Last Sunday evening, my youngest daughter and I took to the streets of Birmingham, Alabama. We arrived thirty minutes before the Pro-Choice march was set to begin, just as the Bernie Sanders rally was ending. Unsure of where to go, we stood on the edge of the rally partition tape and waited. A lady with a sign in hand walked up, and without introducing herself, told us how tired she was from staying up late reading the night before. I asked what she’d been reading, and she proceeded to list off the names of authors I’d never heard of, then she launched into a recitation of conspiracy theories. My daughter smiled while I nodded my head and muttered the occasional agreement as I wondered what her name was. She was talking so fast I could barely keep up. Soon, she spotted a few friends and abruptly dismissed herself from the one-sided conversation.

My daughter and I made our way around to the other side of Kelly Ingram Park, which happens to be across the street from the historic Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, where the march was supposed to begin. We waited some more, and I tried to quell my uneasiness. I’d been to a protest march before. Back in 2009, I participated in the Tea Party march in Washington D.C. I firmly believe in Americans’ right to protest even though I’m not sure it does much good. Nevertheless, there we were, prepared to make our voices heard. I felt unsettled.

I wasn’t prepared for what I experienced. The march organizers requested that we line up on the street, and within a couple of minutes, we began to move. There was a long line of protestors with signs. Some people had written on their bodies with markers. A few waved flags. My daughter carried a sign, but I walked empty-handed. Immediately, a woman just behind me began to scream, My body, my choice! Others quickly echoed her. I remained silent as we walked. I suppose I felt the march should be a somber one. Instead, there was a lot of yelling and cheering and clapping. I couldn’t reconcile the disconnect I felt.

After we marched a few blocks, we arrived back at the park where music was blaring through speakers. We stood near the back of the crowd and waited for the speeches. I kept looking around, wondering if there was anyone else there from the suburbs. Mostly, I saw millennials who looked like they were ready for a party, and older folks who looked like they were straight out of the hippie movement. There were quite a few young kids close to my daughter’s age who aren’t old enough to vote. I saw a few young doctors and nurses. I wondered where the other middle-aged voters were. At home?

The speeches began, and the crowd grew more rowdy. I felt like I was at a pep rally, and that didn’t feel right to me. Between speeches, music blared, and the crowd sang and danced. In all honesty, while the crowd was different than that of the Tea Party, the atmosphere was the same. Loud music, cheering, almost party-like. The dissonance I felt, though, came from the topic we were protesting this time.

I grew up and remained staunchly anti-abortion until a few years ago when my religious and political beliefs shifted more to the left. My stance now is that a woman knows her circumstances better than anyone else, and she has the constitutional right to do what she deems best for herself. When I was still in child-bearing years, would I have ever had an abortion? I say probably not, but I was never faced with having to make that choice. I’ve taught my children to be pro-choice because I believe women should have the legal right to choose what’s best for them, but I’ve also told them I hope they never have an abortion as a quick fix for an unexpected pregnancy. See, while I believe in a woman’s right to choose what’s best for herself, I also believe that babies are precious. I can’t stand on either side of this issue and yell and cheer and shove my beliefs down someone else’s throat when I’ve never walked in those shoes.

I wondered how many people at the march who were yelling and chanting and almost-partying had ever been faced with making the decision to have an abortion. I think it would be a difficult, emotional, and somber decision, not one for which there would be a pep rally. I know women who have had abortions and who have kept that secret for decades. Some have never told their spouses. Some live with regret; some don’t. Either way, I won’t judge them because I’ve never had to make that choice. I no longer hold a cut-and-dried belief on the topic. It’s much too messy of a decision to hold a cookie-cutter position.

At the end of the rally, a woman I presumed to be in her late sixties or maybe early 70s stood on the stage and told her secret. She spoke in a quiet voice so that a hush finally fell over the crowd. We had to strain to hear. She told how she’d had an abortion back before Roe v Wade was law. First, she’d tried the legal route, going before a medical board which consisted of three men, but they denied her an abortion. Instead, she had an unsafe abortion, wasn’t given any aftercare or antibiotics. She quickly grew sick and a co-worker dropped her off at the hospital door so as to avoid being complicit in an illegal act. She was alone, and the medical staff at the hospital gave her no sympathy. The lady stood on the stage and cried as she shared her decades-long secret. Finally, the crowd responded with solemnity.

I marched Sunday because I don’t believe a female who is a victim of rape or incest should be forced to carry the product of their trauma. I marched because I believe women should be in control of their bodies. I marched because the new Alabama law doesn’t represent my beliefs. I marched because women are going to have abortions, and they need access to medical care when they do. I marched, but I didn’t celebrate. It was too serious a topic for me.

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