Dear SCOTUS: A reaction to the buffer zone opinion
This blog is not a political blog. However, yesterday the Supreme Court handed down a decision striking down buffer zones outside of abortion clinics in Massachusetts. As a former Planned Parenthood League of Massachusetts intern, this touches me a bit more deeply. I had some feelings that I needed to express, and a pithy Facebook update was just not enough. So I invite you to read this post, or invite you to not read it. I promise that I’ll resume some normal semi-regular content shortly.
I admit that I did not read the full text of the decision, linked below, as I am not fluent in legalese. But I did read the analysis from the venerable SCOTUSblog (link above), which is much easier to understand. I reiterate that these are my opinions, but I tried to base them in fact as much as possible.
From NARAL America: A Clinic Buffer Zone vs. SCOTUS’ Buffer Zone
Dear SCOTUS:
I find your opinion on McCullen v. Coakley to be outrageous, and allege that it will have great ramifications for women’s health in the years to come. I understand that this is a first amendment issue for you; that it was almost semantic in the idea of counselors versus protesters. Perhaps it was even about public safety. But as someone who walked through that buffer zone four times a week for months, I can tell you that your opinion misses a few important points.
- Those “counselors” are still protesters
Your delineation between “counselors” and protesters is really mincing words here, judges. Most of the people outside are holding anti-abortion signs. Not everyone on the line tries to counsel women who are headed into the building on their options. What constitutes a counselor anyway? Does s/he have to try to counsel everyone? If someone tries to counsel just one person in the day, does that mean s/he is not a protester? Even armed with options and literature, these people are still protesters, through and through.
- Those “counselors” can be heard, just not as much as they want to be
That being said, those counselors/protesters can be heard by passersby and people entering the building. They have plenty of room to stand (although, admittedly it’s a little weird at the Brookline/Boston Planned Parenthood, given that the building is on a corner), and they could talk to women. They just can’t get to enough of them, and that’s why they have this problem. The first amendment isn’t about getting adequate access to free speech (or apparently to counseling for birthing options), but to allow for it at all. These buffer zones definitely allowed for it. Trust me, I saw them bright and early each week. Someone wanted to talk to me that first day, but I glared at him and the group left me alone after that.
- This decision enables “counselors” to be more confrontational
Now, I cannot claim that all counselors/protesters will suddenly become more aggressive as the space between them and the building shrinks. However, a reduction in space between where the counselor/protester can stand and where people enter the building allows for greater chance of confrontation and conflict. This is just asking for increases in violence. Now isn’t this the real threat to public safety?
- This also presupposes that these counselors are the only counseling options available for women
Hey judges, did you know that Planned Parenthood has a family planning clinic that goes over all of a woman’s options? Including all of those that the “counselors” outside do? And these actual counselors in the clinic will likely provide more sound, non-judgmental, medically accurate advice than a politically motivated layperson outside. While those “counselors” outside should certainly have the opportunity to offer advice and counsel, it should not be at the detriment to women who need wise advice and counsel.
- The buffer zones were thought up and enforced to protect EVERYONE going inside the building, not just women having abortions
Hey SCOTUS, I am sure you are aware that these buffer zones were instituted to help keep everyone safe inside, right? Because of past incidents? Don’t want to make too fine a point on this, but they are there for a reason.
- This decision will likely prevent some women from receiving the CRITICAL care they need
And SCOTUS, what I feel is your biggest lapse in judgment is the reverberating impact that this will have on women’s health. You see, many of these “abortion clinics” are actually Planned Parenthoods or similiar health centers that provide care, cancer screenings, and other important services for women. Not just abortions. In fact, they mostly do not perform abortions. The reduction of these buffer zones is more likely to prevent some women from going to or getting into these clinics to receive the care they need, either out of fear, embarrassment, or aggravation. Many women rely on Planned Parenthood for their care, and if they no longer feel safe or comfortable going to the clinic, how can their receive their care? It is bad enough that some Planned Parenthoods are outfitted with metal detectors out of necessity, but if one can’t get a cancer screening without being harassed outside by a pro-life activist, then the future is really grim.
