Classic Content: Putting on the Escort Vest at the Abortion Clinic
An abortion clinic volunteer escort vest, circa 2014. Photos by Kevin Gibson
This is Part Two of a three-part series writting in 2014.
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When you pull on the orange vest and transform into a volunteer escort, the anti-abortion protestors immediately look at you differently. Before you put on the vest, you’re a human being; after you pull on the vest, you are a piece of a furniture at best, a baby killer at worst. Most of the vests are emblazoned with the words, “Pro-Choice Clinic Escort,” meaning you may as well have just fastened the final button on a blood-soaked butcher’s coat, as far as some of them are concerned.
As I take my place on “the line” along with several other orange-vest-clad volunteers in front of the main entrance to the EMW Women’s Surgical Center this past Saturday morning, I immediately feel some of the protestors looking at me. Most of them merely pray quietly on the sidewalk, but others carry signs with phrases like “The Killing Place” on them. One woman staring at us is holding a sign reading, “I Regret My Abortion.”
Another woman has a grotesque sign bearing a photo of a terrified monkey with electrodes attached to its head on the left; on the right is a photo of the bloody remnants of an aborted fetus. Over the monkey’s head, the sign reads, “If this is not right …”, and over the aborted fetus reads, “How can this be?”
This looks to the naked eye like a full-fledged standoff, with a line of orange-vested escorts squaring off with a sidewalk filled with protestors holding signs, Bibles and apparent buckets of ill will. But I am told by Sara and Pat C., two of the volunteers who seem to be charged with organizing things in anticipation of the usual Saturday morning onslaught, to simply stand in line and help provide a barrier that will keep the protestors, or “antis,” from encroaching upon the property line of the clinic.
Escorts are also situated at the corner of Market and Second streets, waiting for couples (known as “clients”) who will be followed and, for lack of a better term, ministered to by many of the protestors when they arrive and approach the clinic. The volunteer escorts, who are not affiliated with the clinic, take it upon themselves to offer a bit of support and protection during the clients’ approach, week in and week out. The challenge is that sometimes the couples coming to the clinic pull up right out front, while other times they park blocks away and walk. The escorts face the task of getting to the clients, many of whom are from out of town and don’t know what awaits, before the protestors do.
David, the friendly, small-ish guy next to me on the line, begins briefing me on what to expect, what to do and what not to do: Don’t engage them; don’t touch them. They might bump me, I am told, but I am not to bump back, because apparently the protestors are quick to claim assault and call the police on escorts. I should not even lift my arms, just keep them at my sides, in my pockets or behind my back. Their rules are not the same as ours, the escorts tell me, and because of that we must be extra judicious. We are only there as a buffer.
We are faceless, in a way, when we pull on the vest. Except that, at times, I still catch one of them staring at me. Staring. It is unnerving. I wonder what they are thinking, but it soon becomes clear: they see me as a murderer. Not a figurative murderer, a murderer. The unnerving at times becomes chilling, because it is my first day, and I am not hardened to it like the experienced escorts.
It is about 7:20 a.m. in the 300 block of Market Street, and what looks to be a couple dozen protestors, mostly elderly, line the street. Some pray in unison. One protestor holds a five-foot-tall crucifix. There is a strange buzz in the air that I can’t identify, and then I notice Sara waving her arms over her head; the first couple has arrived, and the escorts – and protestors – leap into action.
Soon, I notice several people in yellow vests similar to the ones I’m wearing. At first I think they must be escorts, but David informs me they are protestors who have chosen to identify themselves similarly, using a different color, probably as a way to confuse clients.
“It’s like a bad musical,” I say, and he chuckles nervously. I half expect him to start snapping his fingers.
So far, the morning is going along relatively quietly, but within a few minutes we see a car park across the street. The couple gets out, and an escort approaches them. But they are here to protest – the escort walks away, and the man and woman remove some sort of cart from the trunk of their car. David and I realize it is a stroller – for two. Soon, twin toddlers, maybe a year or year and a half old, are on the protest line, facing us. It is 40 degrees with a brisk wind. I’m shivering, so I know those babies must be as well.
The number of protestors rises, and I notice more and more of them staring at me intently for seconds at a time. I sense they are thinking, “Fresh meat.” They haven’t seen me before, so perhaps I am an easy target. I could be wrong.
Soon, three more kids show up, maybe between 8 and 10 years old, and they stand by as their parents chant prayers. Soon, the throng, which I later learn has grown to 50 protesters (about two to three times the number of escorts) begins singing, “Ave Maria.” One of the escorts, an elderly man named Anpelio, expresses his disgust, because the chanting and singing is unending, maddening. It doesn’t end. He goes to his car and retrieves something, then returns to his post right in front of the clinic door (he is the escort who holds the door for clients when they enter).
And then something unexpected happens: polka music begins playing. Apparently, he has retrieved an iPod to help drown out the protestors (possibly because many of them are spitting venomous words, not just singing and praying). Now, the protestors are praying to a chorus of “Roll Out the Barrels.” This Saturday morning has never been more surreal. And sort of darkly humorous.
But then things change. Angela, an African-American woman clutching a Bible and wearing a thick, pink vest jacket, has arrived, not long before what appears to be a teen-age girl in a gray hoodie approaches along with two middle-aged people. It seems obvious these people are her parents. As she nears the line, with escorts doing their best to buffer, Angela manages to get in the girl’s ear – I don’t hear what she says, but the girl breaks down, begins crying, as her parents urge her forward and one of the other escorts tries to get between Angela and the trio.
