Editor's Note
The receptionist, an older woman with close-clipped gray hair, placed a packet of paperwork on the counter for me to sign, but I couldn't write my name because my hands were shaking the way they do these days after I spend an hour weed-eating the blackberry brambles. The receptionist looked me over in my bedhead ponytail and sweatpants, whispered, "We're not supposed to do this, but ..." and returned with two pills and sip of water in a thin paper cup. I swallowed the pills unsteadily, gratefully, not even asking what they were.
I don't remember anything that happened after I swallowed those pills, but I'll always be able to tell you the date I took them.
That appointment was almost 30 years ago, and I've never written about it publicly, not once, and I write about everything with a "destigmatize life" kind of attitude. But this. I rarely talk about it, even with my closest friends. I don't want to feel shame, and I certainly don't want anyone else to feel shame, and I try to let go of that shame, but maybe I'm carrying it with me like sand in my sneakers.
I wasn't a good example of why abortion should be legal, I told myself. Other people have real reasons: rape, abusive relationships, poverty, life-threatening pregnancies, to name a few. I was 20 years old, my boyfriend wanted to marry me, and if I didn't want to marry him, I had a mom and a stepdad who (I imagine) would have taken me in with a baby on my hip.
Instead, I chose me.
As a person born to teenagers, I've seen up-close the toll that a forced pregnancy exacts. I hear the argument sometimes made by people who are anti-abortion: "If my mom had had an abortion I wouldn't be here, so no one should have an abortion," and I don't understand it. If my mom had chosen to have an abortion: 1. I would never have known, and 2. She could have lived the life she was choosing for herself. She had plans to graduate high school early, to work in a garden nursery. Instead, she dropped out of school and took a job as an opener at McDonald's. 3. I've often wondered if my arrival in my dad's life at seventeen sent him into a tailspin from which he never recovered. I'll never know because I didn't ask him before he died.
I thought it over, hard, while curled up alone in my bed eating the only thing I could tolerate: salt and vinegar potato chips. I wanted to be the first person in my family to graduate from college. There are people who are capable of making that happen with a babe-in-arms, and I knew I wasn't one of them, and I'd never be in the right mental space to give a baby up for adoption, either. Two years earlier I had attempted suicide, and there were still times when I sank myself into a closet, closed the door and slept as long as I could.
Years later, after I gave birth to my daughter, I became fully aware of the trauma that a pregnancy causes a body, the physical and mental wear, even with wanted children, and I was certain that what I'd done was the best choice for me, that forced pregnancy is physical and emotional torture.
Since the leak of the SCOTUS decision to overturn Roe V. Wade, I've been thinking about that time (I wonder if my ex-boyfriend is also thinking about it), and this memory floated up: I took the pregnancy test at the university clinic and returned later to talk to the doctor about the results. In her office, sitting across from me and looking over my chart, the doctor said, "Last time you were here I palpated your uterus ... " and then estimated how far along I was. The thing is, she had me confused with another pregnant person because she'd never gone anywhere near my uterus. Instead of worrying over the mistake, I was comforted in knowing there was someone else out there having to make the same difficult decision.
In fact, statistically, I know now that doctor would have palpated more than 100 pregnant bodies that year, and yet I wonder how many of those folx didn't have the comfort of knowing they weren't alone.
The memory of that comfort, more than anything, compelled me to write these words. Maybe there's someone else walking around with sand in their shoes who needs to hear this: To live the life we choose, we have to fight our bodies for decades, alone. People who wield penises will never understand this, and they sure as hell shouldn't be allowed to make the fight more difficult or shame us while we're in battle.
It's OK that I chose my future, and it's OK for you to choose, or to have chosen, your future, too.
I almost didn't write about this in the editor's note, and then I almost deleted it, but West Trestle Review is intended to be a home where our voices are heard, and this is my voice. I hope that you'll stay and read all of the voices in the entire issue because it's another fantastic one, including poetry and stories by Pichchenda Bao, Theresa Burns, Celene Chen, May Chong, Shosh Lovett-Graff, Juliana Gray, Katie Lynn Johnston, Yasmin Kloth, Joyce Liu, Mia Ayumi Malhotra, Genevieve Pfeiffer, Lisa Rhoades, Susan Barry-Schulz, Angela Narciso Torres, and Laura Villareal. Our fabulous featured artist this month is Yuno Shiota, and we are grateful to Deborah Iwabuchi for translating our artist interview with Shiota.
I want to shout a big thank you to the West Trestle team, including Joan Kwon Glass, Olivia Joyce, Annie Stenzel, and our newest team member, Jasmin Lankford, who's joined as poetry co-editor! I hope you'll send Jasmin a warm welcome. We are so lucky to have her with us.
At the risk of going on too long, I have to tell you about WTR's brand-new reading series and open mic in Auburn, California: Silver Tongue Saturdays. We are thrilled that the line-up includes: Kim Shuck (May 14), Chloe Martinez (May 21), Claire Unis (June 18), and Shelley Wong (July 23)! If you can't catch it in-person, follow the stream, and follow us on the socials for more information. This series is made possible with the support of Council of Arts of Placer County and the City of Auburn.
