parker makes a production out of it, slowing to a glacial pace and once pausing to ::shudder:: shake his rear in what I assume to be what he considers an act of defiance. I (semi)politely ask Hinton to move his sign when he sets it down just inside the the line while taking his turn as a screamer, and multiple times I'm forced I to shoo a woman in a long skirt who, horror of horrors, appears to be fashioning herself as a protege of The Runner. Ye gods, nobody wants that.<br />
<br />
Speaking of, the fleet non-respecter of both personal space and the phrase 'please leave me alone' isn't putting so much as a single manicured toenail within the buffer. No doubt operating under strict orders from her lawyer, she avoids it as if she's playing The Floor is Lava game, screeching to a halt at the zone's edge. She won't pass through it at all, choosing to get around it by looping out through the handicapped parking space in the street instead. When she's not busy trying to make people take plastic fetus keychains she's jabbering into her phone, glaring at the buffer zone with what one would assume to be burning hatred.<br />
<br />
"Hey! Fake News! Are you on Epstein's list?"<br />
<br />
I turn away, shaking my head. Ridiculous questions can die lonely deaths outside the yellow lines.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"'Mommy! Please don't take me to this murder mill on Death Row! Please, Mommy!' That's what a baby in the womb would be saying if he or she could speak."</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yeah, Parker is getting extra weird this morning. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It doesn't take very many shifts on the sidewalk for one to realize the protesters will say anything and everything that occurs to them. Some are planned approaches that have been honed and polished, either in practice sessions or through repeated usage out here: The Runner referring to patients as 'Mom;' Parker giving out ridiculously inaccurate fetal development timelines; Alex and his semantic games; and so on. You do your best to tune them out and not let them get to you.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Mommy! Give me life, Mommy, don't take me in there past these deathscorts to be ripped to pieces! I'll be good!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Part of me wonders, as I stand in the buffer zone listening to a grown man who bears more than a passing resemblance to Sgt. Schultz from <i>Hogan's Heroes </i>pretend to be a 'womb-baby,' if I should be horrified by this behavior. It's difficult to get beyond the utter absurdity of hearing rhetorical commentary from an imaginary ball of cells having a pretend conversation with its host, but at the same time it's quite disturbing to think that someone thought about this approach, considered it a good idea, and took the time to suss out some sort of script. 'Pleading Zygote' does not feel like off-the-cuff improv.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Parker has much more to say in this role but most is lost to the wind as we have a rush of incoming patients. You'll just have to imagine the rest yourself.<br />
<br />
Or don't.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You'll be happier if you don't.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I want to talk to the young woman who went inside this factory of death before!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Angry Grandpa's obsession with youthful women may not be the creepiest thing about him, but - </div>
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<br /></div>
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No, wait, it is. There's other stuff as well, to be sure, but his focus on that particular age bracket engenders its own level of ickiness. He's becoming more of a fixture lately, an unwelcome addition to the unwanted menagerie. Given his glasses and pornstache he's been tagged with 'Groucho,' but I find it difficult to besmirch a great comedian's name like that. I've mentioned Angry Grandpa in passing <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">before,</a> noting his predilection to pepper most of his interactions with a healthy dose of 'sweetie' and 'honey.' It's easy to discern that he finds himself quite witty, and as some sort of karmic retribution for something I did wrong during some existence in my past we're being treated to him on the mike today. Oh, joy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This is not to say we haven't already gotten wayyy too much info from him this morning. Our Lady of the Theater has spent a good ninety minutes engaging the protesters and while most of the interactions are barbed Angry Grandpa seems quite happy to brag about his life before he 'found God and became humble.'<br />
<br />
"In the 70's I smoked pot! In the 80's I did coke! And women, well, I did really well with the ladies, let me tell you!"<br />
<br />
Gah. Evidently he was quite the rapscallion who lived a hedonistic existence until ::GASP:: he realized his wicked ways and turned to God for redemption. How very convenient for him that his redemption came *after* he'd spent decades doing everything he wanted, free of judgment. No doubt the timing had nothing to do with advancing age and fear of divine retribution drawing nigh.<br />
<br />
His turn on the speaker is unremarkable except for the disturbing focus on young women, be they patient, companion, or escort. He keeps beseeching one who went inside earlier to come out and talk with him, reinforcing the fact that they have never believed us when we tell them that they are an unintelligible drone at best in the waiting room. What do we know anyway, we're all just godless heathen deathscorts.<br />
<br />
Having tuned him out, it takes me a moment or two to realize when he's finished. Handing the speaker off to someone else, he takes a moment to look around before proclaiming to nobody in particular, "I was great!"<br />
<br />
Guess he's still working on the 'humble' thing.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
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"I'm not here to judge you. We're not here to judge you. None of us are going to judge you."</div>
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<br /></div>
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Do you get a discount if you buy your cognitive dissonance in bulk?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm doing slow twirls within the buffer zone, arms extended as I savor the empty space, not paying much attention to the current screamer. It's late in the morning and a quick consult with the guards has let me know that almost all of the scheduled patients have already arrived. The protesters have more or less settled into ragged clumps of conversation, occasionally remembering to brandish their signs with a notable lack of vigor. The Runner is still prowling about with her protege, while Q-Tip stands on the far corner extolling the virtues of Jesus to passing cars. A tall, skinny kid hovers along the the yellow line, mumbling something at me during pauses in the current oratory that I can't quite make out. I'm okay with that.<br />
<br />
No dramatic ending awaits on this day, no great story to tell. It's just another shift on another Saturday, another display of bravery and kindness from my fellow escorts in the face of intolerance and hatred.<br />
<br />
Speaking of . . .<br />
<br />
As far as the screamers go, this part of the morning is more or less a dumping zone for the less-polished to be given time on the amp. The guy - of course it's a guy - on there now is so unremarkable he hasn't even earned a nickname yet, a short dude given to scowls and stares. His delivery included lots of pauses that are meant to be poignant, I suppose, but instead keep making us wonder if he's done or not. Right now he's focused on Aimee, who has worked the door the entire morning with nary a complaint. Looking in his direction has given him what he supposes is an opening.<br />
<br />
"Again, I'm not going to judge you." Pause. "You're a sinner, you lead a wicked life, and the choices you make mean you're going to hell."<br />
<br />
No comment.<br />
<br />
May all your days contain some sort of buffer zone.</div>
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-83434916876068984422019-08-13T10:05:00.001-07:002020-07-27T07:27:44.249-07:00Just Because I Can't Eat It Doesn't Mean It's Not Sweet: - Dispatches from Day 32 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23</a>. <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2019/05/bad-religion-is-much-better-band-than.html" target="_blank">Days 24-31.</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
(writer's note again: last time I apologized for the long gaps between posts. This time I'm going to assume a slightly different approach. Instead of waiting until I have enough material for the usual length of post I shoot for, I'm just going to go with what I've got after a shift. This means the posts will be more frequent than in the recent past but likely somewhat shorter. Tl;dr: More posts, shorter posts. Thanks for reading - Kit)<br />
<br />
"I don't know why you have to use the rainbow, but you can't even get that right. A rainbow has seven colors!"<br />
<br />
Yeah, Parker's still hung up on our escorting vests and my Pride flag/cape. Evidently on ROYGBIV, as well, which actually makes sense for someone stuck living in the past.<br />
<br />
I'm never going to say that an escorting shift can be 'easy' but when a quiet, uncomfortable-looking young couple bolts at around nine o'clock we outnumber the protesters for the moment. Maybe it's too nice a day to SAVE THE BABIES? Not going to complain about that, but I will kvetch with great and furious purpose about the Runner showing up at 8:30, which is just straight up bullshit. Nobody wants that.<br />
<br />
Low protester turnout plus us having a full crew allows me to stand directly in front of Parker's speaker, which has him in an extra salty mood. He snarls at me as I once again question his assertion that 'Satan is a murderer,' first insisting he answered it last time (he didn't) before launching into a lengthy rendition of the Adam and Eve fairy tale. When he finishes that he says, "There. That's why he's a murderer."<br />
<br />
O-kay.<br />
<br />
As he drones on it comes apparent that the rainbow thing is really sticking in his craw, as he can't stop going back to it. Other screamers in the past have insisted that they were 'going to take the rainbow back,' whatever that means, but Parker wants to claim superiority because my Pride flag only has six colors. He's pretty smug about it, smirking at will. "Everyone knows a rainbow has seven colors."<br />
<br />
Alas, his arrogance may well be misplaced. In recent years indigo has pretty much been combined with purple, as the concept of a seven-color rainbow <a href="https://nationalpost.com/news/why-the-colour-indigo-is-disappearing-from-sir-isaac-newtons-occult-rainbow" target="_blank">has a pretty strange origin.</a> Hell, half the people with me on the shift have never heard of good old Roy G. Biv. I do my best to explain this to Parker but he's shifted tactics to talking over me and insisting I'm FAKE NEWS.<br />
<br />
A breeze kicks up, only for a moment or two, but enough to make my cape flutter in his direction. Six colors seem like enough to get the job done.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Can I steal their signs?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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My rookies are *feisty* today.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In the early days of our escorting crew, long before I entered the ranks,the founders often found themselves taking shifts on consecutive weekends to make sure they had enough escorts. They didn't have the numbers they needed to give themselves some well-deserved time off but were so dedicated they did what they had to do. I didn't understand what my wife and others were pouring into this, didn't fully appreciate what they were doing. I do now and consider myself lucky not going through that as well.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There was a large bump in enrollment after 2016 - hello, Kit - which allowed them to both expand the size of the crews for each shift and take some well-deserved time off. The numbers stayed relatively steady for a while, but with the march toward medieval times happening in places like Alabama and Georgia we're getting an influx of interested candidates again. Three training sessions have swelled our ranks and I find myself having to look at least a month or so out to book a shifts.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This is a good problem to have.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was supposed to be a foot soldier today but when the scheduled Team Lead had to bow out I was happy to step up. A few months ago I would have been worried about having a pair of rookies to watch over, but putting them with experienced escorts to teach them the ropes makes having concerns unnecessary.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Can I kick the signs instead?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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Okay, maybe not *entirely* unnecessary.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The training sessions are excellent (or so I've been told ::cough cough::). My rookies are both female, so they're already well-versed with having a bunch of arrogant, entitled men telling them that they're wrong, that they shouldn't be here, and that they have no right to make decisions concerning their own bodies. The sidewalk is a different venue, that's all.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm happy Roxy (her real name isn't Roxy but it absolutely should be) isn't going with the 'easier to request forgiveness than ask permission' approach. More questions follow about what we can or can't do, most of them garnering "uhm, please don't" from me as a response. We don't trip The Runner, we don't throw glitter, we don't use super soakers, we don't toss water balloons. Given the heat, I'm not sure anyone would mind the latter two today.<br />
<br />
It's possible the rookies are a little underwhelmed by their maiden shift, given the dearth of protesters and the lack of zeal from those that are here. I've had this before with a first-timer who worked the door with me on an exceptionally quiet day. His second shift was a sidewalk-jamming circus where we were outnumbered three to one. You learn to appreciate the easy ones. Maybe there's not as much to write about, but it's not about us anyway. In a better world patients would be visiting the clinic with zero harassment and we'd be off doing different things on Saturday mornings. Alas, here we are.<br />
<br />
At least Silly String hasn't come up for discussion yet.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Hey! Uhm, I have something for you."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I had a nickel . . .</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
One of the other nice things about having a crew of seven is that it gives me a good deal of freedom to move about and go where needed. With two on the door and pairs north and south, I can join escorts to make a trio for incoming patients (always a boon when The Runner is underfoot), cover for someone who needs a break, or stand directly in front of the current screamer so my body can block their speaker. I'm just finishing up a final rotation of teams - the northern chunk of sidewalk stays in shade during most of our shifts so I've been shuffling people around to give them respite from the brutal sun - when someone calls out from the street behind me. Wariness is the first feeling to arrive. I turn, expecting, well, anything.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's a young woman in a coupe, pulled far enough over so that she won't greatly impede traffic. Her door is open and she offers me a smile before saying, "Hold on." She then turns and reaches over to the passenger side seat. I'm in no-man's-land here, between two of my crews and being largely ignored by the listless protesters. If this is someone who wanted to turn and fire a shot into my chest, the tableau couldn't be any more perfect. I'm not getting that vibe, so instead I mop sweat from my brow and I wait.<br />
<br />
"Here. Thank you all so much for what you're doing." She's holding a paper bag by the string handles, the side emblazoned with the name of a fairly famous bakery that's on the one-way street that runs parallel to ours. After shifts I almost always get caught up in the overflow from their undersized parking lot.<br />
<br />
I take the bag and offer thanks, blushing like I do whenever someone does something nice for me. There's an awkward moment where I think she's trying to decide if it's okay to get out of her car and hug me - it would have been - but in the end she settles for thanking us again, smiling once more, and shutting her door before driving away.<br />
<br />
There's a box inside the bag with writing on it. Of course I can't read it without my glasses, but I don't want to open it around others and I'm certainly not going to take it into the clinic before determining what's inside, despite how pleasant the bearer of gifts was. I step to the curb and, making sure nobody's near me - not even the Runner - I lift the lid and take a peek inside.<br />
<br />
And smile.<br />
<br />
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<br />
We don't do this for glory, recognition, or rewards. It's not about excitement or having an adrenaline rush - truly, the best shifts are the ones during which nothing happens, when the incoming patients suffer little to no harassment. We're out here doing what we can to protect a woman's right to control decisions about her own body, and so many of my fellow escorts do even more in arena besides this one. We're not out here for supportive horn honks, enthusiastic thumbs-ups, or drive-by gifts of delicious pastries.<br />
<br />
That being said, they don't go unappreciated and they never, ever miss hitting our hearts.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Sonia</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-74992706543910397142019-05-31T10:20:00.002-07:002020-07-27T07:27:25.919-07:00Bad Religion is a Much Better Band than Bad Faith - Dispatches from Days 24-31 as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a> <a href="https://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/09/summertime-and-lying-is-easy-snapshots.html" target="_blank">Days 21/22/23.</a>)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(writer's note: please accept my apologies for the long stretch of time between posts. If the material isn't there there's not much I can but wait until there's something to write about. Despite the claims of the protesters, I don't make stuff up. Also, my fellow escorts are awesome. If you're interested in being an escort please search for a local team or hit me up and I can help you find the right direction. Thanks for reading and feel free to spread these essays far and wide - Kit)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
(Day 31)<br />
"So you say terrible things about our President, say he's bad and evil, yet you're down here helping people murder babies, what does that say about you?"<br />
<br />
I love the smell of logical fallacies in the morning. Smells like . . . ignorance.<br />
<br />
It's a miserable morning outside the clinic. The rain is steady and, aided by the wind, coming in sideways. Despite an umbrella the left side of my body is soaked fifteen minutes into the shift, my third as a team leader. Others have much more effective rain gear and I'm not going to dwell on my extremely poor choice of footwear. At least it's not too chilly. Plus the Pride flag I'm using as a cape keeps flapping up near one of their speakers.<br />
<br />
I helpfully point out Alex's mistake, an assessment he doesn't agree with. For the next ten minutes or so I try to have a serious debate with him, which is *my* mistake. Sure, it keeps him from yet another droning monologue on his loudspeaker, but it also serves as a reminder of the folly of attempting to have rationale discourse with the protesters. It's simply not possible.<br />
<br />
Why? It's not necessarily an intelligence issue (although it might be) but rather a spiritual one. They consider their belief in the Bible and all things it contains to be factual. Adam and Eve, Noah's Ark, Lot's wife turning into a pillar of salt . . . they flat out believe these things happened because a poorly written book tells them so. Hence, every discussion shared with them starts in bad faith on their end. They won't accept any facts or logic that are at loggerheads with their beliefs. When they have no legitimate rebuttal they fall back on their version of 'A wizard did it!' It's wearisome.<br />
<br />
Alex and I go back and forth for a while as he does his best to lay semantic bear traps. Later one of the escorts stationed up the street asks me what was going on, since she could only hear the part of the conversation being broadcast over his loudspeaker. Lots of 'no,' and 'you're wrong,' both of which are better than moral parables and judgmental rants.<br />
<br />
It's a fair trade-off. I'll take it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
(Day 30)<br />
"All women *always* regret having abortions for the rest of their lives."<br />
<br />
That's right, females of the world, a man is here at the clinic to tell you what you think and how you feel.<br />
<br />
Aren't you relieved?<br />
<br />
Early morning showers have given way to something acceptable, pleasantly warm and dry as the sun keeps trying to break through. It's my fourth shift as a team leader and with a crew of seasoned vets today I'm feeling pretty relaxed, despite the increased saltiness of the protesters. One of their higher-ups is here today - maybe the Northeast Regional Overseer or however they rank themselves in their weird little cult - and the regulars are peacocking around, trying to impress him. It would be sort of adorable, like goslings around a goose, if the bile they're all spewing wasn't so repulsive.<br />
<br />
"Are you going to go home and post about this on social media, m'aam? Are you going to put this up on Facebook?"<br />
<br />
The woman who exited the clinic stops and looks back at him. "I'm sixty years old. What is it you think I'm here for?"<br />
<br />
NRO (I know his name, but since his ego desperately wants attention I'm going to eschew mentioning it) ignores her response and continues trying to shame her, working his online angle like a dog gnawing a bone. His tone drips condescension and as he drones on during his second turn on the loudspeaker it becomes somewhat obvious that he *likes* this, likes being in this role, with others kowtowing to him as he berates women via amplification. There's nothing new or witty about his approach - same old tired tropes, same old shaming tactics.<br />
<br />
"These deathscorts are out here laughing and giggling at you, they think what you're going through is funny."<br />
<br />
It's true, we have been laughing a lot today. I'm running an experienced and amicable crew, or rather it's running itself, and the protesters have been particularly incongruous. Still, we're mindful of our surroundings - nobody is cracking up while we're bringing someone in or escorting them out. We understand the gravitas of what's happening, of what the patients and their companions are going through, and aren't going to belittle it in any way.<br />
<br />
Once they're safely delivered, though? Damn right we're going to laugh in the faces of the cultists who were just crowding us, screaming horrible things, waving gruesome and misleading posters. For f*cks sake, Alex is carrying one that says, "EVOLUTION IS A HOAX."<br />
<br />
How do we *not* laugh?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
<br />
(Day 27)<br />
"Why do you have to try to tie homosexuality in with murdering babies?"<br />
<br />
It appears that the protesters aren't fond of our new rainbow vests.<br />
<br />
The warm-up we've been promised didn't appear to get the memo about making an appearance and instead we have a bone-achingly cold morning. I'm extremely humbled and honored that the kick-ass warriors who lead our escorting group have decided that I'm worthy enough to be promoted to team leader, and nervous energy is doing its best to keep me warm as I make my debut in that role. I've gotten the first part down - I showed up with bagels and hot chocolate - but now it's time for juggling the tricky tasks of spotting incoming patients, getting them through, and not losing my cool with the cultists clogging the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
And clogging they are. There's a whole slew of them and they've been pushing the envelope lately by using their signs to make getting by as difficult and traumatic as possible. They're not straight-up blocking the door - they know better than that - but they push in from all sides, either shaming patients for making a choice with their own bodies or begging them to keep the baby with promises of support and aid. For the latter, all you need do is join the cult. What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
Parker is standing behind me by the door, his balaclava askew as he mutters in my general direction. The Pride flag I'm wearing as a cape is irritating him, as usual, so he's telling me that I'm just wearing it for attention before launching into a 'fake news' rant.<br />
<br />
Is he right? Sort of. First and foremost it's to show support. We have LGBTQ members on our team, and if you'd like to hear Jesus' teachings twisted and perverted beyond belief stop by when the protesters know we've got, in their words, 'one of them' out here. They're even more vicious if a pair of partners are on duty. They lead with a bad faith argument - apparently the theme of this post - in that they, the protesters, are the good people here because they want to 'help' the homosexuals. They want to make them see 'the error of their ways' and to find salvation in Jesus.<br />
<br />
It's an approach that sounds chillingly like the base tenets of the loathsome 'gay conversation therapy' that has been rightfully getting banned in states all over the country. That's not surprising when given the knowledge that the lawyer Luis used to battle a harassment charge was the same one who was the legal representation for a couple who tried to get GCT overturned in New Jersey so they'd have the right to have their child legally tortured. It underlines what appears to be their outlook - you don't get to make choices. Only God does. If that's the case, then hasn't God or Jesus or St. Somebody already made the celestial decision for that person? Indeed, aren't they invoking wrath by questioning their savior's plan?<br />
<br />
So to answer the query that started this section - because hatred is hatred, and it needs to be fought at every level, no matter what gender or orientation it's being directed against.<br />
<br />
Plus the vests look pretty cool.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 29)<br />
"Yeah, you know, you're so proud of Planned Parenthood, do you even know about the founder?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh, boy. Here we go again.<br />
<br />
There was a time when I thought Alex was a little smarter than the rest of the protesters. Maybe he is, but after repeated exposure to his rhetoric I've come to realize he's more akin to a jukebox that's no longer can be opened to change the contents inside - it's just the same limited playlist, over and over, never changing, never evolving. Definitely one from some good ole' boy diner in Alabama or Georgia, where they're evidently trying to become Gilead. I have no doubt the protesters will be cackling with glee over those soon-to-be-quashed laws, bits of ridiculous jurisdiction created solely to be struck down and used against Roe v. Wade. They'll say their joy is because of the babies, but we know the truth - it's about more agency over women.<br />
<br />
Am I making it up? I could ask some of the women the protesters allow to preach on their speakers - if there had actually been one in the two-plus years I've been doing this.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, this guy should do some research into Margaret Sanger, he'd find out she was all about eugenics."<br />
<br />