I watch the girl stumble, looking defeated, through the clinic door. Tears form in my eyes, and it is then I have a better understanding of why these volunteer escorts come out every Saturday morning in all kinds of weather, potentially risking their own safety, to face this bizarre onslaught.
“That’s heartbreaking,” I whisper to David. He merely nods. He’s seen it before.
Sara walks over and asks me if I would like to take a tour of the area around the clinic. It appears I won’t actually get to act as a direct escort, as that is a trickier procedure that typically requires some training, which I have not had. She hands me off to Sarah, a blond 20-something, who is happy to show me around.
We turn past the yellow vests onto Second Street and she points to a specific yellow vest whom the escorts have nicknamed “Backwards Bob.”
A few steps down the sidewalk later, she points out a stocky woman in a pink sweatshirt.
“That’s Mary,” Sarah says. “She’s kind of aggressive.”
We walk toward an alley behind A Woman’s Choice, a center next door to the clinic that is owned and operated by anti-abortionists, and Sarah explains to me that I should never, ever set foot in that parking lot while wearing the vest. It is the protestors’ territory, and they will call the police.
We turn into an alley toward the parking garage where my car is parked, and she explains some of the less traveled routes to the clinic that sometimes are helpful to clients. That’s when we see three people emerge from the garage – two young men and a young woman with shoulder length, light brown hair. The girl’s body language makes it apparent she is there for the clinic.
“Uh-oh,” Sarah says, “you’re up. Do not talk directly to the clients, just walk with us. If Mary bumps you, do not bump her back.”
I have been thrust into duty unexpectedly, and I have no idea what to do. Sarah walks up with me at her left and asks the girl, “Would you like an escort to the clinic? There are protestors on Market Street.” The young woman looks surprised and then nods, whispers, “Sure.”
We turn to walk, but almost immediately, Mary runs down the alley and is upon us. I am on the girl’s right and I try to shield the group, but Mary knows I’m a newbie. She circles around me and pushes past me on the left, bumping me out of the way from behind like she’s a bulldog and I’m a plastic pet gate. I have no choice now but to walk behind the group as she pushes anti-abortion brochures in the girl’s face during our walk up Second Street. I can’t hear what she is saying, but she talks non-stop, inches from the girl’s ear.
As we approach the corner of Market, Backwards Bob engages, squatting down at first to force the girl to make eye contact. He then walks backward all the way to the line, spewing his message to the girl, thus revealing to me how he got his nickname. Every few steps, he looks back to make sure there is nothing he could trip over.
The walk from the garage to the clinic door proves to be another surreal, emotional experience for me. Backwards Bob and Aggressive Mary have surrounded the group, and there’s really nothing we can do. It is, despite a lack of purposeful contact, an act of aggression. Adrenalin kicks up inside, causing my muscles to stiffen as if there is a physical threat imminent.
In a way, I think later, I guess there was, since a throng of 50 people, all protesting the same thing, may only be a button-push away from becoming dangerous. When you’re wearing the orange vest, you just don’t know. But more than anything, I feel badly for this young woman who has just been ambushed, knowing she is already having a difficult morning without this crass piling on.
When the trio is safely inside, I take my place back on the line, and now Angela is yelling at the clinic. Yes, yelling. She is a machine – she recites over and over the evils of abortion, Bible verses, etc., and never seems to tire.
“Sometimes I want to offer her a lozenge,” David says to me. I have to stifle laughter.
Sara invites me to take up a spot next to her right in front of the entrance, for a different perspective. Now I am face to face with the heart of the group of protestors. Some ignore me; some stare daggers into me. A gray-bearded man standing maybe three feet away to my right holds a crucifix on a wooden stake. He is a burly man with a black Harley-Davidson toboggan.
As I look around, I make the mistake of catching his eye. He takes a step toward me and snaps, “Are you going to be proud of what you did here today?” I break eye contact, muscles stiff again, and return to talking with Sara, but I have to admit I’m briefly intimidated by the moment. I simply am not expecting it. Such is life as the rookie.
Later, I move back to my previous spot, where Angela is still yelling. A tall, slender, elderly man in a green and blue rugby shirt walks from person to person on the line now, looking each of us in the eye, one by one telling us, “God is watching you. God is watching you, too.”
One of the escorts says, “I don’t believe in your god.” Rugby shirt smiles and says, “Well, then I won’t be seeing you in heaven. That’s fine with me.” (I think: What would Jesus say? But I digress.)
The older children now are wrapped in blankets and huddled on the sidewalk. The toddlers are also wrapped tighter, and one is being held tightly by his or her (apparent) father. I wonder, “Is this their choice? Sitting out here on the sidewalk on a Saturday morning freezing while people yell at each other?” I can’t imagine they would give up Saturday morning play time or cartoons for this. I guess the phrase “anti-choice” might come into play in this scene.
I have lost count of how many clients have gone into the clinic now, and I have lost track of what time it is. I just know I will be glad when Saturday morning on the line is over. Angela still screams. Rugby shirt continues to stalk. The gauntlet keeps praying.
Finally, Pat says, “We’re done!” All of the appointments have been checked through, and another Saturday morning at the abortion clinic is finally in the books. Pat takes a breath and says, “Breakfast.”
I pull the orange vest over my head and stuff it into a knapsack with the others. It couldn’t have come soon enough for me. I wonder silently how on earth these people will find the strength and courage to come back next Saturday and do it again. And then I go to breakfast with the escorts.
Tomorrow: Part 3, Breakfast with the Escorts.
