I Don't Have All the Answers and That's Suddenly OK

He asks a question. A test. A puzzle. Sweetly.  Like he did when he was 8, and 11, and even 16.  “Why do you think humans can see more shades of green than any other color?”  He smiles, suddenly, and just as quickly tightens his lips into a thin line to stop himself from smiling widely.  Almost giving himself away.  But he smiles this way when he thanks me for helping him out with his unexpected car repairs, for bringing home bagels from the bagel shop, ordering wings with the pizza, or for purchasing train tickets to visit his brother and sister.  It is a beautiful smile, somewhat awkward, genuine, heartfelt and beyond his control.

He smiles this way as soon as he poses the question awaiting my reply, already knowing the answer.  We are in the car.  It’s his birthday.  Driving to a restaurant to celebrate.  Clear blue sky.  Green thick and lush in every direction.  The fullness of late spring.

He continues, “Green takes up the most space in the color spectrum that is visible to the eye. Why do you think that is?” Facts. Factoids. The boyness of him makes me smile as he approaches manhood from every angle.  He has been quizzing me since he started preschool.  There was a tense stint around middle school when the questions drove me to derision.  A trying time.  He didn’t always listen to the answers.  Maybe it was not the questions as much as it was the truth that I was the only one being asked.  The only one answering.  Maybe the questions got harder and caused me to see the groundswell that was forming all around me.  Life was changing, rapidly.  Was I the only one that was feeling it?  I, like him, had no one else to ask. 

As the world began plucking my children one by one from my tightly knitted nest, my world began unraveling.  A few short years later I would be divorced, raising him entirely on my own.  Answering his questions the best that I could.  I had by then plenty of experience.  Must children grow older and insist on letting you know they are smarter, kinder, faster, easier and no longer in need of the careful watch you provided or the answers to random questions that you sometimes suffered over? Looking back, I did not know the answers to many of his questions. I did not know what 3G meant or 4S.  I am still not exactly clear what 5S means but 6S is much larger, I think.  I did not know that humans have unique tongue prints, like finger prints, or that most muppets are left handed.  I didn’t realize the northern leopard frog uses it’s eyes to swallow its prey by retracting them into their heads to help push food down its throat.  I didn't know a few other things, I had no way of knowing.

I do know that on his birthday in June when he asked me about the human eye and the color green it made me happy and filled me with warmth.  I was up for the challenge.  And fortunately it was a beautiful late spring day, green was all around us, every shade.  And I deducted correctly that early humans were out in the lush green world, and as shades of green shifted slightly,  it could have meant danger was near by, or food, or plants that could cause harm.  Recognizing all of those shades of green offered a better shot at survival.  He smiled again and nodded his head impressed with my thoughtful answer. 

I recalled that day in June while hiking in the white snow covered mountains of the Adirondacks this week. Six months later.  Our world has changed drastically and it remains somewhat the same.  We have survived devastating news, his temporary return to the nest, a few pleasant surprises and a few not so pleasant ones. During this time he has asked more questions, about me, his father.  About his childhood.  I don’t know all the answers.  I am the only one answering, still.  I am the only one here.  I attempt to answer gently.  In kindness and love toward him.  The only way I can.  I can only speak from my heart. Fortunately, it is large enough for the task. 

I hike. And think. And sort through the questions that remain for me.  I let some go.  There is nothing else to do.  I called him before my hike. With a question.  That sort of turned out to be more of a plea. Or an accusation? My question does not have a beautiful warm smile attached to it.  It is laced with panic and frustration.  I call 30 minutes away from the trailhead, each minute counts, daylight is only offered briefly in these winter months. 