This raises the question - are Alex and the others willfully ignorant of the truth, or do they just believe what they're told without doing the research themselves? It doesn't matter, I suppose. The disinformation about Sanger was <a href="https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/margaret-sanger-weeds/" target="_blank">exposed as a hoax years ago,</a> yet still the protesters try to beat this drum (the clinic we escort at isn't Planned Parenthood anyway, but the cultists seem to forget that from time to time). The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, yet still they slander an organisation that provides healthcare - not just abortions - to millions of women by touting a discredited story and ignoring <a href="https://rewire.news/article/2015/08/20/false-narratives-margaret-sanger-used-shame-black-women/" target="_blank">the truths about Sanger and her life.</a><br />
<br />
This can be applied to the 'picture' of Sanger at a KKK rally as well, which was also <a href="https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/margaret-sanger-kkk/" target="_blank">patently faked.</a> So eager to strike down anyone who might champion the right for women to have control over their own bodies, the protesters will take quotes by people such as Dr. Martin Luther King and twist them out of context for their placards. Words may be better than being forced to see images magnified hundreds or thousands of times, but that doesn't make them any more truthful. When Parker offers his wildly inaccurate fetal development timeline (usually multiple times during each turn on the mike - it's his oratory version of comfort food) it's not just a mistake - it's deliberate misinformation, dangerous and misleading.<br />
<br />
"There's a professor, Richard Lewontin, he's one of the leaders of evolutionary biology, and he says that scientists 'cannot allow a Divine foot in the door' when it comes to finding material explanations in the world. Think about that!"<br />
<br />
Okay, Alex. Let's do that.<br />
<br />
This is a textbook example of how the protesters attempt to twist and manipulate actual science to support their religious beliefs. The statements he's shouting about are from an article written in a pro-creationist magazine dated over twenty years ago. Is Alex aware that Lewontin's words are taken from . . . a book review? Probably not - the 'magazine' footnotes it but doesn't provide a link, increasing the likelihood that readers would never bother to do the research.<br />
<br />
But let's think, as Alex says. Forget for the moment that the quote is taken out of context, and instead view it as it's presented. 'Cannot allow a Divine foot in the door.' For the cultists, it's proof that science a the foe of religion and further stokes their fervent desire to view themselves as persecuted, their beliefs viewed with unfair perspective. In truth, isn't it a viewpoint that has enabled us to grow and thrive as a species? The death toll from diseases has steadily declined as cures/vaccinations are developed and implemented. It's a certainty that solutions weren't discovered the first time, the second time, or even the one-hundredth time the issue was approached. What might have happened if they'd embraced Alex's viewpoint? "Well, we tried, but we haven't figured it out yet so it must be God's will that people are dying from Disease X. Let's not try to find a cure anymore."<br />
<br />
That is a dangerous, chilling approach to science and, truth be told, to life as well. Scientific discovery is about trial and error, about failure and persistence. It's not about hitting a setback and being allowed to say, "I don't know why we haven't been able to isolate that pathogen yet, so I guess it's supernatural in nature." Science deals in facts, not bad faith arguments. Do the protesters pause, even for a second, as they take a pill for high blood pressure or get a flu shot, and consider that they are being spared sickness and/or death because a scientist somewhere refused to believe the answer they were seeking was something divine?<br />
<br />
::sigh:: I know the answer.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 31)<br />
"Billy. C'mon now, Billy. You know what you need to do, Billy. You need to be a man now, Billy."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And thus we reach the portion of a shift where the protesters actively try to goad someone into committing physical violence.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sherlock, aka the Queen of the Sidewalk, is running the team today and I'm content to be nothing more than just the guy on the door. The weather gods have finally decided to bestow a nice Spring morning on us, and for the first time in a while sunscreen had to be broken out in our prep room. The ranks of the protesters are swollen today with a number of older folks I haven't seen before, including one particularly charming fellow who offers such discourse as, 'It's Summer, let's murder babies!' Everything he says to a woman ends with either 'sweetheart' or 'honey.' He brags about the stories that he tells his grandkids and my skin crawls a bit at the thought of him being allowed near children. "Hi, Grandpa! I lost a tooth! Wanna see?" "Sure, but first let me tell you how I slutshamed some whores at the murder mill today!"<br />
<br />
Billy is a young guy, late teens or early twenties. He keeps coming back outside, either to feed the meters or have a smoke, and once he showed he was either too nice or too laid back to shoo the protesters away they latched onto him like leeches on a swimmer's leg. When he wanders down the sidewalk a couple follow him, rattling away while he nods absently. There's not much we as escorts can do in that situation - unlike the protesters, we recognize that patients and companions are adults that respect that they have the right to make their own decisions about their lives.<br />
<br />
The cultists? Not so much.<br />
<br />
"Be a man, Billy. Don't be feminine like the guy standing next to you."<br />
<br />
He glances over at me, chuckling. Either he agrees with their assessment or is laughing at the absurdity of the statement, but either way he shakes his head and takes a long drag. It's not a great idea for him to stand in front of the doors like this, but I'm loathe to shoo him away and have him out there in the thick of them again. At times he seems like he might be paying attention what they're saying, but so far they haven't seen the results they're hoping for. It's not the first time I've observed them working on a companion like this, calling him 'Dad' and trying to shame him into doing something potentially dangerous, but today it feels like there's an extra bit of venom in their patter.<br />
<br />
"Billy, you know what you need to do. Go up there, grab her by the hand, and drag her out of that place. Do it, Billy!"<br />
<br />
And there it is. I blink a few times behind my sunglasses, processing what I've just heard. No respect for a woman's sovereignty over her own body, no respect for law. Drag her out, as if she's an unruly toddler who won't sit still during Mass. Assault her, forcibly remove her against her will, force her to bear to term a pregnancy she doesn't want. This is the true face of the anti-choice protesters, and it's an ugly one. I keep silent because it's not my right to tell Billy what to do with his life, but you can be damn sure if he nods his head and goes in under a full head of steam I'm going to give the security guard a heads-up.<br />
<br />
After a few tense seconds, Billy dons an 'aw shucks' grin and waves a hand in their direction. "Nah, I'm not gonna do that. I can't afford any more child support. Unless you want to pay it?"<br />
<br />
There are no takers, and Billy shrugs while stubbing out his cigarette before slipping inside without a word. Later, when he emerges with the patient he arrived with, the protesters' previous demeanor towards him takes a markedly sullen turn. His smile at their attempts to further shame him with their disappointment causes one to yell out, "You won't be smiling in Hell!"<br />
<br />
Since he won't be forced to smile from the prison he'd have been sent to if he'd listened to them today and attacked someone, I guessing that dire proclamation won't have much effect on Billy. Flanked by a pair of escorts, Billy and the patient head towards their car, holding hands.</div>
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<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-15577113126730300512018-12-10T13:30:00.000-08:002018-12-10T13:30:00.185-08:00Be Like Willie(name changed to protect the identity of a minor)<br />
<br />
You might have a difficult task before you right now, or perhaps looming in the near future. Something daunting, terrifying, seemingly impossible. Formidable. Staggering. Intimidating. A challenge you don't want but can't avoid.<br />
<br />
I'm going to try to help.<br />
<br />
I'm going to tell you about Willie.<br />
<br />
7:40, Sunday morning at a rink in northern NJ. I have an 8am game and am the only person in the referee locker room, almost ready to go. The door starts to open and I catch a glimpse of a mother for a second before something pulls it shut again.<br />
<br />
A few moments pass before there's a knock. I say to come in. The door opens again and a young girl enters, decked out in a full kit of reffing gear. She's a wee slip of a thing, tiny, with a sheet of white-blond hair hanging down one side of her face. The woman I glimpsed and assume to be her mother has followed her in and is standing quietly off to the side. I smile as benignly as possible.<br />
<br />
The girl unshoulders her bag, plops down in a seat, and pulls out her skates. "Hi! This is my first time reffing." There's a pause. "I'm kind of nervous."<br />
<br />
Indeed, she looks very much so. Doing my best to set her at ease, we launch into conversation. She's eleven years old but small for her age. She plays PeeWee hockey and has been skating since she could walk. She passed the online test, watched all the videos, attended the seminar. Now it's time for her first game, and she's a little scared.<br />
<br />
The assigner has given her half-ice Mites, which is the perfect place for her to start. Technically it's the *only* place she can start, since she has to be at least two years older than the kids she's officiating for. Generally, reffing half-ice Mites is a task akin to herding rambunctious puppies. There's no offsides, no icings, no checking, no real penalties. Still, that doesn't make it any less important of a job. She's responsible for the safety of a few dozen kids while attempting to teach them the rules of the game and trying to make sure they have fun - all at the same time.<br />
<br />
The other two refs arrive - one to work with me and the other to work the other half of the ice with Willie ("My name's Wilhemina, but I prefer Willie, if that's okay") - and her mom senses that her daughter is going to be okay. She leaves without making a scene, letting her know she'll be there watching. Willie asks me for advice, which is a bit humorous as I've only had my crest for three months, but I give her what others were kind enough to teach me: Be decisive. Be confident. Err on the side of caution. Hustle, hustle, hustle. Keep your head on a swivel. Deescalate. Have fun.<br />
<br />
I check my phone. It's time. She asks me which route she should take to her rink and I offer to walk her over while her partner finishes getting ready. At Rink 3 the Mites are waiting, eager, itching to get out on the ice. She's not quite ready to head out yet - she wants to wait for the other guy to arrive. The coaches look over at her and offer smiles, which she returns. She spots her mom along the boards and waves.Yeah, she's going to be fine.<br />
<br />
This story might have a much more satisfying ending if I could hang around and watch how she does (or lie about it), but I have my own game to get to. That's not really the point, anyway. I don't know which particular dragon you have to slay and I'm not here to belittle either it or your discomfort in handling it. I'm here to say I watched an undersized eleven-year-old girl face something that frightened her in order to step into a new world that most kids her age wouldn't dream of being able to attempt.<br />
<br />
Willie did it.<br />
<br />
I bet you can as well.<br />
<br />
Go do it.<br />
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<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-27799904483064662142018-11-20T07:26:00.000-08:002020-07-28T09:10:03.448-07:00Summertime and the Lying is Easy - Dispatches from my Twenty-First, Twenty-Second, and Twenty-Third Days as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/07/i-dont-want-to-belong-to-any-club-that.html" target="_blank">Days 18/19/20.</a>)</span><br />
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(Day 21)<br />
"They're going after them again. Watch the door. I'll be right back."<br />
<br />
With that, my Team Leader darts across the street, weaving through traffic.<br />
<br />
The Mean Girls are stalking a couple and Ronnie's had enough.<br />
<br />
It's hot and humid, the default setting for this summer, and I wipe sweat from my brow as I watch Ronnie make it to the other side. One of the usual Mean Girls - Sad Eyes - showed up this morning with a friend sporting some sort of hat - trilby, fedora, I don't know, I'm no expert - and together they've been super aggressive so far. Their ranks are further bolstered by a young couple - her with long hair in tight cornrows and a propensity to hold her protest sign upside down; him tall, awkward, and given to low-talking in my general vicinity so that I'm not sure if he's trying to engage me in conversation or chatting with himself. He moves about five feet away and begins mumbling what sounds like an inner monologue, questioning how I could do what I'm doing and so on. At times I can make out questions but he never pauses, so I don't know if I'm supposed to respond or not. He seems satisfied to ramble on uninterrupted, so at least one of us is interested in what he has to say.<br />
<br />
The subject of Ronnie's concern is a young couple with an apparently shaky grasp of English who had the protesters set upon them like a pack of starved hyenas the first time they tried to approach the clinic. While we've been blessed with a lack of The Runner the Bread of Life gang has more than taken up the confrontational mantle in her absence. Spooked by the yelling and perhaps not comprehending that the people in the pink vests are here to help, the couple turns around and retreats, disappearing around a distant corner. After a while they try coming in from a different direction but once again flee after being spotted.<br />
<br />
Now they're across the street, walking past the Mushrooms and the other Catholics. They keep looking in this direction, clearly wanting to come over but intimidated by the religious mob. Sad Eyes and Bad Hat peel off from the group and head over, and seeing them buttonholed is what sets Ronnie off. There's a animated conversation, words drowned out by distance, traffic, and the droning of the shouter currently on speaker. After a bit the couple crosses the street with Ronnie, but pause by the southern corner of the block. About thirty seconds later one of the security guards, an ex-cop who radiates calm and professionalism but also clearly isn't interested in taking shit from anyone, emerges from the clinic and makes his way down. Flanked by three escorts and the guard, the pair finally makes their way inside.<br />
<br />
As I shut the door behind them Ronnie takes up the post opposite me, and for the first time in several sessions of having had her as my team leader I spot actual anger in her eyes. She shakes her head, glaring in the direction of the Mean Girls.<br />
<br />
"They were lying! Flat out lying! They told her the procedure is very painful, and that the discomfort lasts for days! That's not true." Ronnie takes one deep breath, then another. "Sorry. I was already upset with the way they were hounding them but when I got over there and heard what they were saying, well . . ." She trails off with a wave of her hand.<br />
<br />
Mumbles comes back over near me and starts up again, but is quickly drowned out by a produce truck that has pulled up to supply the restaurant next door.<br />
<br />
That's okay. I'm sure I can guess what his message is.<br />
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(Day 22)<br />
"There's murder going on behind those doors! Babies are being murdered and you Deathscorts are out here because Satan is your father! Satan was the first murderer! Oh, he's a murderer, the very worst!"<br />
<br />
Is he, though?<br />
<br />
Over my past few shifts I've been trying to lessen the amount of interaction I have with the protesters. Pseudo-debates littered with their logical fallacies and outright falsehoods are pointless in the first place, and aside from distraction engaging with them seems foolhardy. It can be frustrating to let their grandiose lies go unchecked or to ignore when they project and refer to *me* as 'fake news,' but that's not why I'm out here. We escorts are essentially their only audience - their sermons are unintelligible in the waiting room, a vague murmur easily drowned out by a TV. When they're bragging about someone from a year ago who changed their mind and had the baby instead, it seems clear that their shaming and harassment tactics have an extremely high failure rate on their own and don't need me shooting my mouth off.<br />
<br />
Still . . .<br />
<br />
For people who refer to and quote the Bible CONSTANTLY they seem to have curious gaps of knowledge, intentional or not. Despite the fact I'm certainly no scholar of the Scriptures, Parker's statement about Satan's murderous ways seems off to me. It's late in the morning on another scorcher and there's not a patient in sight, so I figure that maybe it's okay to relent just a little.<br />
<br />
It's not, but I do it anyway.<br />
<br />
"Who did Satan kill?"<br />
<br />
Parker pauses in his oration, donning a smirk. "Have you never heard of Job's children?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, but he was commanded by God to do that, no? In that insane bet where they destroy Job's life, torture him, kill his kids, and so on? Was he supposed to not obey God?" If I'd been more well-versed I would have remembered that the kids got resurrected anyway. Mea culpa.<br />
<br />
There's a pause that draws out as Parker is clearly trying to bring up other instances of Satan murdering but perhaps finding himself unable to do so. I wait patiently. When the silence is broken it's not Parker but rather Alex, who's sidled up near my elbow.<br />
<br />
"Satan crawled into Judas' heart and caused him to betray Jesus, which led to Christ being murdered by the Romans."<br />
<br />
I tilt my head and give him the hairy eyeball before turning back to Parker. "So, anything else?"<br />
<br />
He pulls his mike back in front of his mouth. "Satan is a liar, the greatest of liars, much like you and your fake news."<br />
<br />
I lean back against the wall as he takes off on another tangent. It appears that Satan is not the serial killer they've made him out to be.<br />
<br />
Wonder if there's any other people they falsely name 'murderers.' Hmm.<br />
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(Day 22)<br />
"Look at this guy, out here trying to get attention. Just like when he puts all that fake news in his little blog."</div>
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The anti-choice folk are not fond of my new cape.</div>
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I must give credit where credit is due. Evan, one of my fellow escorts, showed up a few weeks ago wearing a Pride flag as a cape. The fashionable clothing he sports draws their ire in and of itself, but the flag proved an absolute lightning rod. It seemed logical to get one of my own to show support for his bravery and strength.</div>
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So I did. </div>
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I've become aware that Pride flag capes are extremely useful in a number of ways. For instance, it hangs down far enough in the back to protect my legs from harmful UV rays. You become a better beacon for people trying to find the clinic entrance - 'Walk toward the guy with the rainbow.' Also, it turns out that if you hold the flag with the same hand of the arm you extend out, it forms a barrier that's difficult to get cult-related propaganda past. Hard to see though as well. All in all, a pretty handy bit of apparel.</div>
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"Hey. I gotta show you something."</div>
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When Alex says something like that while reaching into his backpack, there could be cause for alarm. However, it turns out he just wants to accessorize as well. </div>
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"So, does this make you angry?" He's sporting a large grin as he pulls out a MAGA hat.<br />
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I frown. "I mean, it does in the sense that it exists at all and because of the idiot it stands for, but I'd always figured you folks as Trump voters."<br />
<br />
He shakes his head as he zips his bag up. "I didn't vote for Trump."<br />
<br />
That's right. He's told me that before. He's a Cruz guy, which is somehow worse. "Then why do you have the hat?"<br />
<br />
Alex flashes a smile. "To trigger you guys," he says as he waves it in my direction. With that he heads off down the street to try to provoke the pair of escorts stationed there.<br />
<br />
Yes, *I'm* the one looking for attention.<br />
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(Day 23)</div>
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"Take a look at all these deathscorts out here and what do you see? They're all white! They're here to help murder black babies! What does that say about them?"</div>
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87, 84, 88.<br />
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When Parker blows his racist dog whistle, he blows it with volume.</div>
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I'm not ruffled by Parker's tirade - while I haven't conducted a detailed analysis on the ethnic breakdown of today's team, he never trots out this tripe when we have obvious PoC in our ranks. The more pressing issue is the noise level, particularly for someone like me who spends most of the morning directly in front of the speakers worn by the screamers. It's amazing that such little boxes can be so effective at amplifying hate and ignorance, which just goes to prove not all technological advances are good ones.</div>
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"Any doctor will tell you that at conception all the baby's parts are there!"<br />
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88, 83, 87.<br />
<br />
Maybe he thinks that if you tell a ridiculous and easily disproved lie loudly enough that magically makes it true?<br />
<br />
As per <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5308171/" target="_blank">this study,</a> exposure to a decibel level over 85 is considered unhealthy. I've installed a sound meter on my phone and the results are somewhat disturbing. He's regularly spiking over 85 today and it doesn't feel like he's got his amp turned up as high as it usually is. A few shifts ago the police showed up early to tell Hinton he had to turn his speaker down, but aside from the visit by the health inspector/noise control who showed up during a convenient-and-not-at-all-suspicious lull by the screamers the protesters generally crank their speakers as high as they'll go without creating feedback. Since city ordinances allow them to begin using amps at 8 o'clock those of us stationed in front of the doors are exposed three hours of listening to the equivalent of a power drill.<br />
<br />
Is it sad that I'd prefer the screeching of the tool?<br />
<br />
"Adultery, fornication, blasphemy, homosexuality, you're going to have to stand before God for your sins!"<br />
<br />
89, 86, 92.<br />
<br />
Spreading the word of Jesus through threats and intimidation tactics brings Parker to the level of a hair dryer, which seems appropriate given the amount of hot air he's blowing around. It makes for a wonderful juxtaposition a few minutes later when he winds down and, with a fortuitous break in traffic, we're given a few moments of relative silence.<br />
<br />
Moments later the cars are rushing by again and the moment is gone. It was nice while it lasted.<br />
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(Day 23)</div>
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"See, that sign above the entrance - 'Reproductive Rights Center' - that's a lie. There's nothing 'reproductive' going on in there, there's nothing but children being slaughtered."</div>
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The Pastor believes this, I think. Not sure if his ignorance is due to being naïve or harboring a willingness to remain in that state, but either way it's wrong. Indeed, they do provide abortions. Pretty damn up front about it on their website. Of course, it also lists all of the other services they offer, from birth control to checkups and so on, but that doesn't fit the Pastor's agenda and so he isn't talked about.<br />
<br />
Instead he's on a lengthy diatribe about the Creation myth which, judging by his comments, he believes to be true. That humans came from an all-powerful being who made them to be pets and kept them ignorant. That genetic evidence be damned, we all came from the same two people. That a serpent made us be bad, although if Adam and Eve never got 'knowledge' then how would there have ever been other people?<br />
<br />
He believes in a fairy tale - a bad one - and wants to use it and other ridiculous stories to force other people to live their lives the way he thinks they should. I cannot be the only person who finds that frightening. They way they lie and try to twist scientific fact to support their groundless positions is alarming - wrap yourself in your faith and you're justified. You're doing God's work by spreading his word. Is it still considered spreading if you're trying to ram it down someone's throat? Or using it to wrap them up in chains they want no part of?<br />
<br />
That's a question I don't bother asking. I don't need a fruit from the Tree of Knowledge to know that answer.</div>
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<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-8035474458744019862018-07-05T11:01:00.003-07:002020-07-27T07:25:26.719-07:00I Don't Want to Belong to Any Club That Would Accept Me as One of Their Members - Dispatches from my Eighteenth, Nineteenth, and Twentieth Days as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-battle-for-valedictorian-must-have.html" target="_blank">Day 17.</a>)</span><br />
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(Day 19)<br />
"You know, I'm not surprised that you brought that up, probably because you found it on Google."<br />
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After a miserable Spring the weather is finally gorgeous - a perfect day to be doing something, anything, other than dealing with the crew of protesters outside the women's clinic in Englewood. For the first time in several shifts I start the morning out on the wing, but as we hit the halfway point Lexi has moved me back in by the door to give the guy who'd been there a break from the screamers. Alex is quick to renew our acquaintance, so to speak, and quick to pounce when I mention that the current screamer is violating Biblical law by wearing clothes woven with more than one fabric.<br />
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"See, you're wrong, and I'll tell you why." He's not shouting and his voice is earnest. This is clearly something he deeply believes in. "The Ten Commandments, those are God's ultimate laws, and they always apply. What you brought up was part of the laws for the Israelites, and those don't apply anymore."<br />
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I *am* wrong, at least according to the unknown (to me) tenets of his religious sect. It seems like yet another case of Biblical cherry-picking at work, wherein they adhere to what they like and ignore the rest, but getting into deep discussion of the true meaning behind Leviticus 19:19 or Deuteronomy 22:9-11 really doesn't interest me.<br />
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Later they tell Lexi that she needs to read my blog because I'm planning on usurping her position as leader. I hadn't been planning on it but she *is* wearing socks that are clearly a blend . . .<br />
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(Day 19)<br />
"So that's Fake News. He writes in his little blog, fills it with lies."<br />
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What, no 'Keyboard Warrior' this week? I'm hurt.<br />
