Yesterday police apprehended Eric Robert Rudolph, a man allegedly responsible for committing multiple bombings: one at the 1996 Olympics (that killed one person and injured well over 100), as well as several others at gay clubs and abortion clinics.
If indeed guilty (which, based on the facts, doesn’t seem too much in question here), I hope he gets convicted and, if we’re very lucky, the death penalty. This way, our tax dollars will not be used to sustain his miserable life.
People like him disturb and sicken me. He feels that it he has been granted the moral authority to judge others and punish them accordingly, as if he has the right to carry out “God’s will.” (He has said this and more in his taunting letters to police and investigators.)
I guess I take this all very personally because I once had a nasty run-in with his sort. Granted, my experience (mercifully) involved people of a much less violent sort. However, these folks felt they too had the authority to judge, lash out and punish others for their supposed wrong doings.
My sophomore year in college, I was one of the few people in my immediate circle of friends who had a car on campus. This meant that, from time to time, I would help out my friends by providing an occasional ride to the doctor’s office, supermarket or train station.
One day, Michelle*, an acquaintance of mine asked if she might have a lift. She and her boyfriend were getting serious, so she wanted to act responsibly. This involved her getting tested for any STDs and putting herself on the pill. Michelle’s parents were putting several of her brothers and sisters through school, so money was especially tight. Also, she didn’t feel right calling up her parents and saying, “Hey, I need some bucks for birth control!” These two factors required a solution that was both discrete and economical. As such, Michelle did some research and found out that Planned Parenthood offered very low-cost medical exams and birth control. Consequently she had made an appointment and needed a ride.
Truth be told, I wasn’t pleased with her appointment time (8 a.m., Saturday) or the drive time (45 minutes). However, I did agree to help her out and didn’t want to back out.
I figured zoom, zoom – we’re in, we’re out. Nothing major. I was wrong.
The cozy little clinic was difficult to find, as it resided in a rather unsavory part of town. Despite the trash on the sidewalk and the dilapidated surroundings, the operators of the clinic did their best to make it look homey. The grass was freshly mowed, the building was neatly painted and, even from the distance, we could see that lace curtains adorned the few small windows.
I spotted a sign for clinic parking and pulled around the back of the facility. I hung a quick left and drove slowly down a narrow, gravel driveway and pulled into the first parking space I saw.
As my friend and I exited the car, a husky woman, clad in a reflective yellow vest, dashed over to the car. I found it odd, as I thought the lot too small to need parking attendants.
She smiled and wrapped her arm around mine. I glanced at her, somewhat unnerved by the sudden contact.
“I’m your escort,” she said. We both glared at her, surprised.
She said matter-of-factly, “There will be people on the way to the door who try to talk to you or touch you. Try not to listen. Don’t yell back. It only riles them up. Your best bet is to keep your head down and walk briskly. I’ll be with you the whole time. Don’t be afraid.”
Still somewhat dumfounded, we did what she said and began to making quick strides around the side of the building towards the front entrance. As soon as we turned the corner, all hell broke loose.
Behind a flimsy barricade stood five fiery demonstrators chanting, screaming and trying to grab us.
“Don’t kill your baby! Satan will come find you,” screeched one old woman.
Another leaned over the barricade nearly grabbing Michelle by the hair and beckoning, “You can’t do this. I’ll adopt your baby. In the name of Jesus, you can’t commit murder!”
The single man of the group just sneered at me and mumbled repeatedly under his breath, “Dirty bitch.”
One threw a either a rock or clump of dirt that narrowly missed out escort’s shoulder.
Seconds later we burst through the doors of the clinic, surprised and shaken.
“Is it this bad all the time?” I quizzed our escort breathlessly.
“Usually it is worse,” she deadpanned and slipped back through the door to wait for the next group of arrivals.
As I shifted nervously in my waiting room seat, pretending to read Cosmo, I surveyed the faces of the women who sat all around me. A few, I’m sure, planned to have abortions that very morning. Many looked so young and terribly frightened. I imagine the difficult decisions they’ve already had to face and then thought about the torture and indignities they had to endure just moments ago, suffering the jeers and taunts of demonstrators.
Then, my mind went to the members of the staff. How hard must it be for them to come to work each day, knowing that many people in the world would harm them without a moment’s thought, simply because of the nature of the work they do?
Now, close to seven years later, I am still haunted by this experience.
Today I think about Mrs. Lyons, a former nurse at a Birmingham abortion clinic. She was on duty the day Eric Robert Rudolph allegedly set off a pipe bomb packed with dynamite and 1 1/2 -inch nails. Lyons was punctured by hundreds of pieces of metal, a hole was blown out of her abdomen, her ear drum was ruptured and was rendered blind. Also her arm was so damaged; she now must use a rubber stamp to sign her name.
One only hopes there is a special place in hell for Mr. Rudolph.
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