Ring ring ring….It’s 8am mom time.  Which means the crack of dawn son time.  He doesn’t pick up so I leave a message.  “Hey.  Do you know where my crampons are?”  Then I attempt to text, because I won't be able to hike without them and my heart is set on the growing madness of my first solo winter hike.   He calls as I am texting.  Groggily, he asks why I’m calling.  When I ask about my crampons, (winter spikes for hiking) he answers in a state of half sleep-WTF-ness “What? Why would I have those?  he drags out, "R-e-a-l-ly ?”.  I answer in frustrated unease.  “It’s not that out of this world.”  “What’s the last thing I took from your car without asking?” he implores.   “My iPhone charger and my AUX cord." (I’m ready for this.)  “But c’mon” he slurs in his sleep voice,  “Crampons?  Why would I take those?  What would I need those for?”  He has a point. But they are pretty sick looking, (as in cool) I can imagine he would be curious about them.  I also realize I am just slightly panicking because I have decided to go on this insane winter hike.  On my own.  I say goodbye as he says “What?” a couple of times.  I tease, to make up for this crazy call and my panicked state, "Don't you have a song you want to sing to me this bright early morning?" "What?" he asks, but is drifting back to sleep, stating we have a bad connection. I hang up and when the panic subsides slightly, I find the crampons under the passenger car seat.  The panic remains but sits quietly in the passenger seat as I embark on my adventure and text him my discovery and apology.

His questions are always better, I think as I sign in and begin my trek.  I’m starting to realize I don’t really need to go on bigger, better, distracting adventures to avoid the reality that my children have all grown.  They are out in the world, as they were meant to be.  I could not be prouder.  They may continue to have questions that they seek me out for my answers or just comedic relief.   They know I will answer honestly and openly.  They also have the means to discover answers on their own.  I no longer need to strap on my crampons, scale mountains, toy with frostbite or fly solo.  I can begin to live my life fully.

I don’t quite get to this realization until my shins are bruised from sinking into 10 inches of snow and attempting to move forward.  I wished my eyes could detect a few more variations of white.  Apparently crampons do very little to keep you from sinking into snow covered streams.  I might have been better off if he had borrowed them,  I mutter to myself as I rewarm my frozen feet and begin to fret over real problems...what to wear on my New Years Eve date for instance.   I probably won’t call my son to ask if I can I dance in sterile bandages…maybe the crampons will disguise the blackened digits that once resembled toes?  I can probably figure this out on my own.  

Fly the Friendly Skies of the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome

Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.  
        Douglas Adams

Years ago I had the opportunity to attend the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome.  The airshow, the announcers, the actors, and airplanes were entertaining.  Magnificent even, I loved watching my son’s face light up as he took everything in.  And then I remember one particular portion of the outing that tested my parenting prowess.  I will simply share that slapstick comedy is not an art form for the young of age as much as it might be for the young of heart. And nothing could prepare me for the look on my son’s face when Trudy Truelove, the delightful damsel of the airshow act was seemingly thrown from the plane in a slapstick skit.  She landed hard, lifeless. My son’s heart fell heavy, his eyes growing bigger, as he was searching and looking to me for some explanation.   He could not understand why the crowd was laughing.  Maybe I was more traumatized than he was, I had a really hard time explaining that she was “fake”.  We did both watch her walk onto the plane…and an even harder time explaining why it was funny.   It was the first of many more opportunities for me to be faced with not being able to protect my children from the evils of the world, or from other unexpected tragedies of flight. He was 4 at the time of our visit to the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome and raised close by in this sheltered bucolic Hudson Valley community where families still leave their doors unlocked and their true-loves safe from reckless abandonment, or at least heartless heaving from low flying aircrafts.  (It’s true, I’m really working this tale, stretching it for all it’s worth….)

I told this story recently when I met Tom Polapink, a long-time volunteer for the Rhinebeck Aerodrome, as I tried to cover for myself when asked if I had been to visit.  It is his passion, this spectacular place with it’s impressive and rare collection of aircraft form the Pioneer Era, The Golden Age of Flight, World War I and the Lindbergh/Barnstorming era.  I did have to give pause as to why I had not been back.  And then I recalled another visit with another tale to stretch a tad.

I had been there on one other occasion in the past 15 years.  I brought a small middle school group of 14 and 15 year old boys, otherwise known as “at-risk” with varying degrees of let’s just say, “behavioral challenges” and heightened degrees of teen enhanced testosterone.  During that particular outing I was more concerned with keeping my students from lifting and throwing an airplane at another defenseless woman, mainly myself, than I was at protecting them from finding Trudy’s remains.  The trip was brief, arranged as a favor by a colleague of mine as we attempted to provide enriched activities, or breaks from the otherwise enhanced agitation of school confinement for the emotionally enhanced.  Our goal for this trip was to leave a minimum of destruction in our wake.  (Don’t even ask about the pigeon catching incident  on our trip to the Museum of Natural History…).  Unfortunately, it was difficult to attend to the rare collection of original and reproduction planes that fill 4 buildings, or the impressive fleet of early automobiles, engines, wings and model airplanes found throughout.  I was impressed, but I wasn’t able to adequately take in the extraordinary and rare collection so close to home on either visit.