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Parker and Alex are standing with someone named Don as I lean against the wall of the clinic, the former pointing in my direction. I've seen this guy around before - must be someone important to the protesters, given the way they defer to him - but if I did there was nothing memorable about the experience.<br />
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I'm always a little tickled when they refer to me as 'Fake News,' since their accusations are patently untrue. Allow me to use this space to make an offer: Protesters - the ones reading this, like you do - please feel free to call me out on anything I've written about that you think I made up. I will gladly admit that while I attempt to get our exchanges down verbatim there's no way I've gotten every word exactly correct, but I haven't lied about anything. Fire away.<br />
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"Do you know who Norman Bates is?" The question comes from Don and it takes a second to realize he's addressing me. Muttonchops is taking his time getting set up for his turn on the speaker - no complaints here - and there are no patients in sight. That's when the protesters usually target the escorts for abuse and this morning is no exception.<br />
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I want to make sure I've heard him correctly because this seems pretty far out of left field. "What?"<br />
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"Do you know who Norman Bates is?" he repeats, half-smirk already in place. This is a loaded question, no doubt, but I simply have to know where he's going with it.<br />
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"The character from <i>Psycho</i>? Uhm, yes."<br />
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"Yeah, he was a legend in his own mind too!" The three of them break into braying laughter as I glance over at Lexi, nonplussed. The Queen of the Sidewalk - although by morning's end they'll have demoted her to Princess, the heartless cads - has no answer for me, offering a bewildered shrug. Was it a joke? I think it was a joke. I suppose I should treat it as a joke.<br />
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I nod for a few more seconds before barking out a laugh. "Oh, I get it!" Pause. "You think you're witty!"<br />
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From his sour expression it doesn't appear he appreciates *my* sense of humor either. A little while later he sidles up next to me. "See, it's funny because -"<br />
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I start laughing again. "You're explaining why your joke is funny? Dude. If you have to explain it . . ." I trail off and shrug as he moves away, muttering. Turns out his joke was fake news.<br />
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(Day 19)<br />
"What? You're wrong. In fact, that's why Toys R US went out of business!"</div>
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You might need to borrow a springboard if you want to join Alex on this leap.</div>
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He's chatty today, trying to make me see the error of my ways as often as possible. It's not quite as amusing as The Runner continuing to incorrectly tell the male companions she's harassing that it's Father's Day, but at times it gets close. He's been going on about how every baby is a gift from God and how important they are, and when I mention that babies are one thing in the world there's no shortage he pounces with the line above.</div>
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Lexi and I manage to both look at each other and roll our eyes simultaneously. "That's not why, Alex. They were bought up by vulture capitalists who then rolled the debt into the company as they sold off assets and bled it dry."<br />
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"Yeah, but there being less kids is a part of it. Even a small part is a part."<br />
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There are times when you're involved in an intelligent discussion that you'd like to continue. This is not one of them.<br />
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(Day 20)</div>
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"See, you keep changing your answer! You keep moving the goalposts!"</div>
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Part of the problem with the buffer zone being gone is that there's more opportunity for interaction with the protesters. Almost invariably they try to drag you into their well-rehearsed 'logic' traps, which only count as logic if you're willing to accept that at any time they'll pull out the God card and insist that means they've won. It's even more tiresome then it sounds, and the fact that it's already above ninety degrees this morning makes it even less appealing. The guy currently trying to weave his web of words is new to me, a youngish guy who earlier was desperately trying to escape Our Lady of the Theater. He's got on black jeans and a shirt under a long-sleeved shirt, which given the heat and humidity seems like a modern version of flagellating yourself with reeds.</div>
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Josh - I think his name is Josh or Joshua or Who The Fuck Cares - is coming at me on two fronts: he wants me to admit I can't have moral objectivity without God while also demonstrating how human laws are fallible. He's trying to accomplish the latter by using slavery as an example, which is going over about as well as you'd expect. The goal is to draw a parallel to how it was morally repugnant but legal then, just like - say it with me - they consider abortion to be now. It's a facile argument at best, but one he sticks doggedly to when not veering off to ask me when a fetus becomes a human. I make the mistake of changing my opinion from the end of the second trimester to when it's viable outside the womb, which leads to a whole new attack angle that eventually follows the circular argument back to where it started, yet again.</div>
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Later I'm gently admonished by my team leader for engaging too much. It's difficult to disagree with her assessment.</div>
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(Day 19)</div>
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"Ladies, before you go in there to murder your baby let me tell you about Hagar."</div>
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My eyes widen. Really? He's going with <i>Hagar?</i> I'm dying to hear how Don is going to spin this one.</div>
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"Pregnant, she went off into the desert to die, but there she found God, who told her that if she worshipped him her son would have twelve sons and they would all be princes! And that's what happened!"</div>
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Ah. He's going for a full-on ridiculous version. Got it.</div>
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"Hey," I ask, "what did they become princes of?"</div>
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Don stops and stares at me. "What? Have you not heard of Abram?"</div>
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"I asked what they became princes of. A prince is royalty. I can't imagine there were twelve openings lying around waiting to be snatched up, so what exactly were they princes of?"</div>
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He stares for a moment before dismissing me with a wave. "Look it up, it's in the Bible."</div>
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It's not, though. At least not in the versions I know, which has to be taken with a grain of salt because it seems like each new branch of this cult cherry-picks and sanitizes their own version. There's a good chance their holy text does indeed grant the fantasy that they all became princes, but in any case it's a very strange choice of story to use to try to dissuade women from having a child they don't want. I mean, super bizarre. </div>
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For those not familiar with the tale, let's take a quick and magical ride through Don's choice, which (trigger warning) features slavery, abuse, and rape. FUN. Abraham (or Abram) is in his eighties and decides he needs to sire a kid. His wife, Sarai (or Sarah), has insides that are rocky and infertile, so she offers her husband her slave Hagar (or Agar) as a brood mare. Abraham gets Hagar pregnant through what is unlikely to have be consensual sex because SLAVE but hey, he's going to have a kid so it's all good. Hagar is none too pleased about this - can't imagine why - and her attitude ticks off Sarai, who starts carping at Abraham about it. The doting father-to-be is such a good and caring person that he more or less washes his hands of the situation, telling Sarai that it's her slave and she can handle this however she wants. Sarai 'mistreats' Hagar, which can be interpreted in a number of ways but let's assume physical and emotional abuse. THESE ARE SUCH GOOD PEOPLE.</div>
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Hagar, deciding she's better off possibly dying in the desert than staying near Sarai, flees. She meets an angel, who is *surely* not a hallucination caused by dehydration, and is told she should trust in a god that is likely not one she worhips (she's Egyptian). Her son will have 'descendants without number' which serves as enticement enough for her to go back to a horribly abusive situation. She gives birth to Ishmael and everything is great until Sarai gets pregnant (!) and has a son of her own. After catching Ishmael teasing the kid she demands that Abraham throw them out and disown his firstborn, which of course he does. With God's encouragement, no less. Are you charmed by this tale yet?</div>
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So Hagar and Ishmael go wander the desert for a while. Then Ishmael has a dozen kids who all become tribal chiefs, which seems legit for the unknown son of a slave to accomplish. Chiefs, not princes. THE END of this inspiring story.</div>
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I'm less concerned about Don exaggerating about princes than that he thinks this is a good story for changing women's minds about unwanted pregnancies. Maybe it's more effective if they're slaves.<br />
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(Day 19)</div>
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"Yeah, we do stuff for foster kids. Absolutely we do. We do."</div>
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I'm a little shocked at how unconvincing Alex sounds. I can't possibly be the first person who has asked him why he and his brethren seem to care more about unwanted zygotes than actual living, breathing children, but he seems caught off guard by the question. </div>
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"I mean, I don't understand why you wouldn't focus your efforts on helping kids that are already alive and need a home. You keep telling patients that you have couple who would love to adopt their baby. Why not have those people do something for the kids already in need?" As he starts to formulate an answer I add, "Do you care more about the embryos than actual kids?"</div>
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"They're not embryos, they're children. And yes, they're more important to us."</div>
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I do an actual double-take. "Really? You think it's better for you to be here?"</div>
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"Absolutely. There's more of a crowd for us to spread the gospel of Jesus and help save these people from going to Hell. Like you." He looks for a second like he wants to pat me on the shoulder, but wisely does not. "I pray for you all the time."</div>
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"Okay," I say with a dismissive wave. "So what you're saying is that fetuses are more important than kids in foster care, but preaching your doctrine is what matters most?"</div>
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"Yes, because we can save more souls that way. We got to many places where there's a crowd."</div>
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So. Women struggling with a difficult decision are shamed, mocked, belittled, spoken down to, and pelted with guilt in what amounts to a recruiting effort for the protesters' particular sect of the cult they follow. Would Alex's words be echoed by his cohorts, or is this just a personal tack for his own zealotry? I try to wrap my mind around the concept of thinking that I want people to join my club so very much I'm willing to say horrible things to them, to dance as close to edge of the law as I can to impede them, to make them feel like some kind of monster. </div>
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I can't. I lack the faith, I suppose.</div>
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Or maybe I just don't want my own Hagar.</div>
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<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-5033179882419089742018-05-01T10:25:00.001-07:002020-07-27T07:23:41.203-07:00The Battle for Valedictorian Must Have Been Brutal - Dispatches from my 17th Day as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/04/just-wait-until-he-finds-out-about.html" target="_blank">Days 15/16.</a> )</span><br />
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"All you Deathscorts have Ph.Ds from the Academy of Satan!"<br />
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DeeDee claps her hands. "Great! I was looking to add some stuff to my CV!"<br />
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I'm excited about it too, but a tad concerned about that Mammon dude who set up my student loans.<br />
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It's early for the protesters to be targeting us but they've got pretty good numbers out here today, faces both old and new. Right now I'm feeling pretty smart about having chosen to wear insulating gear under my clothes, a decision I'll be decidedly less smug about by 10am when the chill breeze has departed and the sun is blazing down through cloudless skies. Given the weather-related misery of the past few months it's a welcome change, but also one that makes me wish I were elsewhere taking advantage of it. Such is life.<br />
<br />
The morning is rife with challenging situations. A family has shown up, Mom and Dad with two small children in tow, which is an issue because kids aren't allowed in the waiting room. This is not to be confused with the infant that one of the protesters has brought - yes, an infant - who is repeatedly walked in front of the blaring loudspeakers. The family's shaky command of English doesn't help and Mom's choli/pavada combination incites the protesters to zero in on her for worshipping a 'false god.' After he drops his wife off I direct the father to the diner down the street and, when he returns an hour or so later, to the library across the street. Given our language difficulties and the incessant blare of the protesters' amps we have to rely on pantomime, but it's good enough.<br />
<br />
We also have a companion who is Very Angry about the shame-bombs being hurled around and wants to have some intense theological debates with the protesters. That's fine - anything that distracts them from incoming patients is a boon - but her temper is simmering at a low boil and the last thing we want is for someone to lose it. Compounding matters is her chain smoking, which directs plumes into my face no matter where she's standing. It's a reminder of how ubiquitous smoking used to be, and how a night out in a bar would leave you and your clothes smelling like an overflowing ashtray the next morning. The unwanted trip down Memory Lane intensifies as she's joined by another companion who bums a cigarette and fire up. This one is uninterested in chatter but her presence acts as a calming influence. Instead of arguing with the protesters they chat with one another. More smoke is UGH, but it's better than someone taking a swing at one of them.<br />
<br />
Our new academic achievement - GO FIGHTING BRIMSTONERS! - turns out to be one of many connections we have to Satan. During the course of the morning it's also revealed that we're:<br />
<br />
a) Satan's puppets;<br />
b) Satan's messengers;<br />
c) Satan's disciples;<br />
d) Satan's children.<br />
<br />
The latter is an extremely tough thing for me to hear, as it means I'm going to have to buy a whole bunch more presents for all my new siblings at Christmas. Perhaps I'll be able to find a better paying job with my shiny new doctorate.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"So, what do you think about the country of Saudi Arabia?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh, joy. Alex is back in town.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's been the <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">better part of a year</a> since we've crossed paths and on my end he hasn't been missed. Taking full advantage of our vanquished buffer zone he's set up shop a few feet away, allowing himself access to both patients heading in and myself. Again, oh joy.<br />
<br />
I know I'm being led by his line of questioning but we're in a bit of an intake lull and I'm happy for the distraction from the twinge that's developed in my lower back. "It's a place with a lot of issues, to say the least."<br />
<br />
He nods. "Okay, and how do you feel about the way they treat women?"<br />
<br />
I can see the glint off the hook, but bite anyway. "It's shameful. Awful."<br />
<br />
He dons a savage grin. "Then what do you think about Hillary Clinton taking millions in donations from Saudi Arabia?"<br />
<br />
Ye gods, Hillary Clinton. Of all the things I might have imagined I'd be discussing outside the clinic this morning - her? I briefly consider calling his bullshit - the donations were <a href="http://www.politifact.com/arizona/statements/2016/jul/11/donald-trump/did-hillary-clinton-take-money-countries-treat-wom/" target="_blank">to her A+ rated charitable foundation and not her campaign</a> - but facts are a devalued currency around these parts.<br />
<br />
"I think if you're looking for perfection in any political candidate you're going to end up disappointed. How can you question her character when compared to Trump's lack thereof?"<br />
<br />
He shakes his head. "I didn't vote for Trump."<br />
<br />
Well, knock me over with a protester's sign containing grammatical errors (like Luis'). "You didn't vote?"<br />
<br />
"I voted for Cruz."<br />
<br />
They'v finally managed to leave me speechless. I mean, I understand his platform, such as it was, pandered to the hard-core Talibangelicals, but the dude got clobbered in the primaries. Ted Cruz. Hoo.<br />
<br />
I get to return the favor in short order. We've been bouncing around on different subjects for a while before veering into theological debate centering on my objection to his brethren trying to force their religion views on others. There's no way to win this debate but again, anything that distracts them from patients until the last second is a worthy endeavor.<br />
<br />
He shifts to a new line of questioning but doesn't bother to hide the verbal bear trap lurking ahead. "So you're an atheist, right?"<br />
<br />
I shrug. "I guess, if you need to hang a label on it."<br />
<br />
"Well, don't you tell others they shouldn't worship God? Try to get them to stop?"<br />
<br />
"No." When he gives me an odd look I raise my palms skyward. "I don't care who or what you worship, as long as you don't try to impose your ideals and rules on others." Since my hands are already up, I wave my fingers around. "You know, like this."<br />
<br />
Alex seems a bit nonplussed. "Most of the atheists I meet are much more militant."<br />
<br />
Am I supposed to apologize for that? Be meaner? Mock his deity of choice? His issue to deal with, not mine. My immediate concern is the couple being escorted past the raucously cawing Mean Girls and for being in place so Janine and I can form a Runner-proof wall. Judging by her muttered complaints, we do okay.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We didn't do it, okay? Leave us alone!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Somehow, in the midst of all their yelling, the protesters missed this. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In general we don't encounter too many traffic jams at the front door. On Saturday mornings we mostly handle input, getting patients and companions inside. We escort a decent number back out after they've finished their visit, but often the majority are still in the clinic by the time the circus outside packs up for the day. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This time, though, things are a little wonky. We've got a goodly amount of protesters - somewhere north of a dozen - and in addition to escorts bringing in patients from the south and a car idling in the no-park zone in front of the entrance, a couple is coming back out of the clinic under a full head of steam. The woman - young, eyes red, biting her lower lip - has a two-step lead on a guy who is either her boyfriend or sibling. They came in with an older woman, no doubt somebody's mother, and all three had choice words for the protesters on the way past. In fact the guy stopped to do some finger-pointing, with the tension level escalating enough that DeeDee intervened to gently but firmly urge him to go inside.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now, though, they don't want any part of them. I have to believe his blurted words went unheard because otherwise they would have pounced like sharks on a wounded fish instead of letting them head north up the sidewalk, unmolested. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop but the protesters are still focused on patients heading in, and I don't have time to keep watching as I usher the new arrivals through the door amid a cacophony of screaming, both amplified and not.<br />
<br />
We're often accused of being out here to collect a paycheck, of getting more money based on how many people we escort in. There's not a shred of truth in that, and we're not going to chase someone down the sidewalk and try to convince them to go back in. If they choose to go through with the procedure, that's fine. If they decide that they'd rather have the baby instead, that's fine too. All that matters to us is that they get to make that choice.<br />
<br />
About twenty minutes later the couple returns. Whether they're just back to pick up the mother or to stay for whatever brought her here, we don't know. It's just our job to get them through the front door.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Because you deathscorts are disciples of Satan, and Satan is a murderer!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Is he?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There's a guy I've never seen before on the amp, starting his spiel at around 10:30am. This is where they usually slot those new to preaching, and their skill level is a mixed bag at best. This kid still has acne on the side of his face and we've already managed to derail him from lecturing us about knowing how difficult it is to be a father, given that his ringless fingers indicate that he's likely childless. Gamely soldiering on, he shifts to this new angle. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After about fifteen seconds I have to interrupt him. "Who did Satan kill?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He pauses and looks at me, blinking rapidly. "What?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I asked who Satan killed. I get it, he's the Father of Lies, in charge of Hell, all that. But who did he actually murder?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Silence draws out as he struggles to answer. After a good fifteen seconds or so Alex leaps in with a rescue attempt. "Judas. He murdered with Judas."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm not a Bible scholar, but that doesn't sound right. "I'm pretty sure that isn't true. Judas didn't kill anyone I'm aware of. Just took his money for info, right?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Alex combines an exasperated sigh with a shake of his head. "No, Satan entered Judas and that led to Jesus' murder."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
DeeDee, who works with lawyers, lets out a healthy snort. "That's a bit of a stretch," I say. "You can do better than that. Who has Satan murdered?"<br />
<br />
There's a good deal of muttering, but no answers. Not even Job's family, which I figured was a gimmie. I get why they might be having issues, since it's much easier to find examples of God engaging in wholesale murder and genocide than it is to pin something on his former right-hand man.. More awkward silence ensues until a couple emerges from the clinic and the protesters launch into their vitriol with what feels like a sense of relief.<br />
<br />
Good to know my daddy/professor/dispatcher/puppetmaster might not be so bad after all.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why are they like this? Why are they saying these things to me?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Jesus would probably like to hear some answers about that as well, methinks.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman asking these questions is not a patient, companion, or escort. Well-dressed and coiffed, she's made the mistake of passing near the clinic on her way to Saturday morning services at the synagogue up the street. The protesters, bored and restless during one of the intake lulls that sometimes mark the late morning, seize on the opportunity to tell her how wrong her choice of worship is. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Loudly. Vehemently. Derisively.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She's flanked by two of our escorts, who were wise and experienced enough to know exactly what she was going to face. With any luck she'll make a complaint to the town at some point, but for now she spares the shouters a single, incredulous backwards glance after running their gauntlet. There's laughter and smiles among the protesters. The joy of weaponizing the word of Jesus, perhaps.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Not long after that a young man in a yarmulke hurries along on the other side of the street. The mushrooms and the red-tape folks - three young people in hoodies with duct tape over their mouths - don't bother him, but Parker spies him and starts shouting at him in Hebrew. The guy keeps moving as a smirking Parker turns back to find me watching.<br />
<br />
"What?" he says, all innocence. "I said 'Jesus is Lord.'"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. I know what anti-Semitism is."<br />
<br />
His eyes narrow as he smiles and I get the sense he knew this was coming. "What's wrong with that? Jesus was a Jew."<br />
<br />
I drop an eye-roll that would make my twelve-year-old daughter proud. "That's true, but he's not the god they worship, which you're well aware of. You're taunting him. Don't be disingenuous and pretend it's otherwise."<br />
<br />
That earns me a sour twist of the lips, a dismissing wave, and the ever-popular "You're fake news." Taunting appears to be high up on their agenda today, with anyone who isn't one of them a target of Alex's instead.<br />
<br />
"You run around here handing out cheap rosaries of blue plastic made in Taiwan and you think you're properly spreading the word of Jesus? You stand across the street with your picture of Jesus, oh you love him so much, you keep it covered with plastic so it won't get wet in the rain, but do you come over here and use your voice? No! And you people, you put tape over your mouths. How can you spread the word of Jesus with tape over your mouths? If someone got raped would you just stand there in silence? Maybe you would, because you don't really know and love Jesus!"<br />
<br />
It's a hell of a rant. I have no idea if the barbs find a home - the Mushrooms stay silent, the red-tape people stick with their creepy staring thing, and The Runner is always muttering under her breath anyway. The protesters' attitude that their choice of worship is vastly superior to all other forms seems to be embracing the sin of pride with both arms and some leg action as well, but they've always been remarkably skilled at ignoring things that don't fit their stance.<br />
<br />
Later Luis crosses the street with his giant sign featuring the ten commandments (one side in Spanish, the other in English complete with grammatical errors) and stands in front of the red-tape kids. He's joined by Alex and after a one-sided conversation the others remove their tape and appear to open a dialogue. It goes on for a while, which makes escorting patients out that much easier, thank you very much. If they wanted to do this for the whole shift every Saturday we'd be fine with it.<br />
