I never thought that I would work in a place where it would be “just part of my job” to deal with (i.e. ignore & not engage with) people who call me a baby-killer on my way into work. I never thought it would be part of my job to stand with our volunteers and wave women through the lines of protesters with posters of bloody fetuses, protesters calling us Nazis who would go to hell. I never thought that the early morning thoughts that drift through my mind on my way to work would daily include a hope that my office would be standing when I got there, wouldn’t be blown up while I was working.
And yet, here I am.
I work for a reproductive health care provider and organization in the midwest.
Dr. George Tiller was killed in the midwest, far enough away from me to feel some tiny buffer of safety, but close enough to feel like my backyard.
I think I always knew I’d work for social justice in some form or another – it’s what I do, it’s in my blood, and it’s fantastic that I get to do it every day.
I didn’t always think I’d work in a place where I worried daily about what the protesters would do next, about how far they’d go at MY place of work.
I knew my work would have something to do with women’s rights. Most people I knew assumed I’d end up working for reproductive justice.
I didn’t think my work would make me a target, make me so often fearful.
And yet, here I am.
And I’m not going anywhere.
I am Dr. Tiller.