Maybe my tale of trauma pulled on the heartstrings of Mr. Polapink.  I was recently offered a personal tour, redemption perhaps? Or maybe he jumps at any opportunity to share his passion for these flying machines.  In any event I jumped at the invite.  It was greatly appreciated.  I especially enjoyed getting a close look at the vintage Indian motorcycles.  Family legend holds my grandmother rode with her brothers and their friends, doing stunts on the back of an Indian much like the ones on display.  As far as airplanes go, there were a few that caught my eye. The Nicholas Beazley NB-8G and the Monocoup 90 were my personal faves, at least from an aesthetic point of view, which is about all I can offer regarding favoring one over the other.  (Sort of like choosing a sports team based on the colors of their jerseys.)  The Curtiss Wright Junior CW-1 with it’s brightly colored body and it’s futurism inspired design, (think early Kitchenaid blender meets George Jetson pre-space flight), was pretty snazzy too and fantastically futurama inspired.

indian motorcycle . monocoupe . my grandmother florence abernethy

In addition to getting an up-close look at the many planes in the collection, I was especially impressed with the multi-generational group of volunteers out on a cold November work day.  There was such a strong sense of community amongst the extended make-shift family, all together in this place sharing a common interest.   The diverse ages of volunteers struck me immediately.  There are so few opportunities for young and old to work together and learn from each other while having fun.  Spending a small part of my day with these dedicated folk, I was awestruck by their kindness and commitment to this place so close to my home but rarely travelled.

Work was being done on several projects on the grounds as well as on the airplanes.  Cement footings were being set for the new sign that will welcome visitors for the 2015 season and beyond.  A propeller was being glazed, the body of a plane was in some stage of re-construction. Small groups were working to transport planes and vehicles across the grounds for winter storage.  I was most amazed at the work being done on a reproduction of The Spirit of St Louis.  Seeing this work gave me such appreciation for the need for the preservation of these historical artifacts.  To be able to see the great exoskeleton of this aircraft; the man-made wings, with fabric skins wrapped tightly around them, the inner workings of the control panels was thrilling.  Seeing other aircraft in varying stages of completion, including the bare bones cockpits, the struts and wire braces, the wings, and engines gave me a small glimpse of the ingenuity and brilliance that inspired and motivated those early pioneers who worked passionately and obsessively to make flight possible.  Something we take for granted now.

That son of mine grew up, the story from his early childhood is not remembered so clearly (trauma has that way of protecting you).  A few years ago while visiting New Orleans, he and I visited the World War II Museum.  He is interested in history, machines, and tales of heroism.  And while it would not have been a stop on my travel itinerary, seeing collections related to our national history first hand, gave me a very different perspective on the past. These preserved artifacts make history accessible and more meaningful.  Seeing the airplanes that came before World War II in Rhinebeck, I was able to the learn more about the story of flight in it’s earliest initiation through various stages of development.  Flight as a means for pleasure, thrill, and joy.  That same spirit was evident in the people that I met dedicated to preserving history at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome.

The collection at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome is one of the largest collections of early aeroplanes, and it is very accessible and worth the visit!   I am looking forward to stopping by in the 2015 season, open May - October.  Feel free to visit the website and plan your own visit, shop the gift-shop, become a member even!  http://www.oldrhinebeck.org/

The View From Never

Last weekend I went on my first ever “winter” hike.  And since it’s not officially winter just yet, it doesn’t really qualify as a “winter” hike, if you happen to be an official hiker and need to bag a few winter climbs for your official status as a card carrying member of some such rule oriented hiking club or another.   But since there was snow covering the trail to Cascade Mountain from the parking lot in Keene, NY and all 4068 feet to the top, in addition to the glistening sheets of ice covering a great majority of the rock faced summit, I’m going to call it my first ever “winter” hike.  If you, gentle reader, are an official hiker and you don’t like that I am taking liberties such as these, well I’m sure there is somewhere you can report this activity, or simply indulge me the pleasure.