<br />
Alas, all good things must come to an end. It's time for Luis' to take another loud and unhinged turn on the mike (number two of the day! Uncool!). As he's getting into place Alex sidles up next to me, mentions that he's praying for my soul.<br />
<br />
I nod. "Good luck with that. How's things go with your new friends? Seemed like a civil discussion."<br />
<br />
He lets out a long sigh. "They're good people with good intentions, but they don't know how to properly follow Jesus Christ." Whatever else he tries to say is lost as Luis begins screaming on his speaker at a truly ear-splitting level, standing as close to the doors as he can while calling those inside murderers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Silence has been a rare commodity this morning and I'm basking in a moment of quiet as Mutton Chops gets ready to take the mike. The day has begun to warm up - I performed an act of contortion in order to strip my sweatshirt off without removing my vest that was worthy of stage and screen - yet he's still bundled up in a winter parka and fur-lined hat. Parker is behind him, standing in the street like the protesters do. A Corvette pulls even with him and stops, giving the engine a little rev. It would be fun to take poetic license and say the driver was the absolute personification of a mid-life crisis, but the truth is I can't really see him. With a throaty growl the car leaps away, tires chirping against the asphalt. Parker turns in my general direction, a big smile on his face.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"A thumbs-up, that's nice. So far today that's five middle fingers and one thumbs-up, but at least we're on the board." He seems pleased.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm pleased as well. May that approval ratio hold true. I crack my own smile as Mutton Chops starts to drone.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-794050066630962412018-04-12T08:08:00.000-07:002020-07-27T07:18:40.002-07:00Just Wait Until He Finds Out About the Initiation Branding - Dispatches from my Fifteenth and Sixteenth Days as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13. </a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/come-for-misogyny-stay-for-religious.html" target="_blank">Day 14.</a> )</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
(Day 15)<br />
"Yeah. But we have to wonder why."<br />
<br />
It's quiet outside the clinic this morning, startlingly so. None of the screamers are here - not a single one - and even The Runner is a no-show. Aside from a few of the quiet ones who hand out pamphlets and the somewhat loopy Q-Tip, the protesters are largely absent.<br />
<br />
And that has the security team on edge.<br />
<br />
The above response came after I noted the light turnout to Jesse, the retired cop who often stands at the doorway with us. At first glance it seems a blessing, although Jenner, the first-timer working the door with me who signed up because he's heard how hellish it is out here, seems mildly disappointed. The two guards take turns circling the building, looking for suspicious packages or bags. It may sound a little paranoid, but we're less than a month past <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/02/17/nyregion/truck-attack-planned-parenthood.html" target="_blank">someone driving a truck into the entrance of a Planned Parenthood a few dozen miles away</a>. There's a long and shameful national history of <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/11/29/us/30abortion-clinic-violence.html" target="_blank">clinics being bombed and doctors murdered, </a>so the concern is warranted.<br />
<br />
Jesse glances around as he talks about some of his experiences on the police force, probably spotting things I wouldn't even know to look for. There are other countermeasures in effect as well, ones that surprise me. For obvious reasons I won't reveal them, but knowing they're being employed helps to put us at ease. I wonder if I'm actually seeing more Englewood PD cars than I usually do or if it's just easier to spot them with the mass of protesters between myself and the street..<br />
<br />
I swap stories with Jenner, getting to know him as we kill time. My team leader Fiona looks just as mystified as I do, having never had a day like this in her years of escorting. As we easily walk patients past the skeleton crew of protesters not one of us finds cause to complain.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 16)<br />
"We will help you. We have the resources and we will be there for you. You will have support and money for your baby."<br />
<br />
After having my last shift devoid of any and all screamers - it was so blissfully <i>quiet</i> - it appears I will not be as fortunate this time. Parker started with his predictable, "The Bible says" right at 8am and it's been non-stop preaching, promising, and shaming since then. By coincidence I'm at the door with Jenner again, who is having a much different experience than he did during his maiden voyage. The sidewalk on this brisk morning isn't swarming but it's crowded with faces new and old. Given we expected Easter-related shenanigans - the protesters had evidently showed up the day before, which was Good Friday - we've got an extra pair of escorts as part of the team. A couple are rookies, but with our numbers we're able to get them paired with experienced hands.<br />
<br />
Conspicuously absent among the protesters are the Mean Girls, not that they're missed. In fact it's a mostly male crew, aside from the mother that always shows up with one of her sons. Which one she brings varies but it doesn't matter as they all stand near the door wearing a sign, remaining silent while using a clicker to count the number of patients that enter. Not creepy at all, that.<br />
<br />
The Runner is here, of course, in all of her odious glory, and soon Q-Tip appears as well, wearing a pin emblazoned with Trump's face and doing her "Yay Jesus!" cheers. Still, that's only three out of well over a dozen protesters, whereas a couple of months ago we were seeing 50/50 splits. I could probably coax a vague answer out of Parker if I cared enough to ask, something along the lines of 'God keeps his house in order.' Maybe they're preparing for Easter dinner. Any excuse that keeps them away is fine by me.<br />
<br />
Hinton's still cranking along on his speaker, promising the sun and moon to patients who change their minds at a decibel level well above legal limits. His dinosaur winter hat is gone, replaced by a tan baseball cap. Ah, the joys Spring brings.<br />
<br />
"Your baby is a gift from God. We will help you with food, and diapers, and many things. We'll make sure you and your baby have everything you need . . . "<br />
<br />
Wait for it.<br />
<br />
". . . for about a year or so."<br />
<br />
Ay, there's the rub.<br />
<br />
I've heard from other sources that the support from the anti-choice groups and the so-called 'Crisis Pregnancy Centers' tends to be much less substantial than promised <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NNpkv3Us1I&t=12s" target="_blank">(as shown in this excellent segment on Last Week Tonight, which includes research done by one of our own)</a> but this is the first time one of the screamers has admitted that if these women believe what they're being told and completely alter their lives to keep a child that they don't want things aren't going to be all sunshine and pixie dust. For a moment I feel as if I should commend Hinton for showing some moral character but then I glance over and notice the kid he brought with him, maybe ten or eleven years old, standing by the street and holding an anti-choice sign.<br />
<br />
Never mind.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 16)<br />
"Deuteronomy 22:5 clearly states that a woman must not put on man's clothing, and a man must not wear women's clothing!"<br />
<br />
It seems that our Evangelical buddies don't care for new escort Evan's scarf. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Thank goodness for escorting. How else would I have learned that the Bible is not just a book of worship but also a fashion guide? The more sonorous of the Creepy Twins is currently droning along on the speaker, but he's being superseded by Parker and Luis collectively losing their shit over Evan. He's mirroring Fiona's floater position, halfway between the clinic entrance and the outlier escorts, which makes him close enough to draw the wrath of the screamers.<br />
<br />
Why? Well, he has the audacity to be stylishly dressed. He looks - 'dapper' comes to mind, but that's kind of a fusty old word, so let's go with 'chic' - chic, well-appointed, from his debonair haircut to his natty shoes. The scarf in question is red, white, and, if the protesters are taken at face value, standard field gear for gays in the service of Satan.<br />
<br />
They've decided that Evan must be a homosexual, something they often accuse me of being as well. If you think the enjoyment they derive from wallowing in their misogyny is repugnant you'll be even more disgusted by their overzealous intolerance for gays. When they project their bile at the women entering the clinic it's always with the caveat that they're only doing so because they want to save both the baby and the mother. In the case of the latter that means converting her to their theology. There's hope for her. Maybe one day she too could stand on this sidewalk and shame other women - not with a loudspeaker, of course. Still, she can be redeemed.<br />
<br />
There's none of that for Evan. It's clear that he makes them extremely uncomfortable and they're content to interpret Bible passages in a way that allows them to condemn him. There aren't any *actual* passages in which their Lord and Savior Jesus condemns homosexuality, but they seem to share the mindset of the late Billy Graham, who had this to say about the subject: "Sometimes it is said that the Bible does not contain any words of Jesus about homosexuality, and therefore it must be acceptable to God. However, the Bible does not record sayings of Jesus about a number of other sins either." No, Billy. Absence of evidence and all that. Logic dictates that they should accept that Jesus has no issues with homosexuality, but they are more than willing to ignore truth if it doesn't fit their rhetoric. Instead they embrace the contradiction of preaching Jesus' love while spewing fear and hatred at the same time.<br />
<br />
The interesting aspect is that they clearly think men should feel shame if they identify as anything but hetero. It explains why they've used gay slurs on me in the past and why they're targeting Evan today. They're assuming, based on his appearance, that he's gay. Whether he is or not, I have no idea. We haven't had the opportunity to get to know one another yet and it's not something that just pops up during the couple of minutes we're gathered inside before starting the shift (which I haven't done for the last four shifts or so, instead staying at my post on the door and just having them bring a vest out for me instead). In any case, his orientation can't be wrong. He is who he is and that's okay. The problem is theirs.<br />
<br />
Evan seems to take their attempted mockery in stride, unruffled as he flanks a patient who has emerged from a car that's pulled in front of the restaurant. She's joined by an older woman, presumably her mother, who came armed with a glare that could melt steel. As we reach the door her gaze falls on Evan and she gives a small nod.<br />
<br />
"I like your scarf."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 16)<br />
"You're going to die someday! It's true! You're not going to stay young! Look at the wrinkles you have already!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Jenner turns to me, an expression of mock horror on his face. "He's right. I'm decrepit. Do we have any walkers inside?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The rookie is getting a baptism by fire that he didn't experience last time, the swirling chaos and non-stop noise fest provided by the protesters. At the moment Creepy Twin #1 is on the squawk box, telling deathscorts how horrible we are. He accuses me of being particularly wicked because there's too much fornication in my life but leaves me hanging when I yell "DAMN STRAIGHT" and hold up a hand for a high five. As he rattles on about how terrible a thing premarital sex is I notice that he's lacking a ring on his left hand.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ye gods, it explains <i>so much.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Later in the morning he buttonholes Jenner for a long and passionate personal sermon about how Jesus is the only answer. For everything. Both Fiona and I are prepared to tag in if he gives us a distress signal, but he waves us off. When CT#1 finally moves on Jenner looks over at me with raised eyebrows. Welcome to the party, pal.<br />
<br />
The Runner greets him as well, pulling her usual act of trying to befriend the newbie. That doesn't last long as she, in the midst of shaming a mother and daughter heading into the clinic, completely blocks the doorway for the grandmother who has also emerged from the car. Jenner spots this and boxes the Runner out. There's contact, mostly due to The Runner being oblivious to the fact that someone's behind her and trying to get past, and the self-proclaimed 'absolute feminist' starts muttering at him as soon as she tells the grandmother that she needs to be a better woman. She doesn't notice that the grandmother looks to be considering introducing The Runner's head to the pavement, and I do my best to gently but firmly cajole the matriarch to be with those who need her most right now. With an angry shake of her head she does, and yet again an escort has attained the dubious success of keeping The Runner from getting her ass kicked.<br />
<br />
She finishes berating Jenner and turns back toward the clinic, talking to the closed door about assembly lines, being a good mom, and why it's even worse to be here with tomorrow being Easter. Jenner and I asking why she's excited about a day about the German Goddess of Spring clearly annoys her, compounded when we insist the day is all about candy and start discussing our favorite kinds.<br />
<br />
She does not attempt to bond with Jenner again.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 15)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why don't we ever escort the same shift together?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's early on a Saturday morning, way too early to be up, yet we are and I've just posed that question to my wife. I'm procrastinating about getting up, as a warm bed filled with spouse is much more alluring than the frigid sidewalk festooned with protesters that awaits me. Our kids are autonomous enough to survive a few hours without us around and while it's not the ideal marital activity to engage in I'm somewhat curious to see her in action. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She cuts to the heart of the matter, the way she often does. "Because I'm not willing to take a chance on our kids becoming orphans."<br />
<br />
My initial instinct is to scoff and dismiss her caution, but for once I keep my mouth shut and think before speaking. As noted earlier in this entry clinics do get attacked. The protesters I've encountered don't appear to be violent but there's no way to be sure about that. Religious zealotry and misogyny combine to make a passionate brew, one fraught with potential difficulties. My wife, a veteran of several years on the sidewalk, can recount tales of escorts being followed back to their cars, of protesters standing behind vehicles so they couldn't back out, and so on. Parker keeps trying to get a rise out of me by saying that he's been talking to my wife and that she seems much smarter and more highly educated than me (When Fiona overhears this at a later date she laughs and says that she's never heard my wife say anything to him beyond 'fuck off'). They'll get personal with us, throw verbal darts, try to get us upset and off-balance.<br />
<br />
Violence might not have reared its ugly head for us so far but we're not going to tempt fate. With a single sigh and a string of muttered curses I leave the embrace of both blankets and wife to paw around in the dark for the clothes I set out before I went to bed. Date Night won't be strolling on the streets of Englewood, it seems.</div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-67890321340308083702018-02-26T08:12:00.000-08:002020-07-27T07:18:16.147-07:00Come for the Misogyny, Stay for the Religious Intolerance! - Dispatches from my Fourteenth Day as an Escort at a Women's Clinic<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" style="background-color: white; color: #28e15f; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 2.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 3.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 4.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 5.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 6.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 7.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 8.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> </span><a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" style="background-color: white; color: #00822c; font-size: 13px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Day 12.</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/02/rock-and-roll-aint-noise-pollution.html" target="_blank">Day 13.)</a></span></span><br />
<br />
"The Deathscorts are really aggressive today. She ran into me!"<br />
<br />
One of the Mean Girls is upset.<br />
<br />
Turns out that sometimes when you deliberately block a sidewalk while trying to pretend that you're not deliberately blocking a sidewalk there will be contact. The odds of this go up when your cohort Parker turns his sign sideways to further shrink the choke point you've created.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, they're bullies," says Parker. "Don't let them get away with it or they'll keep doing it."<br />
<br />
Bullies. Indeed. We're not the ones screaming at teenage girls and calling them murderers, but we're the bullies.<br />
<br />
The morning can't decide what it wants to be yet - it starts off feeling as if it might warm up, but before long a chill breeze presents itself and hats and gloves stay in place. I'm at what's become my usual post, by the clinic's front door. It leaves me in front of the screamers for a whole shift but they haven't been that bad lately, so I figure I'll be fine. Famous last words.<br />
<br />
There's between twelve to fifteen protesters today and, as one of the other escorts notes, the removal of the buffer zones has led to them congregating closer to the doors than they used to. This is both good and bad - while it means the patients don't have to listen to vitriol on every step of the sidewalk (aside from The Runner, of course, who is an entity in and of herself), the last ten yards or so have become a vicious, claustrophobic gauntlet of shrieking malevolence. One young girl ends up tears by the time she gets through as she's informed of her eternal damnation and of how horrible a person they consider her to be. The mother has blood in her eyes and is about to turn back to wade in when the daughter catches her arm and gives her a small tug. It's not much, but it's enough. The glare she gives them as I close the door behind her goes ignored, the protesters busy muttering at my back as I box them out.<br />
<br />
Bullies. Right.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"So this morning as I was brushing my teeth, I had an elfanism."<br />
<br />
Yeah, I don't know either.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I turn my head toward Ronnie, today's team leader. Her puzzled expression matches mine as she asks, "Did he just say 'elfanism'?"<br />
<br />
The screamers are out in force today, with the regulars showing a healthy disregard for the decibel limit. Parker takes his usual opening slot. Luis does an extended set, finishing by working himself into a frothing rage and directing his ire into the brick wall next to the entrance. Little Hitler - so dubbed due to the resemblance combined with an unfortunate mustache choice - even takes a turn, which is new to me. Later we'll have three newbies break their cherries, so to speak, but for now it's Hinton busy confusing the hell out of Ronnie and me.<br />
<br />
We try Google, but aside from a few 'don't you mean this instead' results we've got nothing. I do my best not to interact most of the time but not knowing is tearing at the tatters of my English major soul.<br />
<br />
"Hinton," I say as he draws a breath, "what's elfanism?"<br />
<br />
He ignores me, launches into a new volley. I patiently wait for another opportunity. Not like I have anything else to do.<br />
<br />
"C'mon. I'm not asking to be a smartass, we just want to know what it is. Help us."<br />
<br />
After a few seconds he mutters, "I'll tell you later," and goes back on the attack. We get pretty busy with intake for a while and I more or less forget about his mystery word. After a while he cedes the shouter role to Luis, who embarks on his spittle-flecked aural adventure. Moments after that he approaches me, phone held at arms length. I have to crane my head back to see because I'm not wearing my glasses, but between that and squinting I can make out 'euphemism' on his screen.<br />
<br />
I tell Ronnie and we're both vaguely disappointed, having been hoping for a strange and exciting new addition to our lexicon. Hinton shakes his head and says, "What, you don't like my accent? That's racist, man."<br />
<br />
Always the victims, these guys. Possibly a side effect while suffering from acute elfanism.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Here we are, at Planned Parenthood."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's evidently preliminary auditions time at the Anti-Choice version of American Idol.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
First up is this guy, who hasn't earned a name yet. We are not, in fact, at Planned Parenthood, and when I tell our contestant that he becomes flustered and starts again.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Here we are, at the Englewood Clinic."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I point to the sign over the door. "That's still not the name, dude. Details matter."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He looks at me, where I'm pointing, back at me, and tries again. He gets it wrong for a third time but manages to get it together enough to call a young woman a murderer as she gets escorted in. As the door closes behind her he gives it another go.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Here we are, at Planned Parenthood."<br />
<br />
Ye gods.<br />
<br />
He proves to have the judging and condemning parts down pretty well but lacks the passion of Hinton or the eye-rolling madness of Luis. He's more like a newborn fawn, awkward and stumbling as he tries to take his first steps toward publicly shaming women seeking legal medical procedures. At least his volume is lower than the others, which is nice.<br />
<br />
The guy that follows him has his hat on inside out. The tag that juts out from the side is distracting, to say the least. I try to point it out to him as he fiddles with his amp but he steadfastly ignores me before launching into his big moment in the spotlight.<br />
<br />
"You should feel privileged that I'm speaking to you today and sharing with you the words of Jesus."<br />
<br />
Privileged indeed. I try to share his munificence by again pointing out that his hat is on inside out and he goes silent for a bit, losing place in his mental script. Too proud to use written notes?<br />
<br />
I look over at Parker. "C'mon, man. These guys aren't ripe yet."<br />
<br />
He gives me an impassive look, which I get. Kids gotta learn how to swim sooner or later, can't keep depending on the veterans to supply all of the slut-shaming. Manny, Moe,and Jack here are going to have to emerge from the nest and hit us with their best material.<br />
<br />
"Life begins at conception, which any doctor will tell you." That's recycled Parker BS, but I don't call him on it.. "You probably missed that because you skipped science class to fornicate."<br />
<br />
I double over with laughter, which knocks him off his game again. After a few moments he manages, "It's true," but I'm busy wiping tears from my eyes. This kid might be a keeper.<br />
<br />
He's all over the place after that. God is going to punish everyone for every sin ever. This is a place of death. Jesus died for our sins and don't I understand how that shows Gods loves us. Only through Jesus can we be forgiven for our sins and have them washed away. There's no hope -<br />
<br />
"Wait." I hold up a hand and, bless his heart, he stops. They're so cute when they're young. "Before you said that God is going to punish everyone for all the sins. Now you say the sins go away. Which is it?"<br />
<br />
He goes silent again, long enough that I think maybe something broke inside. I give Parker another admonishing look for putting this under-baked loaf of babble-bread out here but it just rolls off him. After another awkwardly long pause the guy lumbers to life yet again.<br />
<br />
"When God comes to punish these sins he will address the abominations, such as adulterers, homosexuals, the wicked, and the non-believers."<br />
<br />
Ah. Perhaps we won't keep him after all. His decent into the cesspit of hatred and intolerance marks his final act as he gives way to the third newbie, a chip off of Mutton Chop's block. Nothing new or interesting here. At most, we appreciate the decreased decibel level of the three contestants.<br />
<br />
Silence would be better, though.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I just wanted to thank you for what you're doing."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I appreciate the gentleman stopping by to say this and shake my hand, but at the same time I don't envy what I figure he's going to have to endure next.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Unfortunately, my prediction proves correct.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I've mentioned before about how the protesters go out of their way to harass, mock, and demean the Jewish people they see heading to the nearby synagogue. Most have become wise enough to walk on the other side of the street or simply avoid the area altogether, but this fellow either isn't intimidated or felt the need to thank us outweighed the repercussions.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Given the way the protesters have started clustering close to the entrance his exit route is reminiscent to one of the trenches on the outside of the Death Star. With the same level of vitriol they usually spew at the patients the mob sets on him as he passes through, yelling 'Christ is King!' in Hebrew and besmirching the tenets of his religion. They continue hollaring as he heads up the sidewalk before sharing in group smiles and happy camaraderie, proud of what they've done.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Matthew 7:1-3 seems to slip their minds when they hit the sidewalk.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"J! E! S! U! S! Jesus is number one! Yay Jesus!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Q-Tip is kind of fascinating. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To be sure, she marches to the beat of a different drummer. All morning she's been doing Jesus chants by herself, waving her index finger over her head and exhorting the others to join in (they don't). She likes to echo some of the things the screamers say, filling in blank spaces when they pause to take a breath. I can't help but notice the wistful gazes she gives to the amplifier as the last newbie drones on. Hmmm.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Hey," I say to Parker. "Why don't you give her an amp? She's got to be better than this guy."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Parker just shakes his head and smirks, and I feel as if I'm missing something. As I stop and think about today's lineup I have my blind squirrel/nut moment.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why is it I've never seen any women on the mike here?" I gesture over at the Mean Girls. "Why not one of them? I'm sure they've got plenty to say." Their immediate responses move my comment from theory to fact.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Parker waves a hand in my direction. "It's all fine."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's not, though. I have zero doubts that any of these people would be more articulate than the rookies we've been subjected to today. "Seriously. Why are there no women being screamers?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm favored with smug, condescending smile. "God's house is in order."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I blink a few times, soaking in the blatant misogyny. If the Mean Girls object to being classified as lesser beings they don't feel the need to vocalize their dissatisfaction, and I turn away with a low whistle. It makes their willingness to lambaste other women a little easier to comprehend, I suppose. How can you offer respect to others when you don't have any for yourself?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I don't hate you, man. I love you. I'm praying for you because I love you and want you to repent and be saved."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Hinton's declaration has come three days too late for me to get him a Valentine's Day card, although I suppose there's still time to pick up discounted candy. But I'm not interested in his brand of love, the kind that only manifests itself if I become the person he wants me to be. I'm worthy if I abandon who I am and embrace his way of thinking. It's not the language of love.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's the language of abusers. "Do what I say or bad things are going to happen to you."<br />
