It’s time for the inevitable people. You knew this was coming: The War on Women.
Earlier in February, Virginia lawmakers and their governor (notice the blatant lack of capitalization) thought it was appropriate to enter a bill for transvaginal ultrasounds pre-abortion. Side note: I’m a Catholic woman, would I ever be able to get an abortion? Probably not. Does that mean I need to dictate how every other woman’s decision needs to be made on the subject? Absolutely not. Your body, your decision.
A transvaginal ultrasound is defined as this: Transvaginal ultrasound is a type of pelvic ultrasound. It is used to look at a woman’s reproductive organs, including the uterus, ovaries, cervix, and vagina. Transvaginal means across or through the vagina. (Medicine Plus)
Now, here is the definition of rape: Forcible Sex Offense: Any sexual act directed against another person, forcibly or against that person’s will. Includes forcible rape, forcible sodomy, sexual asualt with an object, and forcible fondling.
Here is another definition of sexual battery (for those of you who like to argue): Sexual Battery: Forced oral, anal, or vaginal penetration by any object, except when these acts are performed for bona fide medical purposes.
I’m not sure forcing women to have a vaginal ultrasound is “bona fide medical purposes,” however penetrating a woman with or without medical purpose against their will isn’t acceptable. It isn’t acceptable to write into law any type of entrance into a woman’s private parts, ever. I like to choose what goes into my vagina thank you, and an ultrasound probe for whatever reason is not on the top of my list.
Hence, I am particularly thankful for the men and women of Virginia’s silent protest.
“In the history of language/the first obscenity was silence.” – Christina Davis
Here is where I always turn to the literature. Last night I was reading Christina Davis’ brilliant collection of poems, Forth a Raven. Whenever I’m in a moment where I don’t have the language or words, I go to the literature. This is a quote I found in the poem, “The Primer” which is about love, and language, and usage. It is the perfect tune for the Virginia protests. What is grander than silence? What is worse than yelling, and pitch forks, and gangs of human beings hooked together at the elbows with signs of hate in bold black marker? Silence. Silence is the greatest power we have as human beings: to choose when and if to speak, or just to coat the air with the remarkableness of nothing. It’s enough that we have language to argue, to write, to form a voice for our bodies and soul, but it’s even more to have the chance and the power to stop that voice and let the noiseless emotion fill the blue air.
Thank you, Virginians.
And then we come to the reason why I’m a slut: the pimple of politics, Rush Limbaugh.
If you watch the news, or you listen to NPR, or God-help-us you listen to Rush Limbaugh in the mornings then you’ve already heard about the comments he’s made to and about Georgetown law student, Sandra Fluke. If you haven’t heard the comments, here are just a few remarks:
And here is my open letter to Rush Limbaugh.
Hello from the inner world of my brain which does not reside in the deep red depths of my vagina. This is Slut # 273,483,212 speaking from North Carolina (yes, the Bible Belt). Thank you dearly for calling me a slut on Friday from the smooth reclining chair and empty airspace of your cubicle radio room. It’s easy, isn’t it, to sit behind a microphone and let your thunderous voice boom out to millions of people (if in fact that many people actually listen to you seriously). Unlike the Virginia protesters you can’t look anyone in the eye with your comments, can you?
I’m not angry that you called me a slut. You’re right, I do have free choice on who and what goes into my vagina. I do have the right to protect myself from STD’s through use of grocery store birth control methods, and medically prescribed pills that I oh, so love, to take at the same time everyday. Did you know that I got on birth control to stop heavy flow, not because I was bringing all the boys to the yard. I’m a bookish nerd, I clean up pretty, but I’m not exactly a sexual beast. And if I were, why is that your business? I do hope your wife has since thrown away her 30 days of pills in their purple packet and stuck the “two aspirins between her legs.” Sorry honey, no sex tonight. Maybe she can give YOU recommendations on which birth control method would suit your heavy flow, and also make sure you don’t gain weight (because that’s certainly a side effect).
I think my favorite part of your broadcast was this:
“So Miss Fluke, and the rest of you Feminazis, here’s the deal. If we are going to pay for your contraceptives, and thus pay for you to have sex. We want something for it. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch.”
I know your game is to objectify and continue the rape-culture. The culture where advertisements picture women in scantily clad clothes serving their men beer on a platter. In fact, here is where I think you and Chris Brown would definitely get along. You both prefer women bent over and quiet. It’s men like you that make it okay for women to be door mats, vacuum cleaners, punching bags, trash bins, just another pair of legs.
I’m sure your mother would be proud. Not only did she fit your big head through that birth canal, but she created a balding, middle-aged man that doesn’t respect the very mind that made him. Your mother did all the right things during pregnancy and was lucky enough to have the miracle of a healthy baby boy in her arms when you were born. But, let’s not forget, she’s a slut. Your sister’s a slut. I’m a slut. My mom’s a slut. Plenty of women reading this blog are sluts.
Thank you for making me proud to use this word. No longer will I feel offended being called this by sidewalk preachers and back woods conservatives. If being a slut means having total control of my body, and the welfare of any child born within, I’m a total slutbag.
Just remember, in 1920, I was given the right to vote. It may have taken us an 18 year movement and a history of domesticity, but somehow (maybe with intelligence…just maybe) we managed to collectively earn that right. If you think I’ll ever vote for someone, or something that lets a man’s heavy hands into my vagina, you’re dead wrong. Welcome to the female nation. Welcome to democracy.
I am a writer, educator and genuine creative living on the coast of NC. Our house is built on sunshine with my husband BJ, dog named Tucker, and our two very sassy cats: Fromage and Jasper.