This winter-esque hike was, before last Saturday, something on my “never” list.    A “never” list is like a bucket list only less fun and much safer.  Accomplishing things on a never list makes you feel smug and maybe a little more pulled to the earth. Solid even.  It does not give you an adrenaline rush, or bring on delirious grinning, or lead you to yell “OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!” It can even occasionally make you feel a little elevated in righteousness, if that’s your sort of thing.  Or it can simply make you feel wise and smart and like you have beat the odds by not testing the fates.

My never list is not anything official.  It’s not documented or catalogued or neatly ordered.  But neither is my bucket list, or just about anything else in my life, it seems.   It’s really just several random things that I have no interest in doing because I believe them to be unsafe, uncomfortable and/or uninteresting.  OK there are a few things that could be added because I think they are down right idiotic and even asinine. Like running with the bulls for instance. And accomplishing not ever doing things on a never list is sort of like giving up liver and onions for Lent when you never come into contact with liver and onions to begin with.  My never list is not incredibly long.  It couldn’t really be categorized through any recognizable data sorting system, such as Dewey or BISAC.  In fact I hadn’t even thought about it until I was hiking in snow and getting deep within my hiking head space.   I will never go scuba diving.  I will never go bungee jumping.  I will never wear a turtleneck, at least not, happily.  I will never enjoy a Tilt-O-Whirl.  I will never like tapioca and it’s fairly unlikely that I will eat liver and onions during Lent or any other 40 day block of time. 

Until this past weekend I would never have hiked after Columbus Day weekend, with the exception of hiking two weeks ago at the end of October. And that was before there was any snow on the ground, which I very carefully checked and watched closely, the Weather Channel up until I lost service 10 minutes from the trailhead. I’m a fairly cautious hiker. I know my limits. I know the dangers.  I plan accordingly.  Hiking beyond Columbus Day weekend brings the possibility of risks that I am uninterested in facing.  Snow, ice, falling 4000 or so feet to my death, or slipping on one ice covered rock and falling into the bared teeth of a hungry black bear.  It could happen!  Maybe….so why take that sort of risk?

The truth is that hiking the Adirondack High Peaks Region is not without risk in any season. Knowing now, just how much risk-taking is relative, I am a pretty low key participant on the risk seeking continuum.  I don’t typically seek them out.  On rare occasions when I am facing them, I try to remain open in consideration and weigh out the staying alive factor when deciding about risks. 

I went hiking after Columbus Day weekend this year because I was heading into a serious bout of a consuming, immobilizing funk that I knew could lead to some unnecessary and avoidable high risk consequences. The threat of developing bedsores and loss of vision through dry eyes from long stretches of staring, unblinking at my ceiling was not only lurking, but a few times seemed to be the only real option in coping with the news of my daughter’s breast cancer. (Maybe bedsores and dry eye are not exactly life or death conditions or even worth mentioning in comparison.)

The reality of my ineptitude in being able to protect my daughter from a cancer that could not be foreseen has been daunting on good days and damn near debilitating on quite a few others.  I know cancer is not typically seen afore, or easily detected or even expected until it multiplies into some fierce bad toxin that knocks whole families to their knees.  We don’t look for cancer and worse yet in cases of breast irregularities, doctors continue to overlook symptoms in younger women if there is not a genetic predisposition.  Or at least a known link.   I hope this will change.  I hope no one else’s daughter is sent home to allow concerns and irregularities to grow and spread until it has reached other organs and can finally be named stage four breast cancer.  And I hope my daughter is able to reach the top of this hardest climb and emerge emboldened and smiling and safe.

I got out of bed and went hiking post Columbus Day because, well, my daughter hasn’t stopped moving once since her diagnosis.  She is fierce and strong and not willing to be stopped by almost anything.  (I’m not sure if there is an almost, I haven’t seen it yet.) Staring at the ceiling to cope with my inability to help her, seemed to not honor the spirit of her, it wasn’t helping her, and it had the potential to make things worse.  She didn’t need to worry about the impact it was having on me.  I went hiking with a friend who has recently discovered the thrill of hiking mountains.  I loved hearing his enthusiasm and convinced him to come to the Adirondacks to hike a high peak with me.  Anything to get me vertical.  I ignored that I was out of shape from all that ceiling staring, I knew I would find my way to the top, or wanted to believe anyway.  He suggested a peak outside of the range of the 46 High Peaks.  A little one.  Only 3,694-foot.  I was, in my mind a little disappointed.  Hiking Hurricane Mountain was on my never list.  And now that I think of it, it would be in the No Need To, or Why Bother column.  It’s not a high peak. 