<br />
It's the language of manipulators. "Do what I say or I won't love you."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's the language of misogyny. "We're all equal, except for those things I don't let you do because you don't have a penis."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's the language of hatred and shame. "Only a woman with several mental issues would do what you're doing. You're a murderer."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's not my language.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br />
<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-29819049045539109762018-02-01T07:48:00.003-08:002020-07-27T07:17:19.792-07:00Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution - Dispatches from my Thirteenth Day as an Escort at a Women's Clinic(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day 2.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day 3.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 4.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 5.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 6.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">Day 7.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" target="_blank">Day 8.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-pragmatics-is-name-of-my.html" target="_blank">Day 12.</a> )<br />
<br />
"You guys should be wearing vests or something."<br />
<br />
I don't disagree, but without my lock picking tools there's not much I can do about it at the moment.<br />
<br />
It's not quite hot, not quite cold in the early morning outside of the clinic. Last week had evidently been a madhouse - over 30 protesters - so the security guards requested that we get someone there a little early to occupy space by the front doors. I'm rattling around at an ungodly hour most mornings anyway and so was happy to volunteer to be that huckleberry, but when I arrive at 7:20am the doors are still locked. That's to be expected - the clinic doesn't open until 8. By 7:30 or so, however, we have company. After giving me a dubious stare a patient walks up and tries the door, only to be thwarted. After putting her at ease about who I am I'm not sure what to do with her. Neither is Connie, another escort who shows up moments later.<br />
<br />
Nurses are arriving and being buzzed in, but a quick peek inside before the door closes confirms the guard isn't there yet. Meantime the Sienna belonging to one of the regular protesters has shown up and is idling across the street. The potential for the morning starting off in a very bad way is looming - if they figure out that the woman standing behind me is a patient there's going to be blood in the water, so to speak.<br />
<br />
I voice my concerns to the woman, but she waves a hand and gives me a sardonic smile. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not a patient, I'm an escort like you."<br />
<br />
Thank goodness people are smarter than I am.<br />
<br />
In the end I've done a lot of fretting over nothing: the guard shows up at 7:45 or so and the protesters don't leave the warmth of their vehicles until 8am. Our erstwhile co-escort takes her leave with a nod as we don our bright green vests.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Is he allowed to go in there?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The person asking me is one of the protesters, but it's a good question. I'm wondering the same exact thing, especially since the guy was just across the street taking pictures.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's about 9:20 and for the last fifteen minutes or so we've been blessed with silence. After thirty-plus protesters clogging the streets last week we've only got a dozen or so this morning and they seem a bit listless. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Well, except for The Runner, of course.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Anyway, after running through his spiel twice Parker has turned off his amp and shambled away. The only other possible screamer I can see is Muttonchops, but he makes no move toward the coveted oration spot directly in front of the doors. This is highly irregular, as usually there's a concerted effort by the protesters to make sure someone is always blaring away. Given that they're missing several of the more toxic members of their crew today, perhaps they just lack the manpower.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Or maybe it's something else.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I glance over at Connie, who also looks concerned. A quick glance confirms there's no patients currently inbound, so with a shrug I slip inside. The guy is talking to the guard at the desk and all seems fine. I release a breath I wasn't aware I'd been holding as they finish their conversation and he exits past me with a nod. As I push the door shut behind me I cock an eyebrow at the guard.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Health inspector," he says. At my puzzled expression he adds, "Because of the noise."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Right. Last week one of the escorts downloaded an app and clocked the decibel reading, which came in at one hundred. In case you're wondering, <a href="http://www.industrialnoisecontrol.com/comparative-noise-examples.htm" target="_blank">that's pretty high.</a> I nod and head back outside, encouraged that the city is responding to a complaint and trying to make the entire experience a little easier for the patients. Rotten luck that he showed up when there was a lull in the screaming.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As I retake my post outside I see the health inspector having what appears to be a friendly conversation with Parker. I suppose I could be suspicious about the timing of how this has played out - they go silent, he shows up - but really, even if there was something going on it wouldn't matter. The mere threat of being ticketed is sufficient to do the job.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Indeed, when Muttonchops fires up his speaker and begins preaching the Gospels right after the health inspector leaves, his volume is tolerable. Instead of shaming and condemning he tries to convert us instead. It's less onerous than babble of the rabid screamers, but if I have to listen to something amplified I'd rather hear The Clash.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh! It's Q-Tip! We thought she was dead!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Carol, usually a team leader but today just one of us, points to a woman in a red coat. "She used to always wear this tall, white hat along with white boots, hence the name." She gives a little laugh. "Been a long time. We were never sure she was all there."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Carol's tone isn't mean-spirited and she may have a point, as Q-Tip is currently yelling at cars as they drive by. Her well-made sign features a big picture of Jesus next to the words PRAY TO END ABORTION. How do I know this? Because she's holding her sign backwards, facing away from the vehicles she's hollering at. When she wanders behind an orating Parker I can see that the other side has a message scrawled on it in red marker but I can't make it out. She begins echoing his rhetoric, basically doing a callback to each of his lines. It's odd.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Carol recalls a time when someone young and handsome was here filming footage for a documentary of some sort. Q-Tip, in attendance, was evidently quite smitten and made a play for him. Alas, love on the streets of Englewood was not to be. As to why she's been away for so long, nobody knows. Well, nobody on our side cares. The protesters have lives beyond their Saturday mornings. Perhaps they get screamed at somewhere else. That would be appropriate.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Q-Tip lasts about ninety minutes before wandering off. Maybe next time she'll have the correct ensemble. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Did . . . did he just say that?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Connie is staring at me with raised eyebrows, one hand covering her mouth.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yes. Yes, he did. And we're not sure what to make of it.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My past two or three shifts I've been stationed by the entrance, tasked with taking up space and getting the door opened and closed as quickly as possible. Standing in front of the screamers for three or four hours isn't much fun, but I've gotten pretty good at tuning them out. Today's lower decibels help.<br />
<br />
The screamers, for the most part, repeat well-worn scripts that feature their favorite tropes. I can understand why, as their targets are usually people who haven't heard them before. Not much repeat traffic, so why bother working up new material? Sure, the escorts are bored by the repetition (and the half-truths, generous interpretations, and outright lies) but we're not the ones they're caterwauling at.<br />
<br />
Most of the time, anyway. When there's lulls in patient intake the screamers often shift their focus to us and I get to hear about how Satan is my daddy or that I care more about dogs than babies. I'm not the kind of person who gets bothered by stuff like that, so my reaction is more laughing than seething. The removal of the buffer zones has given us the freedom to respond if we wish, although I don't usually engage. George Carlin said it best - "Never argue with an idiot. They will only bring you down to their level and beat you with experience."<br />
<br />
I can't help tweaking Parker when he misquotes the Bible - 'Pride goes before the fall' isn't even close. He responds with the correct verse, fixing me with a sour glare. He's given us his base rant three times already this morning and we're expecting a fourth when he veers off in a new direction.<br />
<br />
"You know, George Washington was our first supreme commander, and he said you can't have a nation without God and the Bible."<br />
<br />
That's true enough - I'm currently reading Cheronow's <i>Washington</i> right now, as a matter of fact - but that's some serious cherry-picking that I'm not willing to let slide.<br />
<br />
"Okay, but he also had a whole bunch of slaves," I say with shrug. I plan on listing a few more of Washington's shortcomings that might help illustrate why every word he uttered shouldn't be considered as the bedrock of our nation, but Parker cuts me off.<br />
<br />
"That's evolution."<br />
<br />
My response dies unspoken because, well, how does one answer that? I'm uncertain if I'm silent because I'm not sure what he meant or stunned that he said it, but Connie's stunned reaction confirms the likelihood that it's the latter. We look back at him, shaking our heads, half-laughing, unable to articulate.We are, for lack of a better word, flabbergasted.<br />
<br />
Parker moves on to Dred Scott and Hitler, trying to compare us to the latter, but it's difficult to put your true colors away once you've run them up the flagpole and let them fly. Not long after he kills his amp and wanders away, returning blessed silence to the street.<br />
<br />
Some words still hang in their air, though.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I don't care if she said no! I only listen to the patient!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The shift is winding down and to be honest, it's been a pretty easy one. Large swaths of time with no screamers, the absence of certain toxic individuals, and a general lethargy among the protesters has made the morning somewhat low-stress to this point. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That can't last, though, because The Runner is here.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She's had a bit of a tough day, dropping her propaganda and cheap blue rosaries all over the place numerous times. Her insistence at continuing to talk to a closed door with the blare of the screamers overpowering her still doesn't make any sense, but she's got to stay true to her muttering self, I suppose. She's nowhere in sight when a patient and her companion exit the clinic and ask for an escort to their car, but it doesn't take long for her to materialize like a TIE fighter behind Gold Leader when we start walking.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"So we have a number of different ways we can help you -"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Not interested," says the companion.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We have a website you can go to, I have some literature right -"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There's a bit of a hard edge to the companions voice as she repeats, "Not interested."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Okay, now this tract will tell you -"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Jeryl," says Daniel, the other escort walking with us. "She said no. Twice."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Runner turns and comes as close to an actual snarl as I've ever seen from her. "I don't care if she said no! I only listen to the patient! She's not the patient!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The patient, who is pretty woozy and clearly not interested in any of this, gives my arm a tug and points in front of us. "That's my car."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I nod as we keep moving, Daniel sidestepping the branches of a tree that force The Runner to change her path. I don't know if the two of us staying with the patient all the way up the street is what deters her from trying to follow and shove plastic fetuses through the window of the car, but having her peel off before we reach the vehicle is good enough. The patient and companion depart, leaving the Runner and her selective hearing behind. At least she can't blame it on overly loud speakers today.</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-79991370920054624972018-01-02T09:30:00.002-08:002021-02-17T08:58:01.752-08:00The Pragmatics is the Name of My Evangelical Rock Cover Band - Dispatches from my Twelfth Day as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day 2.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day 3.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 4.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 5.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 6.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">Day 7.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" target="_blank">Day 8.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/12/in-my-judgment-youre-being-way-too.html" target="_blank">Days 9/10/11.</a>)<br />
<br />
"It's going to be really cold. Maybe they won't show up."<br />
<br />
My wife's hand emerges from under the covers and strokes my cheek. "Oh, you dear, sweet man." She burrows back under the blankets as I heave myself out of bed with a sigh.<br />
<br />
Indeed, the protesters are outside the clinic despite the arctic chill of this late December morning. We're here too, we horrible Deathscorts, fortified with hot chocolate and homemade banana bread as the thermometer hovers near single digits. Even with seven layers on top I can feel the bite and I'm grateful for the heavy knit of my pink pussy hat to keep my head warm. As I'm guarding the door it makes me an easy beacon for my teammates to direct incoming patients at.<br />
<br />
The guard tells us there's a busy schedule this morning and he's not lying. Intake is brisk as we deal with the hyper-aggressiveness of the Runner and a few newbies that have been dubbed the Mean Girls. One is youngish, sporting braces and an expensive-looking jacket. At one point in the morning I see her harassing a patient who is flanked by escorts, angrily gesturing as they walk up the street. It begin to look so intense that team leader Carol heads up to see what's going on, and after the patient is delivered to her car and has left she returns to tell the tale.<br />
<br />
It turns out the woman had a host of other medical issues that made the carrying of a child to term beyond improbable. In addition, the attempt would have likely proved fatal to her as well. As Mean Girl started in on her rehearsed script the woman, heartbroken and on the verge of tears, tried to explain that she wanted to have kids but couldn't.<br />
<br />
Mean Girl wasn't interested in listening. She kept rolling on with her spiel, yelling over and around the escorts as they tried to get the woman away. As the haranguing continued the patient continued to get more and more upset and agitated, her protests falling on deaf ears. As they neared the car she informed the escorts that she had a hammer under the front seat.<br />
<br />
Violence was definitely not the solution anyone was looking for, and the escorts managed to convince her not to follow that path but instead get in her car and go. She did. For keeping Mean Girl from getting brained the escorts were rewarded by her lecturing them the whole way back.<br />
<br />
If only hand warmers fit in ears.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"So, what if a lesbian is pregnant and on her way in here? Are you going to try to stop her? According to what you yell here she's an abomination."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Angry Eyes is standing at Ground Zero of Our Lady of the Theater, looking like she would rather be anywhere else. For the past five minutes she's been getting peppered with questions and evangelical conundrums like a skunked dog facing a garden hose. The few weak responses she offers are batted aside and countered with additional queries. Pleading glances to her fellow protesters have elicited zero aid. None of them want to swap places or attract attention. She's on her own.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Angry Eyes is new here, I think. Before earning the pleasure of OLotT's focus she'd been glaring in our direction with silent, seething fury. She may be spoiling for a fight but has been caught flatfooted by the relentlessness of OLotT's verbal assault. After a few more attempts to counter she tells OLotT to leave her alone. When that doesn't happen she moves about ten feet away, assuming that will give her a respite.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
No such luck. OLofT follows and keeps her stream of patter going, while Angry Eyes shifts to trying to ignore. That doesn't deter OLotT in the least, and it's a good fifteen minutes later before she concludes and heads off to the library across the street. Angry Eyes looks woozy, like a boxer who took one on the chin, and she retreats to the warmth of a nearby vehicle before too long. Perhaps she was worn out by having someone continuously foisting their opinions on her even though she'd said that she didn't want to hear them. How so *very* difficult it must have been for her to endure that.<br />
<br />
If only there were some people around here that could relate to being subjected to something like that. If only.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We will give your baby a home. We do it all the time! Look, I have pictures!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman speaking does indeed have pictures - I know this because she keeps sticking them under my nose whenever she thinks I'm paying attention to her. Two of them, in fact. And I'm absolutely willing to concede that yes, they are pictures of babies. Are they shots of 'rescued' kids living in happy new homes? Or are they pictures of her nieces that she's willing to lie about in her war against abortion?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Who knows? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The people here make an awful lot of promises. They tell patients that they'll help them so very much, that they'll provide daycare for the kids, jobs for the moms, even a baby shower (an offer made all the time by Parker). They try to direct them to 'pregnancy centers,' which give off the air of being official government agencies but are more often than not religiously-backed organizations trying to impose anti-choice agendas on those who visit.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm cynical of their promises, to say the least. An escort from another clinic told me of someone she knew who'd believed them and kept the child instead. She got a couple of cans of formula, a box of diapers, and then some very heartfelt apologies when she was informed that the food pantry was empty and they had no further resources to share with her. Maybe their intentions were good, but promises that never see fruition can be devastating.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm also pretty sure that if I was an expectant mother the last person I'd want to be throwing me a baby shower would be Parker.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm not here to be pragmatic today. I'm here to talk about the Bible!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I know. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And that's the problem.<br />
<br />
When someone loudly and proudly proclaims that he's not interested in dealing with things in a sensible or realistic way but will instead base his arguments on a poorly written, poorly edited book with questionable sources, it's highly unlikely that rational discourse is on the menu. Instead Parker is more apt to serve up misinformation and outright lies delivered under the veil of faith. Aside from MuttonChops he's the only screamer today, and as the morning drags on at a glacial pace it's obvious he doesn't have enough material for an extended set. Certain themes are repeated numerous times.<br />
<br />
"Ask any doctor and they'll tell you! At 2 weeks a baby has a heartbeat! At 4 weeks fingers are formed! At 7 weeks the baby is fully formed!"<br />
<br />
No actual doctor would tell you those things because those things are neither accurate nor true. Real doctors wouldn't refer to an embryo or a zygote as a child because neither is a child at that point, no matter how valiantly Parker and his cohorts try to pretend the science doesn't exist. Present them with a biological fact that they can't dispute? Out comes FAKE NEWS, the clarion call of the willingly ignorant. It's not that Parker and his ilk aren't smart enough to understand scientific fact - they just refuse to because it doesn't conform with the cherry-picked world derived from their ancient text.<br />
<br />
"Abortion is worse than rape! Why should the child suffer for the sins of the father?"<br />
<br />
How do you react to something as insane and egregious as that statement? As an escort there's little more I can do than shake my head, but the utter callousness is astounding. The female protesters appear to be okay with this, and I have to wonder if they'd still hold that opinion if they were the victim of such a crime. I don't wish it on them or anyone else, but how they'd be okay with anyone saying it in the first place is mind boggling.<br />
<br />
"Two weeks ago a patient came out of this place and told me she had heard my preaching and it helped her to change her mind! I was very proud to speak about it in church on Sunday! I'm sure it made the Deathscorts very sad to lose one and not be able to cash in!"<br />
<br />
So very much to unpack here. First, the whole thing is almost undoubtedly a lie. I was on duty two weeks ago and still there long after Parker had packed up and left (because of The Runner, of course). If someone had done what he was claiming there is zero doubt in my mind we would have heard about it right there, right then. Ad nauseam.<br />
<br />
Second, and ye gods I'm tired of saying this, but if someone changes their mind and leaves <i>that's fine with us.</i> We're about the women having a choice, not making it for them. We wouldn't be chasing them down the sidewalk, trying to drag them back in.<br />
<br />
Finally, YET AGAIN, we do not get paid in any way, shape, or form. Nothing. Not a penny. We don't even get t-shirts.<br />
<br />
Also, pride is a sin, Parker. Or so it says in your holy text.<br />
<br />
"I was having a discussion with a woman on a college campus and she said 'fetus' so I said 'Wait, I thought we we speaking English! Now we're speaking in Latin?'"<br />
<br />
I rub at my brow as he repeats this one, eminently pleased with his own wit. Pragmatism, indeed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Snow has been falling for a few hours and I'm stamping my feet to get some feeling back in them. The cold has been taking a toll on the protesters, their numbers dwindling as they slip away in ones and twos. The Runner is still here and aggressive, but even she seems somewhat frustrated. Difficult to shame people with a scarf over your mouth, I guess. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Two of the Mean Girls begin packing up their standard, which is emblazoned with Romans 10:9:</div>
<br />
"The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of GOD is at hand: REPENT AND BELIEVE THE GOSPEL! If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the LORD JESUS, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
I'm not exactly sure what that has to do with abortion but nevertheless more than happy to see them go. Some head to cars, others leave. Parker regurgitates his inaccurate child development riff for the fourth or fifth time before packing it in, and we gratefully troop inside the almost unimaginably warm clinic. As we thaw there are hugs and wishes for a Happy New Year, all of us glad to have made it through another shift. I may be nothing more than the 'bag of chemicals' that Parker claims me to be, but in any case I'm going to benefit from a long, hot shower as soon as I get home.<br />
<br />
No Mean Girls allowed.</div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-73080479484729342172017-12-18T02:36:00.003-08:002020-12-16T11:22:25.140-08:00In My Judgment, You're Being Way Too Judgmental - Dispatches from My Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh Days as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day 2.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day 3.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 4.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 5.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 6.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">Day 7.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-queen-is-dead-long-live-queen-notes.html" target="_blank">Day 8.</a> )<br />
<br />
<br />
(Note: This entry spans three separate escorting shifts and may jump around timewise. A couple of shifts were quiet and rather than try to stretch each one out, I put them all here.)<br />
<br />
(Day 10, Day 11)<br />
"I'm not going to move. This isn't your sidewalk. I can stand wherever I want."<br />
<br />
For once, Parker is correct. Our buffer zone is no more.<br />
<br />
We have The Runner to thank for that as a judge ruled in her favor. We assume the town attorney either didn't show up or didn't care, as the judge's comments seem to indicate that she had no idea how small an area the zones actually occupied or how The Runner's 'protected 1st Amendment rights' are more often than not targeted harassment. It was front page news in the local papers and attracted attention from some in town who had been unaware of the situation, but for now there's naught we can do but accept the ruling and adjust. The FACE Act still makes it illegal for the protesters to block access to the door but Parker is more than happy to plant his girth by one side of the entrance, accompanied by his oversized sign of a greatly magnified embryo.<br />