Finally, submissions are always rolling. We'd love to hear from you.
With gratitude,
Patricia Caspers, Founding EIC
May, 2022
I don't remember anything that happened after I swallowed those pills, but I'll always be able to tell you the date I took them.
That appointment was almost 30 years ago, and I've never written about it publicly, not once, and I write about everything with a "destigmatize life" kind of attitude. But this. I rarely talk about it, even with my closest friends. I don't want to feel shame, and I certainly don't want anyone else to feel shame, and I try to let go of that shame, but maybe I'm carrying it with me like sand in my sneakers.
I wasn't a good example of why abortion should be legal, I told myself. Other people have real reasons: rape, abusive relationships, poverty, life-threatening pregnancies, to name a few. I was 20 years old, my boyfriend wanted to marry me, and if I didn't want to marry him, I had a mom and a stepdad who (I imagine) would have taken me in with a baby on my hip.
Instead, I chose me.
As a person born to teenagers, I've seen up-close the toll that a forced pregnancy exacts. I hear the argument sometimes made by people who are anti-abortion: "If my mom had had an abortion I wouldn't be here, so no one should have an abortion," and I don't understand it. If my mom had chosen to have an abortion: 1. I would never have known, and 2. She could have lived the life she was choosing for herself. She had plans to graduate high school early, to work in a garden nursery. Instead, she dropped out of school and took a job as an opener at McDonald's. 3. I've often wondered if my arrival in my dad's life at seventeen sent him into a tailspin from which he never recovered. I'll never know because I didn't ask him before he died.
I thought it over, hard, while curled up alone in my bed eating the only thing I could tolerate: salt and vinegar potato chips. I wanted to be the first person in my family to graduate from college. There are people who are capable of making that happen with a babe-in-arms, and I knew I wasn't one of them, and I'd never be in the right mental space to give a baby up for adoption, either. Two years earlier I had attempted suicide, and there were still times when I sank myself into a closet, closed the door and slept as long as I could.
Years later, after I gave birth to my daughter, I became fully aware of the trauma that a pregnancy causes a body, the physical and mental wear, even with wanted children, and I was certain that what I'd done was the best choice for me, that forced pregnancy is physical and emotional torture.
Since the leak of the SCOTUS decision to overturn Roe V. Wade, I've been thinking about that time (I wonder if my ex-boyfriend is also thinking about it), and this memory floated up: I took the pregnancy test at the university clinic and returned later to talk to the doctor about the results. In her office, sitting across from me and looking over my chart, the doctor said, "Last time you were here I palpated your uterus ... " and then estimated how far along I was. The thing is, she had me confused with another pregnant person because she'd never gone anywhere near my uterus. Instead of worrying over the mistake, I was comforted in knowing there was someone else out there having to make the same difficult decision.
In fact, statistically, I know now that doctor would have palpated more than 100 pregnant bodies that year, and yet I wonder how many of those folx didn't have the comfort of knowing they weren't alone.
The memory of that comfort, more than anything, compelled me to write these words. Maybe there's someone else walking around with sand in their shoes who needs to hear this: To live the life we choose, we have to fight our bodies for decades, alone. People who wield penises will never understand this, and they sure as hell shouldn't be allowed to make the fight more difficult or shame us while we're in battle.
It's OK that I chose my future, and it's OK for you to choose, or to have chosen, your future, too.
I almost didn't write about this in the editor's note, and then I almost deleted it, but West Trestle Review is intended to be a home where our voices are heard, and this is my voice. I hope that you'll stay and read all of the voices in the entire issue because it's another fantastic one, including poetry and stories by Pichchenda Bao, Theresa Burns, Celene Chen, May Chong, Shosh Lovett-Graff, Juliana Gray, Katie Lynn Johnston, Yasmin Kloth, Joyce Liu, Mia Ayumi Malhotra, Genevieve Pfeiffer, Lisa Rhoades, Susan Barry-Schulz, Angela Narciso Torres, and Laura Villareal. Our fabulous featured artist this month is Yuno Shiota, and we are grateful to Deborah Iwabuchi for translating our artist interview with Shiota.
I want to shout a big thank you to the West Trestle team, including Joan Kwon Glass, Olivia Joyce, Annie Stenzel, and our newest team member, Jasmin Lankford, who's joined as poetry co-editor! I hope you'll send Jasmin a warm welcome. We are so lucky to have her with us.
At the risk of going on too long, I have to tell you about WTR's brand-new reading series and open mic in Auburn, California: Silver Tongue Saturdays. We are thrilled that the line-up includes: Kim Shuck (May 14), Chloe Martinez (May 21), Claire Unis (June 18), and Shelley Wong (July 23)! If you can't catch it in-person, follow the stream, and follow us on the socials for more information. This series is made possible with the support of Council of Arts of Placer County and the City of Auburn.
Finally, submissions are always rolling. We'd love to hear from you.
With gratitude,
Patricia Caspers, Founding EIC
May, 2022
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