Hiking for me is a great many things.  But it is a way to reach a goal, first and foremost, or so I thought until now.  Hurricane Mountain is not a high peak, so why bother hiking it? It won’t get me closer to becoming a 46er, I thought to myself.  My thoughtful risk analysis also suggested to me that I was not in hiking condition, and I was happy to have a friend willing and eager to hike with me and guide me out of my useless funk.  So I went along with this "little" hike.  I hiked, and panted, and turned purple trying to keep up or at least upright.  I sweated and breathed heavily and stopped occasionally to meditate or keep from passing out.  I had that internal hiking conversation I sometimes have of late, “If I die here, I will have died happily, doing what I love, in nature.”  Then I take in a deep breath and go on, knowing I will survive this hike. 

As I approached the top of Hurricane something happened.  Adrenaline popped and pumped and spit its way through every neuron and synapse. Suddenly I was smiling. Twirling. Experiencing elevation elation. The sky opened to reveal blue, the view was spectacular, like no other I have seen.  (Each peak of course provides a unique vantage point.) A bird was performing and clucking overhead, spiraling and gliding and playing in the airstream.  This would have stayed on my never list, if not for my hiking partner, if not for my daughter’s cancer, if not for learning I have such little power, and so very much.

I found myself eager to go up to the mountains again to check on my cottage, to stay away from the lurking consuming useless feelings, and because my friend is available and eager, addicted even, to go hiking.  Because I skipped down Hurricane Mountain and walked to the lake to celebrate with Prosecco afterwards, I have impressed upon my friend that what I might lack in physical conditioning I make up for in moxy and determination.  I talk him into a high peak.  He tries to divert me, but seems curious by my chops at least. 

I don’t tell him on our drive up, but I am already busy formulating my exit ticket.  The weather seems a bit, shall we say…. Frigid?  No fun, just uncomfortable.  Conditions could be icy, cold, snowy and even idiotic to attempt.  We enjoy dinner, wine, music, deep conversations and decide to set out early enough to make it back down before daylight saving darkness.  After whirlwind cleaning, to prepare the house for guests arriving in my absence, a trip to the dump, the local farm, and a meandering drive through the back roads of Essex County, we get to the trailhead near about 10:40, late, for official hiking protocol.

There is snow. Everywhere. It is beautiful.  The trailhead to Cascade Mountain is along route 73 towards Lake Placid. It is one of the most beautiful drives in this country!  (I get to say that confidently, because driving cross country solo, was an almost Never, but turned into the most spectacular Again I have ever experienced.)  So yes, the view along this road is not to be missed.  But beware, the intoxication of it made me forget that I don’t ever, as in Never, hike in snow.  I parked the car and as I stepped out, was happy I threw my jeans in the car and quickly added them to the two layers of pants I was already wearing.  With my jacket, I had 4 layers on top.  I added my pack, my camera, my dogged determination, snacks, and a big grin, and we headed up. 

The hiking was spectacular.  And of course, I got to do the mind meandering and head organizing that I often do while hiking.  I started considering the whole concept of Never.  I began to realize how we all, or most of us anyway, have these rules that restrict us perhaps more than keep us safe.  I started thinking, as I now must, about the richness of life.  About the fragility and the timidity that we sometimes approach our lives with.  I started thinking about not wanting to waste too many more moments.  I started thinking about Never and Why the Hell Not?  I don’t want to look at too many I Wish I Had But Lacked the Courage or Worse, the Faith, in myself, in others.  I don't want those kind of lists to adhere to.

As we near the top, I hear the sound I wait for.  The sound I am sure will come.  He yells, Oh My God!  Oh My God! I cannot believe this!  He is grinning, elated. Joyful.  I am pleased.  I am happy to share this, my very first high peak, now his.  I think, huh! another Never.  I Never plan to hike the same mountain twice, it will slow down my goal of attaining all 46.  And now know I would not have wished to miss this moment for the world.  We are not even at the treacherous icy bald summit yet, but we are given this first taste of a view that must be like heaven we both agree. 