<br />
To counter we've added a couple of extra escorts each shift and had one or two of us join the team leader by the entrance. I'm there with Lexi, Queen of the Streets, on this dank, chilly December morning. Sunlight makes a brief appearance before being swallowed up by the clouds and vanishing. Would that we could get the same results for Parker.<br />
<br />
"You can't hit me. Don't hit me! You can't make me move and if you hit me I'll call the police. I have rights."<br />
<br />
Parker is saying this to Lexi, who is well short of half his weight and guilty of nothing more than standing her ground. This will be a recurring theme for the morning as Parker keeps bumping into Lexi with his sign and blaming it on her. Somehow that doesn't happen when she and I change spots. Strange, that.<br />
<br />
Working the door means standing in front of the screamers all morning, but for the most part that's not a problem. Parker does an hour's worth yapping armed with about twenty minutes of material and ends up repeating his shtick, lapsing into personal attacks on escorts when he runs out of steam. For the most part the removal of the buffer zone isn't too awful.<br />
<br />
Well, except for The Runner, of course. She's now extremely aggressive, perhaps emboldened by her legal victory. If escorts are side by side she'll thrust her arm between them or over them, hand checking them as well. As I watch she darts in front of a couple leaving the clinic and stops dead in front of the patient, forcing the woman to sidestep as The Runner offers her a brochure. The woman dismisses her with a wave but The Runner continues to pursue and harass, muttering threats of further lawsuits at the escorts who skillfully intervene, all the way to a car parked a good two hundred feet away.<br />
<br />
But the four square feet on either side of the clinic door were impeding on her 1st Amendment rights? Okay.<br />
<br />
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* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 10, Day 11)</div>
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"Who's a good boy? Are you a good boy? Uhm, he's a boy, right? He is? AND HE'S SUCH A GOOD ONE!"</div>
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<br /></div>
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We love it when people bring their dogs by.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It is, sadly, a bit of a rarity. It shouldn't be, as we're on a main street just a couple of blocks from the center of town, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that people avoid the area on Saturday mornings. Insanely loud speakers mixed with gruesome placards and folks trying to force their religious beliefs on you is not much of an enticement. Still, every once in a while we get lucky and right now my partner is squatting down and getting her face painted with kisses from our new friend. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"Oh sure, you have enough love to give to a dog but not enough to stop the wholesale murder going on inside! How terrible a person you must be!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We have a new screamer, and he's a real peach. I have no idea who he is but his spiel is sub-par, regurgitating tired tropes like the attempted correlation of what Hitler did to the Jews to abortion and also how we're playing God by the ongoing slaughter of any unborn with Down's Syndrome. On this sunny Saturday morning after Thanksgiving he's the only screamer who's showed up, and thus is all they've got to supply noise pollution. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, and he brings his family.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There's a wife and two little girls, one maybe two or so, the other around five. Mom likes to leave her stroller in inconvenient spots to hinder passage but the effectiveness is blunted by the fact that the kids are clearly bored and restless after maybe thirty minutes of listening to Daddy drone on at deafening levels. This means Mom is constantly in motion with them, walking them past the horrific posters their cohorts are brandishing. As the morning drags along there are numerous mini-meltdowns, which is hardly surprising. I'd be hard-pressed to imagine a less fun way for small children to spend their Saturday mornings. </div>
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<br /></div>
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They're clearly interested in the dog but the owner turns around and goes back the way that he came, unwilling to subject his pal to the loudspeaker. He's not the only person I've seen make this choice, and in fact during my next shift I have insist to Lexi that I've got the door covered so she'll walk down to the corner to meet the pup being adored by our south-based escorts. Parker, apropos of nothing, takes the opportunity to remind me that I'm a 'keyboard warrior.'</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's okay. I can hear the delighted peals of Lexi's laughter from where I'm standing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
* * *<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 11)</div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
"That's right, you can't bully me anymore! You lost! You and all your bullies lost!"</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
So. Parker is the nominal leader of a gang of people who gather every Saturday outside of a women's health clinic. While there they scream at women they don't know, call them names, and attempt to heap shame on them. They do their best to impede their path to the door, try to force literature on them, and do their best to intimidate the escorts who are protecting the patients.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
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And yet, as Parker has just insisted, *we're* the bullies?</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Right.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm used to stunning examples of cognitive dissonance on the sidewalk, but this one is probably going to mount the podium and be given a 'Best in Show' award. The sheer hypocrisy involved staggers the mind, but that's par for the course. Irony takes another pummeling as Parker accuses me of being judgmental. I'm not saying I'm not but you know, pot, kettle, and so on.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
I call him on it and he flips to a page in his Bible that says that God wants him to judge sinners, which is in direct contradiction with one of the Commandments on the painstakingly-crafted sign Luis is toting around (It has a mistake on it and I want to ignore it but the editor part of me keeps twitching so I give in and tell him. He, of course, accuses me of lying. I can't win). When I mention that Parker goes off on another tangent and it's kind of difficult to hear him over the sonorous droning of Muttonchops reading scripture on his speaker (during which he says that the story of Jesus healing a blind man is 'generally accurate historically'). I tune both of them out, watching my fellow escorts helping a woman out of her car up the street as The Runner jabs literature over their shoulders.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yep. Bullies.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 9, Day 10, Day 11)</div>
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"We encourage our male escorts to enter into friendly dialogue with the male protesters. We've found it tends to distract them from patients."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's the Saturday after Thanksgiving and I'm paired up with a visiting escort from another clinic based in NYC. I'm not sad that we have a low turnout of protesters but it must make our beat look like a cakewalk to Amber. She laughs and acknowledges the date probably has something to do with it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm not surprised the tactic works for her escorts because as a dude myself I can admit we love to explain things to other people. I wouldn't be gung-ho to try to implement that with our group even if it were up to me. (It's not.) Given that The Runner's freedom of speech rights were upheld we're legally allowed to speak our minds as well now, but for the most part we don't bother. We're not trying to convince the patients of anything - we're just here to get them to and from the door. As I've said numerous times before we're about defending their choice, not trying to make it for them. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As for the protesters, our policy remains to avoid engagement as much as possible. It's what we agreed to when we signed up, but also long experience has taught us the futility of trying to have an intelligent discussion with Parker and his ilk. When confronted with logic protesters usually implement some or all of the following tactics:</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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- quoting Bible verses, as if a collection of poorly-written fairy tales provides pertinent facts;</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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- shouting down any argument;</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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- Ad hominem attacks or a Straw man;</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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- dire warnings about what's going to happen when we face God and/or the Lake of Eternal Flame, which sounds nice and toasty right about now;</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
- the final refuge of the intellectually devoid - screaming 'FAKE NEWS!'</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Today Parker is insisting that 'ANY' doctor can tell me that the moment of conception means that there's a heart, lungs, etc. This, as even people who haven't been to medical school can tell you, is simply not true. Despite my desire to stay aloof I can't let it slide by.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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"No doctor would ever say that, Parker."</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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"ANY doctor!"</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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"No, actually, none of them would. It's not true. Science supports the truth."</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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"Oh, science is FAKE NEWS!"</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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And that's what I get for engaging.</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
* * *</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 11)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Oh, chu know what chu are, my friend? Chu know? I gonna tell chu what chu are!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Luis is cranking this morning. CRANKING. With Lexi and I both covering the door we've doubled his usual audience and the garbled sentences are flowing like some fine, incomprehensible wine. Here's what we are:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
- SON OF SATAN! As Lexi is a DAUGHTER OF SATAN as well, this means we're long-lost siblings! We throw up our hands at our discovery and embrace. Luis does something between a laugh and snarl as he shakes his head at us, which brings us to the next thing we are:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
- MOCKERS! That's fair. When you stand in front of a loudspeaker for three hours and get told all of the horrible things you are, at times you feel the need to question whether or not they're that bad. For instance, he also called us:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
- FORNICATORS! Guilty as charged. Not with Lexi, but certainly with my wife, who is also a fornicator. He makes it sound like such an evil thing to be that I almost feel sorry for him. If that's the viewpoint of the god he chooses to worship, no wonder he's so angry all the time. Oops. There's the mocking again. No doubt because I'm also a:</div>
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<br /></div>
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- DEMON! Yes, we're demons. And Luis doesn't talk to demons, so he ignores us and yells at the clinic doors for a few minutes before refocusing our way.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Wait. Luis, I'm confused. You said you won't talk to us because we're demons but now you're talking to us. Which is it?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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"Chu are a demon and I don't want to talk to you but I have to talk to you!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Hmm. I didn't expect it to get so existential. Can we set up a system? Maybe raise your right hand when you're talking to us and your left hand when you're not talking to us?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At this point Luis either vapor locks or pops a circuit breaker, standing there for a few moments just grimacing and twitching. We're wondering if we've broken him when he sloughs it off and let's us know that we we're:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
- FOOLS! We're told this numerous times during our shift. We don't pray the same way we does, so we're fools. God doesn't like fools. Know what else He doesn't like? It's us and our roles as:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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- MURDERERS! ASSASSINS! DEATHSCORTS! If this is true we need to talk to our union because neither Lexi or I have seen a single paycheck for all of our contract killing. The claim that escorts get paid is one we hear all the time and untrue. We're volunteers. The security guards get paid, as they should. At one point during the morning Parker calls Cliff a 'fake security guard,' which makes no sense as Cliff is an actual security guard. When reminded of that Parker switches to attempts to belittle him instead, which ends with the two of them doing some verbal peacock strutting. It's not surprising that this sort of thing happens around me because clearly I'm:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
- CURSED!/A CURSE! Yeah. I'm confused as well and ask Luis to elaborate. Am I cursed, or am I a curse? He ignores me and since we don't have a system in place I don't know if it's because I'm currently a demon or not. Lexi is of the opinion that I'm both, because jeez, just look at me. Every time he pauses to take a breath during his amplified oration I ask him for clarification, but receive no reply. I stay true to my task and finally Luis breaks off mid-sentence and screams, "BOTH! CHU BOTH! CHU CURSED AND CHU A CURSE!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Lexi was right. But was I supposed to take the word of a Daughter of Satan?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Day 11)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"What's that all about?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Lexi jerks her head to the north. We've got a three-person escort crew up that way, one of them a rookie who is doing a great job. About thirty feet away from them a car has pulled over and a woman is clambering out of the driver's side, heading in their direction. From where I'm standing I can't see anyone else in the car, so it doesn't appear to be a patient. She's got something in her hands and my first instinct is concern. Then - </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can see what's she's carrying. It's a box of coffee and a bag emblazoned with the familiar pink and white of Dunkin' Donuts. It's too far away for me to hear but it's easy to see the words 'thank you' as they're spoken, and laughs all around. She heads back to her car and moments later one of the escorts comes our way, goodies in hand and presumably a smile on under her scarf. On a cold and miserable day it's a lovely gesture, even if we have to be worried about it being tampered with. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It wasn't. Thank you, anonymous person. Peace and love to everyone - especially my fellow escorts - this holiday season from your favorite Satanspawn/mocker/fornicator/demon/fool/murderer/assassin/deathscort/curse/cursed.</div>
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-82750989853622308572017-10-11T19:02:00.003-07:002021-02-17T08:55:57.595-08:00The Queen is Dead, Long Live the Queen! - Dispatches from My Eighth Day as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day 2.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day 3.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 4.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 5.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 6.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/09/why-didnt-he-wash-his-hands-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">Day 7.</a> )<br />
<br />"You should be home with your grandkids! Don't you know the Bible says the woman is here to serve the man? You should read your Bible!"<br />
<br />
The sidewalk is choked with protesters this morning, at least a baker's dozen. No children or strollers, which is a nice break, but the multitude of screamers are an unwelcome substitute. There's a bunch I've never seen before, but I'll get to know them soon enough.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
"You gonna get older, even older than you are now, and your grandkids, they gonna say they don't want to pay to put you in a home, and you gonna get exterminated! Just like an abortion!"<br />
<br />
My past few shifts had been Luis-free but today he's here in all his frothing, semi-coherent glory. For a while he was yapping at me - about what I have no idea as I tune him out as soon as he starts in - but now he's focused on my partner for the day, an older woman back after a lengthy hiatus. We had a steady intake of patients for the first hour or so, keeping both escorts and protesters busy, but now that things have slowed a bit we find ourselves in the cross hairs.<br />
<br />
Working with an escort that's new to me is like starting to read an interesting book about a subject I enjoy. I discover Gretchen likes music and give her the task of creating a concert consisting of the three performers she'd most like to see. As she warms to the task I can sense her awareness of Luis's continued ranting fading away. Perhaps he notices as well, for after a few more nasty jibes and something muttered under his breath in Spanish he wanders away.<br />
<br />
For the record she wanted two symphony orchestras and Ani DeFranco.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Do you think you're going to yawn in front of God? No, you're not going to yawn in front of God."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have new pals. This is one of them.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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Gray is tall and lean with a shaved head. At first I don't really notice him - we're busy and his turn as a screamer is unremarkable - but as we get into the latter part of the morning he decides it's time for him to save me. At least that's what I get from the few seconds of attention I give him the first time he starts in on me while also crowding the buffer zone. They're all a little feisty about that today, trying to give Lexi headaches, but as usual the bravado vanishes as soon as we raise our cameras. Only Luis offers a demented grin; Parker pulls his sign up to cover his face so quickly I'm afraid he might pull a muscle. I smile for the rare instances of defiance, as every shot of them deliberately flaunting the rules will aid us down the road.</div>
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Gray is asking me about yawning because I am yawning, having stayed up late with visiting friends and running on about two hours sleep. He follows me as I drift toward the street. When I lean against a parking meter he's quick to inform me of my lack of knowledge concerning confrontation with deities.</div>
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"Do you think you're going to lean on a parking meter in front of God?" </div>
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I don't have an answer to this because I don't think I've ever contemplated meeting any sort of god before. If I have I can't imagine why it would be in a scenario that involved parking meters. So when he says, "No, you're not going to lean on a parking meter in front of God," I can't disagree with him. It's a logical assumption.</div>
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"Do you think you're going to laugh in front of God? No, you're not going to laugh in front of God." This, of course, is because I've laughing due to his whole call-and-self-answer shtick. I'm both impressed and disturbed by his implacability - he's reciting these things at me like someone reading from a dusty textbook, not at all upset by my reactions. </div>
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I do my best not to engage these people at all but man, I have to know. Hopping away from the meter, I do a little bit of soft shoe and ask, "Will I be able to tap dance in front of God?"</div>
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With the same placid demeanor he shakes his head and intones, "No, you're not going to tap dance in front of God."</div>
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So, no yawning, leaning, laughing, or dancing. God sounds pretty boring, although I know better than to say so. I return to my meter, intent on ignoring him again. Instead I'm shocked as Gray drops to his knees next to me and says, "This is how you'll be in front of God."</div>
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If you say so. If I'm going to face a deity, I'd rather it be one who prefers laughter.</div>
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"Actually I already have a street name."</div>
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I have been doing Lexi a great disservice.<br />
<br />
The topic of street names comes up as we're shrugging into our bright pink vests before heading outside. The nurses' room is redolent with the scents of fresh brewed coffee and the bagels Lexi's brought, but both are being ignored as we gird up to make an early appearance on the sidewalk. It's not quite 8am yet but patients are arriving and the mob of protesters are already in full shaming swing. As my proverbial cat escaped the bag via this blog a long time ago I don't bother with a pseudonym, but for the others it's a good idea.<br />
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Lexi shocks me by stating she'll go by her usual cover name - Sherlock. Given this is our third shift together I'm amazed that I've never heard this before but delighted by the very awesomeness of it. Tricia quickly seizes Watson for herself. Mrs. Hudson goes unclaimed as we head out, laughing.<br />
<br />
Lexi - sorry, Sherlock - likes to check on us frequently. At around 9:45 or so she approaches with an odd smile on her face.<br />
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"I have been given a new title." She pauses for dramatic effect while raising her arms."You may now refer to me as Queen of the Sidewalk!"<br />
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We respond with bows and high fives. One of the screamers bestowed the name on her, no doubt intending it to be a slight. We embrace it instead and begin planning life under the reign of our new Head of the Commonwealth.<br />
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We might not be allowed to laugh when we face God, but the Queen of the Sidewalks? She's fine with it.<br />
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"Hey, it's Fake News! Mr. Rugby Guy! You're a tough one, right, Mr. Rugby Guy? How's your blog? Are you going to be on Huffington Post, Mr. Rugby Guy?"</div>
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I'm being heckled by a shouter. The weird bit is that I've never seen him before.</div>
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There's reasons we try to keep the identities of our escorts hidden, most of which should be fairly obvious. My wife, who's been at this much longer than I have, can speak of a veritable host of intimidation tactics she's seen employed by protesters. There are no limits to what the zealous are capable of in order to inflict their version of how the world should be on others.<br />
<br />
I'm not smart enough to have avoided that from the onset, as I started blogging after day one without thought of possible consequences. I experienced something that I felt needed to be shared and have zero regrets. My info is out there and I don't have anything to hide.<br />
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"Hey, Mr. Rugby Guy! They have women's rugby too! Maybe you can play for them! You can do your Tae Kwon Do too!"<br />
<br />
Parker and the shouter, another interchangeable white dude named Don, both laugh at their own wit. As I've long been aware of the existence of women's rugby - hell, there's gay rugby teams too, while we're at it - I don't give them they reaction they're fishing for. I note that someone's been a bit stalkery as I do occasionally talk about rugby, but over on Facebook. Also, they're not very good at the stalking because I retired from playing a good five years ago and while I do study martial arts, it's not Tae Kwon Do. I don't bother to correct them. Still, it's good to know my fans are interested in getting to know me better.<br />
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I'll send you an invite to my next rugby match, gang. Keep an eye out for it.<br />
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"So now we have to deal with these millennial snowflakes, who don't know their left from their right!"<br />
<br />
There's a lot of shouters today and they're all over the place when it comes to content. Some start with Bible verses, but most just launch right into their meandering orations. They vary in topic - sinners, murdered babies, Lake of Fire, and so on. Today I noticed that some of them record one another during their rants, presumably to be collected in some central location for reasons unknown. It's possible they've been doing this all along and I've never ntoiced. I manage a grim smile as I wonder what groupings they'd use if they sort by subject.<br />
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"Oh, you think he's there for you, mom? He's going to leave you! As soon as you go in there and murder your baby he's going to leave you! You mean nothing to him!"<br />
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The companion this tirade is aimed at waves a dismissive hand at the speaker. The patient he's with had the foresight to come armed with earbuds, and with us flanking the pair rolls through with little difficulty. The shouter turns back to a popular trope - he too was once a sinner but found Jesus and was saved. He just wants what's best for us. We need to be cleansed before we meet his god. He's concerned about our souls.<br />
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"Hey! Hey! Is one of the deathscorts carrying your purse? Because you're not a real man!"<br />
<br />
Maybe he's got to work on his people skills a bit first.<br />
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"You think what you're doing is helpful but I'm telling you that you're wrong! Every prayer to Mary is an abomination to God! Even if you pray seven times seventy!"<br />
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Religion is weird.<br />
<br />
One of the shouters, perhaps bored during a lull, has turned his venom toward the protesters across the street. I'd assumed the yahoos we deal with are Catholic but this doesn't appear to be the case as he rails against the Mushrooms, who continue their quiet vigil with no outward acknowledgement of his taunts. I worry my lip, confused. Aren't these people on the same side? Maybe not:<br />
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We are outside a women's health clinic. Ostensibly the protesters are here to fight abortion via shame and intimidation. Yet this smacks of another agenda entirely, of tolerance for religion as long as it's *their* religion. Belief in God is wonderful unless it's not their version of God. Then, well, there's issues.<br />
