PREGNANT PEOPLE HAVE RIGHTS
I shaded my eyes with my hand and scanned the whole crowd. I was searching for a familiar face. Looking for a single person I knew. Sounds crazy, but I swear—I couldn’t find one.
I’d never seen so many white people in my life.
Union Springs, Alabama, is a Black-majority town, and it was startling to see that the Black people in this public gathering made up such a small minority. I expected Black folks to spurn the pro-life party; after all, it was organized by redneck racists. But why hadn’t they shown up for the counterprotest? Why were there no Black folks carrying pro-choice signs?
Was it old-time religion? Or was it fear?
I noticed something else. There were no babies in strollers at this protest. No kids in wagons. No tots on parents’ shoulders.
Everybody had left the kids at home.
As I watched, the two groups started surging toward each other, shouting and screaming, with hate in their eyes. I saw a few local cops trying to maintain order, but it was a losing battle.
A shiver ran right through me.
This was no longer a rally. It was a fight.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of truck engines roaring from around the corner. And I realized that things were about to get a lot worse.
CHAPTER
47
I stepped down onto the crowded sidewalk just as a fleet of pickup trucks turned onto the square, honking their horns and forcing their way through the throng. Each pickup was covered with oversized images of pregnancies in utero. Confederate flags were draped across the truck beds.
The pro-life side greeted the caravan like a conquering army. Just then, the lead vehicle started blaring music from roof-mounted speakers at a deafening volume.
The tune was “Dixie.”
That song always gave me goose bumps, in all the wrong ways.
It wasn’t just the lyrics that riled me. It was knowing that “Dixie” had been the anthem of the Confederacy. A song about how great the South used to be. Back when Black people—my ancestors—were enslaved. And when the economy of the South rested on the flayed backs of their forced labor. To me that was what “Dixie” celebrated.
I was not a fan.
As the tune played, I saw a man across the street remove his ballcap and place his hand over his heart. Like he was hearing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Or watching US soldiers raise the American flag.
I sidestepped some people on the sidewalk as the fleet approached. I wanted to cuss out the driver playing “Dixie.” Was ready to shake my fist, flip him the bird. I’m aware that would be behavior unbecoming of a candidate running for reelection to the office of circuit judge. I didn’t give a damn.
When the lead pickup pulled close enough for me to see through the windshield, I froze for a second. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was that goddamn Mason Phelps, the Grand Whatever of the local racist society.Shit.
I stepped back. I didn’t want to give Phelps the finger or shout the F-word at him. He’d regard that as a win. I refused to let him think he had that kind of power over me.
But he’d caught sight of me. As I tried to press back into the crowd, he peered out the driver’s window and our eyes met. I caught it, a flash of pure hate in that look. Replaced by a grin, scary as hell. He drove by slowly. I saw those brown teeth flashing at me, as Mason Phelps started laughing. Like he knew some ugly joke I wasn’t clued in on.
I shivered, right there on the street. A chill ran all the way down my back. An omen, Mama would say. Like somebody was walking on my grave.
As the line of battered pickup trucks moved through town, a handful of people in the pro-life crowd gave them some patchy applause. Not many, though. I saw a number of people in pro-life shirts who looked visibly uncomfortable. It seemed like not all the pro-lifers were down with the Confederate flags. I saw that as a positive indicator. Calmed down a hair, caught my breath.
The pro-choice response was much stronger. Young peoplewearingROEandPLANNED PARENTHOODshirts elbowed me as they moved into the street, booing the parade.
A young man used hisBRING BACK ROEsign to whale away at the Confederate flags waving from the truck beds. “Fascists! Fucking traitors!”
Other counterprotesters followed suit, shouting at the trucks as they passed.
The kids with neon hair didn’t seem terribly frightened or intimidated. Some of them were even laughing. Making fun of Mason Phelps. Openly mocking him.