When we make it to the top, there are a few points that we, either one or the other, find ourselves reaching for that exit ticket.  A vertical stretch that is difficult to scramble in ice.  As I am deciding to wait, I have already seen the top, I encourage him onward.  Try your foot here.  Reach there.  You have to!  You will not want to miss it.  After he gets up.  I decide I have to join.  He reaches down to help me up.  Slowly and cautiously we can both do this.  We came this far.  We have to.

It is amazing, this view of Never Say Never, and Get It While You Can.   I’m not sure if I will hike again in snow and inevitably ice.  I think probably not, but find myself ordering crampons and researching gloves from the safe warm comfort of my home the very next day.  And honestly, testing the fates or beating the odds, I think that system is rigged, like last weeks elections....but staying positive, in the game, and grinning deliriously from time to time staves off bedsores and a great many other ailments have been fought down through believing in the impossible.  

Voting for Women's Equality that Includes A Woman in her Entirety

With the elections approaching, I have been thinking a great deal about the need to pass New York State’s Women’s Equality Act.  I had been thinking about it from a distance, for quite some time.  And I had been doing this peripheral thinking because it fills me with a great sense of frustration, or maybe even damn near despair when I get close.  Or closer.  Or close enough to be outraged.  Close enough to need to speak up against those that have refused to pass it in it’s entirety when it was put before the Legislative Session and failed for the second time this past summer. 

And so maybe I’ll take a different approach and not speak up against those that didn’t pass it, but instead I’ll speak up for why I think it’s important to elect representatives that value women in their entirety and are dedicated to passing The Women’s Equality Act.

So here I am.  Ready to attempt to calm and tamp down my frustrated, not quite spitting mad, near despairing disbelief about the state of equality for women in my beloved home state. I’ll try to express why we need to vote for candidates that support women.  And try in some way to articulate why the upcoming elections are so important to ensuring the Women’s Equality Act is passed, for women, and in turn for men. For equality.  For access to equal protections, that we cannot define as under the law, but need instead to demand equal protections above and beside, the current law.  Women can’t have equal protections ‘under the law’ if the law continues to be determined and perceived and made, predominantly by men and unfortunately, those few women, who don’t believe women are capable of making personal and private decisions about their bodies without government interference, restrictions and limitations.  

There has been a great deal of finger pointing and blame being thrown about and an exaggerated twisting of facts, either suggested or blatantly stated, regarding why one particular political party believes the Women’s Equality Act should be passed in it’s entirety while the other party believes one particular part of the act should not be included.  An attempt at revising the Women’s Equality Act by removing one specific part in an effort to pass it lead to a stand off in the NY Senate.  And so the Women’s Equality Act missed being passed, again. This unfortunate outcome is now being used as a political tool to disparage candidates that supported it’s passing.

The Women’s Equality Act, or that one specific part, is being misrepresented as some free wheeling legal document that could potentially give women in New York State the freedom to have abortions wherever, whenever and by whomever they choose.  In reality the point that has stopped the Women’s Equality Act from passing, simply and emphatically codifies the state law to agree with current¹ federal law regarding women and their reproductive rights.These rights would include the right to an abortion if a woman should decide that is the best choice for her. Passing the Women’s Equality Act with the one point dealing with the reproductive rights of women would ensure access to the very provisions already available under federal law, not less than, and no more than.

It seems as though that one part of being a woman that no one likes to discuss straight out in the open is connected to the one part of the Women’s Equality Act that keeps us from fully realizing equality in New York State.  If not for a woman’s rather private anatomical discrepancy that seems to require special² rights, women would otherwise be equal. And perhaps, if women could simply grow a penis, and were not able to become impregnated by someone already well equipped, or even moderately equipped for that matter, with a penis, women would be equal, or I suppose if they could grow that marvelous man part, they might actually just be umm.....let's see.....MEN!!!  Well equipped with rights. You see it sort of defeats the purpose of granting equality if we women are still not permitted to make decisions about our health and well being without the consent of the government.  And so the problem with passing the Women’s Equality Act while excluding the one and only part that deals directly with a woman’s use of her own female anatomy, is that we fall short on providing equal rights to women because they are…..um…..let’s see… give me a minute…… WOMEN!!  