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"Christians love their neighbors, Muslims kill their neighbors. We all know that to be truth."<br />
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My snort of surprised laughter at that earns me another round of 'Mr. Rugby Guy' and 'fake news.' The statement wasn't provoked by any particular person passing by but rather part of a screamer's spiel. Instead of in front of the doors he's under one of the windows instead, which are of course shut with blinds drawn.<br />
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"Are you a Jew? If you are a Jew you won't be saved."<br />
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Luis asks this of my partner. I would probably be a bit shocked if I hadn't witnessed him asking another partner if she were a virgin several shifts ago. There's intolerance for all religions that aren't their own little sliver but there appears to be a special sort of anger directed at Jewish people. Mostly it manifests in them yelling at folks heading to synagogue along the other side of the street, but today they get to be up close and personal.<br />
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A trio of kids ride by on our sidewalk. Two are boys on some sort of triangular scooters, maybe ten or so, both wearing yarmulkes. A little girl on a bike is between them, pedaling madly. The protesters start screaming 'Jesus is King!' at them in Hebrew as they pass, continuing to holler as they continue down the street.<br />
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I'm not a religious expert but I'm pretty sure Buddha wouldn't have done that.<br />
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"So, it's possible you're being accused of assault."<br />
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That'll liven up your Monday morning.<br />
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The Runner has been somewhat subdued today. Oh, she's still making a nuisance of herself, darting to and fro while spewing her unique version of shaming, but it's been easier to box her out and keep her away from the patients. The constant screaming from the others means that the choice bits she saves for when they enter the clinic get drowned out, not that it gives her pause.<br />
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One companion waves us off as she emerges, saying she's heading into town for a snack and will be fine. The Runner latches on and the two head off. I contemplate intervening but before I can move the woman looks back, gives her head a little shake, and offers a small hand gesture: <i>I'm good.</i> I shrug and lean back against the wall - if she wants to listen, that's as much her choice as entering the clinic. Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later I notice them again far down the street. In fact it's a good half an hour before they return, the companion wearing a small smile. As The Runner peels off to check her inventory the woman stops by me and whispers in my ear, "I thought y'all could use a break, so I just let her talk at me. Think I did a good job of pretending to pay attention."<br />
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It is indeed much appreciated, but as the morning drags on it's obvious that The Runner's aggressiveness is somewhat blunted. In all likelihood she has herself to thank for that. It might have something to do with her getting dressed down by a patient the last time I was here, but there's a good chance it has to do with the cease-and-desist letter her lawyer sent.<br />
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After learning of the assault claim I'd tried to remember some instance, any instance, of when I'd made contact of any sort with The Runner during my previous shift. I couldn't recall any incident and indeed, when the clinic forwarded the complaint letter from The Runner's lawyer along with a picture she'd taken of the 'offending party,' it turned out to be the other male escort who'd been with us that week. No doubt he claimed the same thing we all would in his place - The Runner deliberately puts herself in positions where collisions are bound to occur. Rather than meekly submit to yet another of The Runner's frivolous claims we went with a different approach - filming The Runner's antics and sending those back as a reply. Given that there hasn't been a single instance of her darting in front of us today I have to surmise she got a bit of advice from her lawyer - tone it down.<br />
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This hasn't made her any less odious, but at least she's not impeding the patients. As the shift nears end I'm standing in the buffer zone with one of the companions. Despite threats of 'Hey Mister Rugby Guy, are you ready for some overtime?' the screamers have packed up after their group prayer and selfie shot, leaving just a few of the quieter protesters and The Runner milling around. She's standing nearby, no doubt waiting to pounce on those leaving.<br />
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"Yo, man, I don't know how you don't pop one of those guys in the face, the stuff they say to you." The companion takes a drag on his cigarette as I shift upwind.<br />
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I shrug, but before I can speak The Runner pipes up. "Yes, they say absolutely horrible things."<br />
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There's a moment of stunned silence before four of us - Queen on the Sidewalks, the other two remaining escorts, and myself - burst into laughter. We manage to avoid shards from the pot as it explodes from an excess of irony. It's been a long, trying morning and the mirth feels wonderful, cathartic.<br />
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"They do. It's terrible, what they say." The Runner looks confused at our reaction, and as I wipe at a tear in the corner of my eye I have to wonder if she really doesn't get it. Is it even remotely possible that she doesn't understand how hurtful, cruel, and shaming the things she says are? Is she unaware that her harassment of others - and that's what it is, have no doubt - is stressful, painful, and makes an already horrible day even worse? Should she be viewed with even a modicum of pity as she runs alone, shunned by the screamers, alone in her own sea of issues?<br />
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The tattoo on my arm is a constant reminder to be a better person - for those who deserve it. Not for the person who refers to patients and companions as 'Mom' and Dad' in order to batter them with guilt. Not for the person who shames them at a vulnerable moment in their lives. Not for the person who tries to lure them into the so-called 'pregnancy crisis center,' an egregiously deceitful pit of lies. Not for the person who offers empty promises that they'll have all the help them need if they bring this unwanted zygote to term. Not for the person who floods a haven for women with frivolous lawsuits to help cover up the emptiness of her own existence.<br />
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Not for that person.<br />
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Not today.<br />
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Not ever.<br />
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Maybe their god will judge me for that. I'll be the one leaning against the parking meter.<br />
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<br />Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-56184958898395716652017-09-25T02:42:00.000-07:002020-07-27T07:13:15.474-07:00Why? Didn't He Wash His Hands in the Bathroom? - Dispatches from my Seventh Day as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Start here with Day 1</a>. <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day 2.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day 3.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 4.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 5.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/08/im-not-like-others-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day 6.</a> )<br />
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"Seriously, don't say that! Knock on wood. Or something hollow."<br />
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I grin at Luna's words. It's a hazy morning outside the clinic and once again I'm stationed by the underground driveway entrance, doing my best to ignore the puddle of rancid refuse water left behind by an early-morning garbage truck. I have garage doors that I need to fabricate from scratch and a writing deadline on another project looming as well. My wife kept me up late after she got back from practice last night and I was up early to shepherd my daughter off to a Girl Scout overnight. My knee is aching and my ankle feels as if someone is jabbing little needles into it.<br />
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None of that matters. It's 8:42am and The Runner isn't here. My smile widens.<br />
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"The very Fates themselves smile upon us, Luna. They have chosen to keep her odious presence away and I defy them to bring her here."<br />
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This, of course, is the perfect time for her to appear. But she doesn't.<br />
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Not for fifteen minutes, anyway. The floppy hat has been exchanged for a nondescript baseball cap and she's wearing mom jeans instead of yoga pants, but she's here. Plus those crazy wedges that she somehow races around on.<br />
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I bow my head to Luna in shame, accepting full responsibility. The Fates are fickle indeed.<br />
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"Is that your bag? No? Okay, is it yours? No? Okay."<br />
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The protesters are numerous today despite missing luminaries such as Alex and Luis. Parker and his freshly colored hair rolled up with what I assume is his entire family, including an infant. Crazy Doll Lady is here sans doll but with all the wacko zeal we've come to associate her with. One of the other escorts reports that at 11 or so she stormed into the restaurant next door as it was setting up for lunch and yelled about the audacity they had to have flowers delivered. On the other side of the street is a dude standing with red duct tape over his mouth. It's weird and creepy but at least the spot he's standing in doesn't get seen by most, if any, of the patients. One of Fox News' target demographics sits in a chair by the entrance to the library with a handful of paper. I assume they're religious tracts but they make him look like a guy who's going to validate your parking. I ignore his attempts to engage me.<br />
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I'm not going to ignore Hitler's bag, though.<br />
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I'm sure he hasn't deliberately shaved his mustache that way and it could just be how his five o'clock shadow grows in, but even the haircut is dead-on Fuhrer. He wanders in at about 9 or so, dragging a travel bag behind him. He greets a few of the protesters and grabs a sign from the plethora Parker has brought. It has the usual misleading photo on front but on the back - truth - it has a misappropriated quote from MLK that mentions - wait for it - Hitler. It almost looks like a campaign sign. He takes it and wanders out to the curb, leaving his bag against the building.<br />
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I'm not fond of the protesters but the ones I know don't project as violent. This guy, though, is new to me. He's left a bag against the side of the clinic. In this day and age, can I ignore that?<br />
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No. Carol happens to wander over to check up on us at that moment and I voice my concerns. She assesses the situation and is gone, asking the protesters standing near the bag if it's theirs. When they say no she heads into the building and comes out with one of the guards.<br />
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We have a pair on duty today and they look like NFL linebackers, clad in tactical vests and armed as well. He wanders over Hitler, who watches his approach with widening eyes. The ensuing conversation appears to put the guard at ease, and he stops by to chat briefly with us as well. Part of me feels foolish for making an issue out of it.<br />
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Only a tiny part, though.<br />
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"I don't get it either."</div>
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The larger-than-normal number of protesters means that Parker has broken out signs that are new to me. For the most part they're just more of the usual - mislabeled photos, Bible quotes, and outright lies - but he's toting a simple one that features black letters on a while background:<br />
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<b>IT IS A FEARFUL THING FALL INTO THE HANDS OF THE LIVING GOD -</b> Hebrews 10.31.<br />
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I'm not questioning the source, although pulling from a chapter named Hebrews is pretty ironic given that Hinton was screaming CHRIST IS KING!! in Hebrew at some teenager across the street on his way to synagogue for no imaginable reason other than to be discriminatory. Rather, Luna and I are perplexed by what we're supposed to be taking away from this. This is not an unusual occurrence, given the cherry-picking and contradictory messages that are tossed around here. Earlier today one of them was saying that God knows when we're going to die and there's nothing we can do about it. Does that mean that a drunk driver who plows into someone isn't a bad person but just the instrument of an indifferent deity filling a quota? Or that he knows that an unfair demise waits for some of us but pffftt - whatchagonna do, am I right?<br />
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Still, the 'Living God' thing is weird. Are those who fall into his hands going to be tortured? Fondled? Peeled like a banana and consumed? Are the hands weird? Warts, unclipped nails, calluses? If I ask Parker I'll just get told I'm a keyboard warrior dealing in fake news, so it'll have to remain a mystery.<br />
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"OH MY GOD SHE'S SO ADORABLE! What's her name?"</div>
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I glance at my partner, surprised at what she's doing. It's good that the mother has brought the infant over here away from the cacophony emanating from the screamer-of-the-moment's amp, and there's more than enough wall for both protester and escort. The baby, secured in one of those hands-free front-carrying devices, grins broadly at Janine. Her mother starts with a frown that slowly softens, perhaps from seeing the absolute joy on my fellow escort's face. After a prolonged pause she offers the child's name, albeit in a grudging tone. </div>
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Janine is delighted. "And look at those little socks! I had socks just like those! You love your socks, don't you?"</div>
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The baby seems delighted by the attention and the mother is now edging into almost having a smile. It's kind of a nice moment, maybe.</div>
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Except what kind of people bring an infant to a protest? </div>
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Seeing a baby is probably not high on a patient's list of wants, to be sure. But does that make using a kid as a prop okay? The amplified caterwauling from the screamers is almost non-stop and offensively loud, more so for young eardrums. Their signs are more graphic than many people would care to imagine, and yet these young, impressionable eyes see them, drink them in. Will this be her life going forward? At age 5 will they give her a training sign of her very own? Will she live in a house with any freedom of choice at all, or will religion and intolerance be crammed down her throat non-stop. What will that produce?<br />
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Maybe not what you think. One of the escorts I've worked with came from a extremely religious upbringing and yet defends the clinic with us. Hell, I was raised by two hard-core conservative parents and yet here I am. Maybe it's nature versus nurture. Maybe it's getting educated or being around people who influence you in a positive way. Maybe it's outrage at seeing women shamed.<br />
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Janine is crestfallen when I inform her which one of the protesters is the father. "Really? But she's so cute!"<br />
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"Sure, that would be fine. He'd love it."</div>
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Despite the interesting discussions I get to have with my oft-fascinating teammates, for the most part this gig kinda sucks. The fact we have to be here at all just to help women get access to medical care is galling and ridiculous. Being muttered at by zealots who wallow in misogyny and anti-Semitism is not the ideal way to pass a Saturday morning, but it's a necessity. There's not much to make your heart fill with joy.</div>
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Unless a passer-by stops and lets you pet his dog.</div>
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It's a big Goldendoodle, happy to receive the attention - okay, the adoration - albeit with a very zen manner. His owner is chill as well, and for a few minutes Janine and I aren't working escorts, we're just a pair of friends showering love on a random dog. Licks are given (by the dog). It's a nice moment.</div>
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A blue Acura with New York plates drives by slowly before coming to a halt up the road. The Runner is already sprinting up from the south so with reluctance we offer our thanks and head over to the vehicle.</div>
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Fluffy and hypoallergenic AF. Super h*cking friendly. 13/10 would pet again without fear of sneezing.</div>
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"Oh, you're going to see me again soon. Bet on it."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman speaking is dressed in black, her hair spiking out in a punk 'do. A charm shaped like a kitchen knife hangs around her neck and dark lipstick matches her eye shadow. She stops as she reaches us, shaking her head at the central mass of protesters behind her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"These assholes. Who do they think they are?" A crafty grin creeps onto her face. "I've got something for them. Putting it together."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She shares the details with us before heading off. In theory it's non-violent, but given how humorless the majority of the protesters are I could see how it might cause trouble. Then again, anything that distracts them allows us to help more patients get by unmolested.<br />
<br />
It's a complicated scenario. More support on our side is a wonderful thing, but there's a reason we run with crews of five escorts as opposed to a dozen - the sidewalks here aren't very wide. The protesters here are part of a network, and if they spend a day being made to feel the fool it's likely they'll call in reinforcements. They've got hardcore froth-at-the-mouth types who would make this crew seem like sleepy kittens. Added chaos means more potential stress for the patients to navigate as well. It's a tough call.<br />
<br />
Still, I grin a bit as I imagine what would happen if these folks actually follow through. We all float down here.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Look, I've told you once so don't make me tell you again. We don't want what you're selling. Go away!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Runner is about to create an incident.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Since her late arrival The Runner has buzzing around as if making up for lost time. When she's not scanning the street for slowing cars to race to she watches us for cues that someone's arriving. If she latches onto an incoming patient she will roll out her spiel in its entirety, no matter whether the person is listening or not. By the time we get near the door there's zero chance she can be heard anyway due to the screamers, but that doesn't deter her in the least. I'm not sure exactly whom her diatribes are for, given the lack of acknowledgment she receives. That doesn't slow her vicious, judgmental jabs in any manner. I guess, for her, the thought that her toxic message might get listened to is enough to keep her going.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Today she gets listened to. Too bad for her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Stop and think about what she's doing: she's approaching people she doesn't know on a street and telling them how to live their lives through a combination of insults, insinuation, and shaming. When asked to stop she ignores the request and continues, pursuing the uninterested party and invading their personal space. It's clear-cut harassment and she does it every week, playing the victim and using her impending lawsuit as a shield. Substitute her for a frat boy and make the scenario at a bar and you'd have to call the bouncers over. Maybe the cops. It's stalking, yet somehow she's convinced herself that she's in the right. Be prepared for a wave of indignation if you dare question her in any way. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Is it any wonder I ignore her attempts to make nice with me when patients aren't around? Not to me. Your mileage may vary.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If the mother telling The Runner to leave her and her daughter alone has any effect on her at all, it doesn't show. She slips around the back of the little pocket Janine and I have made as we lead them up the street. When she starts talking to the young woman Mom explodes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I asked you to leave us alone!" she says, jabbing a finger at the Runner's chest as she squares off and advances on her. "WHY CAN'T YOU LEAVE US ALONE? NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR YOUR BULLSHIT!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Runner is backpedaling with wide eyes, but it doesn't take long for her to run out of room and be trapped against a wall. "You can't touch me," she says in her same calm, insidious voice. "I'll sue you if you touch me. You hit me, you can't hit me. I'll sue you."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mom? Does. Not. Care. She's right up in the Runner's face, still jabbing with her finger but not making contact. "I ASKED YOU TO GO AWAY BUT INSTEAD YOU START TALKING ABOUT WHAT KINDA MOM I SHOULD BE? DON'T TELL ME HOW TO BE A PARENT!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Runner's is stammering now, her facade beginning to slip. She looks scared, plain and simple. If it sounds like Janine and I are enabling by letting this happen, understand that possibly five seconds have passed since shit went sideways. As much as I might enjoy seeing The Runner get a well-deserved dressing down, this isn't good for anyone involved.<br />
<br />
I manage to interpose myself without so much as brushing against The Runner, no doubt sparing being named as a co-defendant at some point. Mom's angry eyes shift to me. Hoo boy..<br />
<br />
"This is what she wants. Any sort of contact and she'll sue. Don't give her the satisfaction."<br />
<br />
"OH I'LL GIVE HER SATISFACTION," she says, but at the same time allows me to start shepherding her away. "GONNA TELL ME WHAT TO DO? SHIT, WE'LL GET STARTED ON HER RIGHT NOW!"<br />
<br />
We've fallen back in step with her daughter and Janine, moving north. She's still yelling over her shoulder, but The Runner hasn't moved from where we left her. Instead she's got her phone out and is texting furiously, no doubt an update to her lawyer. I'm trying to talk Mom down but she's about eighteen kinds of fired up.<br />
<br />
Moments later we draw close to Parker and Hinton, who have been sitting on a section of wall not particularly close to the clinic's entrance. It still allows them to yell at people coming into range, and Parker wastes no time injecting himself into the situation.<br />
<br />
"Maybe if you were a better parent-"<br />
<br />
Mom abruptly switches from yelling over her shoulder at The Runner to addressing her new would-be antagonist without missing a beat. "BITCH, AREN'T YOU ALREADY BUSY ENOUGH SEARCHING THROUGH ALL YOUR FAT TO FIND YOUR TINY DICK?"<br />
<br />
Janine proves to be a professional by keeping a straight face. I do not, bursting into laughter. Parker splutters for a second or two and tries again, but Mom is still rolling.<br />
<br />
"DON'T TALK! I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T FOUND ANYTHING YET! GET BACK TO WORK! HAVE YOUR FRIEND HELP YOU!"<br />
<br />
Mom's still seething when we get to their car a few moments later, but her daughter bears a weary smile. "That's my Mom," she says, with a trace of pride. They thanks us for being out here and drive off.<br />
<br />
I'm walking back with Janine and Parker starts to say something as we pass by. I burst into laughter again at once, shaking my head. He scowls and says something else, but I don't catch any of it. Carol meets us to find out what happened and soon she's laughing too.<br />
<br />
Parker attempts to mock our mirth with a sour impression, but that only makes us laugh harder. We manage to stop as a car pulls up to the curb.<br />
<br />
Back to work.</div>
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-74446721019187555822017-08-18T02:47:00.000-07:002020-07-27T07:01:20.224-07:00I'm Not Like the Others - Dispatches from my Sixth Day as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Links to previous entries in this series: <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">Day One.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">Day Two.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">Day Three.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day Four.</a> <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/07/outgunned-outmanned-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">Day Five.</a> )<br />
<br />
"You said that most lesbians are too ugly to rape. You know you did. Why are you trying to say you didn't?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our Lady of the Theater is on fire this morning.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The weather forecast was for gloom and rain but at the moment it's sunny and beautiful, a gorgeous day. The stench of putrid water left behind from early morning garbage pickup isn't wonderful but things could be worse for my partner Rachel and myself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At least we don't have Our Lady of the Theater tearing us a new one.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not too much is known about her. It's believed she used to be a costume designer or something along those lines, perhaps on Broadway. She's dressed in comfortable clothes, long hair tumbling down from under a hat. For lack of a better term she functions as an anti-protester, usually stopping by for a half-hour or so to delve into discussions with our sidewalk pals. Today she's been here for an hour and a half and she's driving Parker up the wall.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I never said that," Parker retorts. He fiddles with his hair, which features light-colored tips. Bleached or natural? Only his hairdresser knows for sure. "You just come out with the same argument over and over."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
OLofT isn't going to let him off that easily. "A pregnancy created from rape or incest is an uninvited parasite that's using a woman's body without her permission. Doesn't she have the right to expel it?"<br />
<br />
Parker's response is the lamentably predictable 'baby shouldn't pay for the sins of the father' bit of horror, which doesn't deter her in the least. She's got two other protesters roped in via proximity - one is an angry-looking woman that may be Parker's step-daughter, while the other is Mutton Chops. MC appears as if he'd like to be anywhere that isn't within the sound of OLotT's voice and indeed moves about 15 feet away at one point, only to have her follow him to re-engage. She's adept at catching them in logical fallacies about their Bible-backed stances, and it's obvious that they loathe her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We, of course, love her. She's soft-spoken yet forceful, a sharp mind at work. After chatting with us a bit she says her goodbyes, heading off to the library across the street.<br />