And since female anatomy isn’t customarily discussed in mixed settings, including congress, court houses, state senate, and other government agencies, it makes it hard to discuss those very inequalities solely related to being a woman, and damn near close to impossible to enact policy related to righting the inappropriateness of government policy that palpably crosses the lines, or simply eradicates the lines between separation of church and state, but only as it relates to women. 

The problem with the Women’s Equality Act or at least that one part, is that it relates to a woman’s rights regarding reproductive health.  And those rights might or might not be exercised by choosing to have an abortion.   The Anti-Women's Equality Act rhetoric uses seditious language to capture attention.  Claims about changing abortion law and practices have ensued.  In reality, The Women's Equality Act does not change how abortion is performed or regulated in New York, but it guarantees it.  Rabbi Dennis Ross, the director of Concerned Clergy for Choice wrote in a recent Poughkeepsie Journal OpEd piece,  "The debate about abortion is really a debate about the relationship between religion and government. Abortion opponents are open about their intentions to trample church-state boundaries."' He goes on to state why protecting women “as they come to their own conclusions and receive medical care” is an important matter that requires support.  Electing officials that will support passing the Women’s Equality Act is key.

Candidates that oppose passing this act based on their religious beliefs are out of line and over stepping their positions by attempting to create or block policy by promoting government interference in matters that are religious. Religious liberty relates to an individual's private life.  It provides citizens with protection to follow their faith. According to the now defunct blogger, The Christian Knight, religious liberty, means simply "believe how you like" without interference from the government. It means the government cannot tell you what to believe, or what not to believe, when it comes to religious matters. In this sense it has nothing to do with what is right belief or wrong belief. It is strictly limited to what the government can and cannot do. The restriction is placed on government -- not the Church.  However, this does not mean the Church is not restricted in practicing and preaching it’s specific dogma within the church.  Government officials are free to have and practice their personal beliefs as they see fit, but they are not permitted to create or block policy based on those privately protected beliefs. 

There are regrettably, women that oppose passing the Women’s Equality Act. And so I ask those women running for office; Sue Serino, Kathleen A. Marchione, Elizabeth O’Connor Little, Patricia A. Ritchie, and Catharine M. Young to consider separating their personal and private beliefs about women’s reproductive rights and support instead, equality for all women.  Better yet, I ask everyone in those districts to vote instead for Terry Gipson, Brian Howard, and Amy Tresidder and reach out to the senators that are running uncontested. 

How will we ever be treated equally or have equal rights if policy excludes a woman’s right to make decisions about herself?  How can we continue to permit the exclusion of a woman’s right to medical health care access from the discussion and legislation of equality?  How can anyone justify passing an act that protects women and provides equal rights, as long as it excludes giving women rights to make decisions about their own bodies?

Providing equal rights in a way that women in their entire being get to decide how to live as women, as mother’s or not, as workers or not, as women, and not men is the whole purpose for passing the Women’s Equality Act, in fact every other section of the act includes issues that involve and could potentially grant more rights to men. For those of us women that wish to practice freely, without discrimination, the right to safe and viable choices related to whether or not we wish to have an abortion or not is a necessary and important part of the Women’s Equality Act.  It does not mean that every woman must make the same choice, or agree with the choices being made by some women, but it is vital that all women be permitted to make decisions related to being women.  

Perhaps if we could pass the Women’s Equality Act in New York State, who knows maybe the United States as a whole might consider supporting and ratifying The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW, or the Treaty for the Rights of Women), which was adopted by the United Nations in 1979. It is the most comprehensive international agreement on the basic human rights of women, and the United States currently holds the deeply disturbing distinction as being the one, the only, country in the Western Hemisphereas well as the only industrialized democracy that has not ratified this treaty.  In fact we are joined with Iran and Sudan as countries that have not ratified this treaty.

Footnotes:

¹ Current- as in, since 1973.  New York State’s laws related to women have not been updated since 1970.  You know back in a time before women had a whole lot of rights….back before 1994, when domestic violence became illegal, women’s rights…such a wild new current concept somehow…. Almost makes you wonder

²Special- as in restricted by government

For more information check out these sites.  

http://nywomensequality.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/wea-factsheet-07102013.pdf

http://nownyc.org/womens-equality-agenda/32-state-senators-vote-against-choice/