<br />
Exit, stage left (not pursued by a bear).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"God has shown favor to your womb!"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Has he, now?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The protesters are a little undermanned today, with some of the regulars missing (but not The Runner, dammit). Luis shows up for a few minutes before leaving in an Accord held together by prayer. There's always screamers, though, even if Mutton Chops doesn't take a turn today. Instead Hinton and Parker carry the entire performance, which proves to be a bit taxing on their material. Parker seems to feel it a requirement to have the words 'babies' and 'murder' in every almost every sentence and continues to play fast and loose with scientific facts about development in the womb. He's also thoughtful enough to throw in thinly veiled comments about me when I'm covering the door during his diatribes, slights I assume are designed to get me to react.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Today features the Hinton Show as he sandwiches his turns on the mic around Parker's oratory ramblings. He's letting his flag fly, so to speak. Gays are the target for a while, which is a curious topic to preach about outside of a women's clinic. They're bad, in case you weren't sure. So are liberals, who are responsible for this 'sick liberal world' we're forced to live in (those responsible, take a bow. You know who you are). Women are weaker than men, as per the Bible, and so men have to tell them what to do - I'm paraphrasing here as Hinton's diatribes often wander in and out of comprehensibility. He's all hopped up about Jesus not being second to Mary. I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about and again, an odd subject to be ranting about outside of a clinic.<br />
<br />
Hinton also spends time insisting that religion is not a mental illness and it's becoming clear that somebody put a bee in his bonnet, perhaps via a couple of choice comments. Our Lady of the Theater? Like Parker, Hinton is not afraid to point out my personal shortcomings whenever I cover the door. I'm a horrible writer, it seems, filling this blog with lies and fake news. That's patently false - well, the accusations about deceit, anyway. The quality level is for each person to decide. He also accuses me of writing for glory.<br />
<br />
I dismiss that with a smile at first, but as I walk back to my post I mull it over a bit more. Every writer wants what they've written to be read. To say otherwise would be disingenuous, or so I feel. At the same time it has to be said that for most writers I know, it's not an option. The need to put words to paper (or screen) is a sort of obsession. I can't speak for others but I know that once an idea gets in my head it refuses to stay quiet or be ignored. It demands attention. It demands to be told. That's part of the reason I get up every morning at 5am to write - because I both want to and have to.<br />
<br />
There's more to this, though. Another aspect of what keeps me chronicling these shifts has been the reaction. I have lost count of how many times I've been asked if what I write is what it's really like, if the protesters truly do behave in such a manner. Always the questions come with an air of shocked disbelief, deepening as I confirm the veracity. It gives people something to talk about and the stories get shared.<br />
<br />
Therein lies the reason why I continue trying to articulate my experiences. It's not for notoriety, not for fame and/or fortune. If just one person reads this and decides to become an escort, that's fantastic. If a woman who needs to go to a clinic reads what I've written and understands there are people who don't know her but are there willing to fight to allow her to be able to act on whatever choice she makes with her body, it's all good. I don't know if either of those things have happened, but I don't need to. Escorting is not about me and it never will be. To be honest, before I started this shift I hadn't planned on writing it up, but somehow there's always a wealth of new experiences that start rattling around inside my head, urging me toward the keyboard. And here we are.<br />
<br />
Hinton wants me to know that he doesn't hate me and is praying that I repent, although he isn't so overwhelmed with good cheer for my soul's disposition that he stops muttering 'desfruita de muerte' whenever I go by.<br />
<br />
I don't have a womb, though, so God can't show me favor there. Bummer.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm not like the others. I'm a sidewalk counselor."</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Okay. Sure.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My partner Denise has gone inside to retrieve the rest of her breakfast - bagels provided by Lexi - and the moment she leaves someone I haven't seen before this morning sidles over. This is usually The Runner's shtick, zeroing in on solo escorts and attempting to form some kind of bond. He's an older guy, grandfatherly, dressed in a blue button-down shirt and khakis. His smile is friendly and his tone jocular. Later I find out he's a regular protester during the week. He opens with a comment or two about the weather, and when I don't respond he drops the line from above in a conspiratorial whisper. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I greet him with stony silence, eyes watching the street from behind my sunglasses.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"C'mon, I'd like to engage. Really, I'm one of the good guys. My name's Pete. What's yours?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Escorts are not permitted to engage with protesters." I don't speak with heat or rancor, my tone disinterested.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Really? No free speech?" His face holds an exaggerated expression of disbelief, a subtle note of condescension accompanying his words. "That's some organization you have there."<br />
<br />
"Escorts are not permitted to engage with protesters."<br />
<br />
"I heard that, but really, we can't just talk on this sunny morning? Maybe I could help you see a different way of thinking." He's still sneering as he gestures toward The Runner. "She and I aren't like those people, shouting all the time. We just want to help."<br />
<br />
Siding with The Runner is an interesting way to try to win my trust, to be certain. I'm about to repeat my mantra again when Lexi shows up with a big smile.<br />
<br />
"Hey! What's going on?" She addresses me directly, ignoring the fact that Pete even exists via words and body language.<br />
<br />
I shrug. "I think Fox News took on human form. It doesn't seem to understand that organizations have rules that its members choose to follow."<br />
<br />
Pete's face darkens a bit. We're not going to be buddies, it seems. "I don't understand why your people aren't allowed to speak. That doesn't seem right."<br />
<br />
To Pete, it probably doesn't. I'm just doing some (ahem) sidewalk analysis here, but I'm going to guess that he doesn't get the point of why we're out here - it's not for us. It's not about us and it never was, never will be. It's about getting people past the bile, hatred, and misogyny, about letting them have the opportunity to make a choice and have access to a medical facility. It's not about being able to one-up a protester in an argument, not about getting the last word in, not about landing a good zinger. I forgot that a few months ago, but I'm doing my best not to let it happen again. It's not about me.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure that for Pete, it's about Pete. His true colors start to show a little bit later when Lexi ducks inside the clinic.<br />
<br />
"Hey, I take my coffee black. Bring me a danish, too."<br />
<br />
He finds this to be such a killer joke that he repeats it every time an escort heads for the door - as long as they're female. Charming.<br />
<br />
Later he makes another attempt at being chummy with me. "C'mon, man, I'm not like those guys. I'm one of the good ones. Surely you can see that."<br />
<br />
"Escorts are not permitted to engage with protesters."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Mom, it's not too late to do the right thing."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That's one of The Runner's go-to tactics, working "Mom" into her passive-aggressive verbal assaults on patients and their companions. It takes a special mindset to mix together guilt and shame to be flung at fellow women, but The Runner is more than up to the task. She's the reason Lexi and I are still out here at 11:30am, a good half-hour after Parker and Hinton called it quits. Most of the day's patients are already inside, so she sets her sights on those departing. Sometimes they emerge in command of their movements, other times they're woozy and disoriented. No matter what their condition, The Runner is poised and willing to strike.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Mom, why don't you be more like your own mother, who loved you enough to give you life?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That she's saying things like this at all is reprehensible. That she's saying them to people who are <i>leaving</i> the clinic is unfathomable. Can there be any motivation other than to be hurtful? She's just as aggressive and slippery now as she was first thing in the morning, despite being clad in four-inch-thick wedge-heeled shoes. How is it possible for her to not have rolled an ankle by now?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Mom, if you turn to Jesus you'll be forgiven."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman we're escorting out stops abruptly and glares at The Runner. "I'm Jewish," she says.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Runner doesn't miss a beat. "Here's some literature about where you can get some help, and I have a keychain for you that you might like."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman stares at her, probably wondering the same thing we are: did The Runner not hear what she said, or does she simply not care? With an incredulous shake of her head she climbs into a car, shutting the door as Lexi and I box The Runner out. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the car pulls away The Runner surveys the empty sidewalk and gives a little shrug. "Well, have a nice weekend," she says to us. "I'm going."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We watch her walk to her newish Mercedes, not budging until she drives away. Even then we wait for a few minutes longer after that, as she's pretended to leave before only to pop back after driving around the block.. She appears to be gone for real, so we head for the door. A patient emerges as we draw near, her head swiveling as she walks out.</div>
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"That crazy bitch gone?" At our nods she adds, "How the hell she run in those shoes?"</div>
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Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-45627647792868799112017-07-19T03:04:00.000-07:002020-07-27T06:58:35.703-07:00Outgunned, Outmanned . . . - Dispatches from My Fifth Day as a Clinic Escort(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions are mine and do not necessarily reflect those who run our escorting team. In other words, if you have an issue with what I've written, I'm the one to talk to. Day One is <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2016/12/opening-lines-snapshots-from-first-day.html" target="_blank">here.</a> Day Two is <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/01/its-hat-right-snapshots-from-my-second.html" target="_blank">here.</a> Day Three is <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/03/fruit-of-death-snapshots-from-my-third.html" target="_blank">here.</a> Day Four is <a href="http://thekitastrophe.blogspot.com/2017/06/ready-for-my-close-up-snapshots-from-my.html" target="_blank">here.</a> )<br />
<br />
<br />
"Was that for real? Are those people for real?"<br />
<br />
The person asking is neither a patient nor an escort but rather a new employee who has just run the early morning protester gauntlet. She's more incredulous than anything else, a bit stunned at what was said to her. They didn't know she was going to work as opposed to being a patient, but that wouldn't have mattered to the protesters anyway. Any woman walking down the sidewalk is fair game. There's a yoga class nearby that starts around 8:30am or so and attendees who pass the clinic on their way there often get an unexpected encounter or two. Rolled-up mats offer no shield, it seems.<br />
<br />
The other nurses start relating stories of their own as team leader Athena and I shrug into our pink vests. One emits a short, angry bark of a laugh before shaking her head.<br />
<br />
"My child was murdered a long while ago. One of the protesters came up to me in a parking garage at a different clinic I work at. They told me that if my child had lived a good life I'd never see them again because they'd be in heaven and I'd be burning in Hell."<br />
<br />
She pauses for a second before a grim smile splits her care-worn face. "A few years had passed since he'd died, so I was able to deal with someone saying something like that. But if it had been right after he'd been killed, when I was a wreck trying to cope with what had happened?" Another head shake. "Not sure how that might have gone."<br />
<br />
There's a moment of silence that seems likely to stretch before she claps her hands and says, "Well, let's get you settled in." She gives a nod in our direction. "Good luck today. And thanks."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"One of the companions is getting into it with Luis. You'd better get out there."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And so a difficult decision is made for us.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Escorting teams, at least the way we do it here, consist of five people - a leader and four escorts. The leader stays by the door to the clinic while the four of us are split into pairs - one north, one south. The whole thing is pretty fluid - partners sometimes switch mid-shift; one of the escorts can cover the door if the leader needs to do something else; we can act as one if needed, usually in the case of a woozy patient leaving the clinic; and so on. More minions would be unwieldy, jamming the already crowded sidewalk with too many bodies. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As perceptive readers may have already ascertained from above, today we have the opposite problem. It's 8am and our crew consists of myself, Athena, and . . . that's it. We're in unknown waters here, as this has never happened before. It seems unfathomable that it could, given the influx of new people that we have and the difficulty involved in getting escorting slots. That's not a joke - they're like Hamilton tickets at this point. We're booked through to October right now and the only reason it's not further out is because that's as far as they go. This shouldn't be happening.<br />
<br />
Athena - I've given her this code name because, like every team leader I've worked under so far, she's a combination of wisdom, ass-kicking, and wry humor - sends out the Bat Signal in the hope we can get at least another person to show up. We head out to tell Wyatt the security guard our dilemma, which leads us back to the quote that started this section. With a shared shrug, we head out.<br />
<br />
We pretty much have to settle for one of us going out to meet cars or guide in those on foot while the other watches the door. The Runner is here, of course, taking full advantage of our depleted numbers to swoop from side to side to deliver her diatribes of shame. The Uggs have been ditched for strappy sandals that shouldn't provide as much dexterity as they do. It's simply impossible to box her out while escorting alone - I can get between her and an incoming patient, but she merely dances behind and takes up on the other side. It's frustrating, but her antics fail to cause anyone to turn back despite numerous opportunities. The clinic is busy.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, this turns out to be a bit of a boon. There's so much traffic during the first hour that the protesters are hard-pressed to keep up with them. Their numbers are a little off as well - no Alex, no Parker - and Mutton Chops is focused on reading Bible verses through his amplifier. Later he shoots for some sort of bizarre analogy involving internal combustion engines, fire, and God's love, but it all falls apart in the end. Luis is difficult to understand and Hinton's mumbles are often incoherent, so patients who don't get buzzed by the Runner are getting through relatively hassle-free. Maybe the two of us can pull this off for the next three hours or so.<br />
<br />
Check that - the three of us. About 9:15 we're joined by someone else, and a few minutes later Dee Dee shows up with another escort in tow. Suddenly we're a full crew because these are those kind of people, the ones who'll drop whatever they're doing on a Saturday morning in a time of need.<br />
<br />
"You're blocking me," says The Runner as Cassie and I guide in a patient and her companion.<br />
<br />
Yup.<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
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"You know what you are, that's right. Desfruta de muerte." Pause. "And your articles are horrible."<br />
<br />
Everyone's a critic.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Turns out I'm not a Gay Fruit of Death after all, just a run-of-the-mill lover of death. Or at least that's what Hinton mumbles at me from his spot near the top of the buffer zone. He seems a bit listless today, as do most of the protesters who aren't the effing Runner. They're leaning their signs against planters instead of brandishing them (which is illegal, but it's worth bothering the Englewood PD over). The Preacher has his clasped between his knees while he flicks through his phone and it takes three honks before he looks up to be flicked off by a woman in an Explorer, who then favors us with a savage grin. At least half a dozen others will perform the same sort of drive-by during the shift, with one stopping dead in the middle of traffic to scream at Luis. This sends him into a rage, as he has issues with women who have the audacity to speak to him. He charges into the street, yelling a mix of English and Spanish, but all he gets for his trouble is a cloud of exhaust in his face.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He looks back and catches me laughing. "You think that's funny? You think that's funny? Maybe because you're a maricón!"</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe. But not a Gay Fruit of Death, which is disappointing.</div>
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* * *</div>
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"Did you *really* just ask me that? Rude!"<br />
<br />
Luis is on a roll today.<br />
<br />
Usually a Saturday morning for Luis features an early turn of condemning all of us for a while on his squawk box before sort of fading into the background a bit, overshadowed by others such as Parker and Alex. With those two absent he's decided to be today's headline act. During his amplified diatribe he notes, more than once, that "We all know *they* killed Jesus!" I, evidently, am both a liberal (yep) and a feminist (thank you), and he seems annoyed that I agree with his assessment. He comes pretty close to getting punched in the face by an irate mother of a patient when, after being told the pregnancy is the result of rape, he insists that the daughter is going to go to hell for punishing the potential child for the sins of the father. There's no doubt he wants to get hit. Why else would he be wearing a Go-Pro camera on his chest?<br />
<br />
In addition to harassing women, patients or otherwise, he's spending spare moments talking to escorts. At us, really, since we're not engaging unless absolutely necessary. He's keen on finding out my name, which indicates some sort of rift between himself and the other protesters as they already know it. I'm not interested in playing, but after a good 3 or 4 minutes of him asking I shrug and say, "Call me the wind."<br />
<br />
"Wind. Okay, Wind. I'm going to be Rush, so I can Rush through the Wind."<br />
<br />
Yeah, I don't know either.<br />
<br />
"Wind, why are you listening to that woman? She told you to move here and you did. Why?"<br />
<br />
'That woman' would be Athena. I had been covering the door while she and another escort helped a patient out to a cab, and when she returned she told me to go back to my spot with Cassie, one of our pinch-hitters. For some reason this has upset Luis.<br />
<br />
Well, no, not for 'some reason.' Straight-up misogyny is a safe bet. He wanders over to where we're standing and sizes up my cohort.<br />
<br />
"Are you married?"<br />
<br />
Cassie tilts her head, a sardonic grin twisting her lips. "I'm not telling you that."<br />
<br />
"Oh, okay. Well, are you a virgin?"<br />
<br />
There's a few seconds of silence as Cassie and I glance at each other to confirm that yes, he really did say that. Her response, as noted above, only causes the grin Luis is wearing to grow wider.<br />
<br />
I shake my head. "C'mon, man. Even you know you can't ask something like that."<br />
<br />
"I can't? Oh, I am very sorry," he says, not sorry at all. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to ask that."<br />
<br />
"Oh course you did." I wave a dismissive hand at him. "If she answered no and then yes, you could tell her she's going to Hell for being a whore, right?"<br />
<br />
Luis shows his teeth. "Oh no, I would never say that. Didn't you see me apologize? You didn't see it because you're wearing those sunglasses, Wind."<br />
<br />
It's difficult to counter iron-clad logic like that, so we settle for walking away to escort a late-arriving patient. Luis has choice words for her, but doesn't ask if she's a virgin.<br />
<br />
<br />
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
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.<br />
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"Once that I've seen."</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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I've just asked Dee Dee if anyone has ever gone into the creepy and windowless 'FREE SONOGRAM' van across the street and am floored by her reply. "Really?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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She nods, takes a sip of her water. The humidity is on the rise, turning The Runner's hair into a frizzy mess the shape of cotton candy. Doesn't slow her down, unfortunately. "Yeah, one time. They got someone who'd just come out of the clinic and she went with them."</div>
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"Why on earth . . ."</div>
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Dee Dee shrugs. "I think she'd been denied getting the procedure because she was too far along."</div>
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I nod, mulling it over. Did the woman know she was beyond the first trimester but try to get it done anyway? Or was it all a large, terrible surprise? Either way it had to have been a horrible experience. I'm not shocked that the clinic followed the letter of the law, but would the protesters believe it? Doubtful. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A car pulls up right outside the clinic and we head over. From his spot Hinton says, "That's right, Deathscorts, get over there and earn your money." As the woman emerges he raises his voice. "You're just a bounty for them, miss. They're just doing this to get paid."</div>
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<br /></div>
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My escorting checks must have gotten lost in the same place as my Soros checks. Arguing with those allergic to truth is pointless, so I keep silent as we escort her past the screaming multitudes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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* * * </div>
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"I don't care what you think. I've been working since I was eighteen and nobody's ever given me anything. I'm a feminist icon!"<br />
<br />
So sayeth The Runner, leaving myself and the other escorts stunned into silence.<br />
<br />
She takes in our incredulous expressions before making an irritated noise. "Well, I am!" she snarls, before storming away.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
Okay. I'm a white dude, getting to be an old white dude. It's not my place to go around telling anyone what feminism is. I do, however, think it might be okay for me to opine on what I think feminism <i>isn't</i>.<br />
<br />
It's not shaming other women at a particularly difficult time in their lives or to suggest that they're suffering from severe mental issues.<br />
<br />
It's not trying to ram the tenets of your personal religious choices down their throats as they emerge, often woozy and disoriented. At that point you're inflicting nothing but pain.<br />
<br />
It's not standing by passively as others on the sidewalk demean, intimidate, and shame your so-called sisters, not looking away as they're called abhorrent names and have graphic signs of embryos thrust in their faces.<br />
<br />
It's not claiming to be a feminist but then doing everything in your power to protect their right to choose as long as it's the choice *you* want them to make.<br />
<br />
It's not trying stuff key chains of foetuses into unwilling hands, or making vague promises of aid that seem improbable and unlikely in practice.<br />
<br />
It's not suing those who choose to help women.<br />
<br />
I don't know what you are, Runner, but I know what you're not.</div>
Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478974908430136376.post-39787189122928813582017-07-12T02:51:00.000-07:002017-07-12T02:51:04.187-07:00Unfamiliar Territory - Old Man Plays HockeyThere are a lot of things I never planned on being able to verbalize during my hockey 'career' so it definitely felt a bit odd last night to be asking my team to gather around before saying, "Okay, let's take it a little easy on them in the third period."<br />
<br />
Yet, by the grace of the Hockey Gods, there we were, holding an unfathomable 5-0 lead against a foe down to seven skaters. Now we'd been exactly where those guys had been before, numerous times. Hell, it was only last Thursday that we'd decided to forget about 12 or so seasons of experience and run around on the ice like 2nd graders playing soccer, getting our asses handed to us by the tune of 8-0.<br />
<br />
Of course the ancient relic in goal that night might have had something to do with that. Certainly with the last two goals, which went <i>right through my damn 5 hole and what's up with that</i>?<br />
<br />
I digress.<br />
<br />
We could have gloried in being the ones on top and rubbed it in, but we didn't. We could have taken advantage of their exhausted defense and kept hanging at the red line, looking for breakaways, but I asked everyone not to (and they did, except for the one time when someone DID EXACTLY THAT. Ye gods. At least the goalie stuffed him). Instead we worked on making extra passes, on skating with the puck a bit, on being defensively responsible.<br />
<br />
Well, so-so on the last one.<br />
<br />
We weren't perfect last night and indeed committed numerous egregious defensive zone errors, but Chaz was there to bail us out. Offensively we managed to move beyond our usual approach of 'Give-Gary-the-Puck', worked some decent offensive zone carry-in plays, and *GASP* even did some cycling. I know, right? After we scored one goal with dare I say tic-tac-toe passing Chaz was overheard to comment, "That's some textbook stuff right there."<br />
<br />
Us? Textbook?<br />
<br />
Look, I get it. We beat a bad team with a depleted roster and a goal who suffered from the same shot fatigue that I'm going to claim totally exists and clearly was in play last Thursday. Ahem. But after the previous debacle it was nice to come out and not look like hell. Winning's nice too, but don't worry, we won't let it go to our heads.<br />
<br />
Unless we win the next one. A streak? ::fans self::Kit Yonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14169501871096396133noreply@blogger.com0