SCOTUS, you’ve done some damage to women’s health today. I know you can’t take it back, but perhaps a future court will realize the error of your ways and allow for some more breathing room. Hopefully it is not at the expense of anyone’s lives or well-being, but I fear that may be the case.
Dire Straits of a Grad School Summer
We’ve come to the glorious time of year: the sun is shining, the flowers are in bloom, and the stress is high, because all of the procrastination has come back to haunt.
Normal people at the beach.
It’s the end of the semester. All my regular classes are done; all that stands between me and a good, long nap is a war game simulation, two take home finals, and a research paper. I’m almost there.
And then…what? For the first time in, well, I’m not sure how long; I don’t know what I am going to do this summer.
You see, grad school summers are unlike other summers because you only get one. You have to make it count. It’s not meant to be like an undergrad summer where you went home, turned off your brain, and worked at Starbucks. If only.
Grad school summers are meant to be productive: internships, fellowships, research, and immersive travel. You gain experience that makes your resume sparkle, access to an inner circle of working professionals in your field, and make connections with important people. And I don’t have that lined up.
It’s not for lack of trying: I’ve been worrying about my summer plans since the fall. Deadlines are early and were sometimes missed when I was swamped with work. And my twenty (give or take) applications to Pathways internships were rejected. And some of those beautifully crafted cover letters and resumes that I sent out into the ether received no response at all. I was offered one (unpaid) internship, but declined the offer for the high opportunity cost of the four hour minimum roundtrip commute.
So the question remains: just how picky should I be now? Is it worth it to apply for unpaid internships that are relevant to my career and academic interests? Should I now go after some Starbucks-like job just to supplement my pesky habits of eating and living indoors? Is forfeiting pay for valid experience possible? Is forfeiting valid experience for pay (likely a minimum wage job that will require a cash register) worth it?
Riddle me this: intern or barista?
Hence the dire straits of a grad school summer. Experience or pay? Where will I derive the greatest benefit? Which has the higher opportunity cost?
My brain and my heart are answering those questions very differently.
And the rest of my work is telling me to stop worrying about this and worry about finishing my paper on chemical weapons proliferation. Yeah, yeah work. I’ll be there in a minute.
(Surprising) Lessons Learned in 2013
Another year gone, my dear readers (or Mom, if you’re the only one reading this).
The other day, a friend posted this on Facebook: “Happy Festivus! Here’s my grievance: 2013. Here’s to 2014!”
Honestly, I could not have said it better. I’m happy that 2013 is ending.
2013 taught me what “shelter in place” meant. 2013 saw the loss of two of my family members. 2013 brought massive change to my life.
Now don’t get me wrong, there has been plenty to celebrate these past 365 days.
Most of all, the past year has taught me some lessons, some more surprising than others.
Lesson 1: ASK
This was probably the biggest lesson I learned this year. Ask. Ask when you need help instead of being stubborn. Ask when you think you could benefit. Asking helped me get an unpublished chapter from a renowned scholar for a research project. Asking got me upgraded to first class for a flight to Boston this week. Ask. The worst thing that could happen is someone says no.
Lesson 2: Self-care is important
As someone who is always working at a break neck speed, I tend to forget that I need to also take time to do things to help myself. School deadlines are vital, but I can’t get completely bogged down in them. Even if I have to schedule time for the gym, it will be time well spent in order to avoid stress and major meltdowns in the future.
Lesson 3: Friends are worth putting on pants for
There are just those days when you want to stay curled up in bed and sleep forever (or stay glued to Netflix). But friends are worth getting out of bed, putting on pants, and leaving the house. It will be infinitely better to get out there and experience life with your friends instead of marathoning “The League” in your room.
Lesson 4: CAPS ARE INCREDIBLY MOTIVATING
When feeling stressed or overwhelmed about my workload, I go to friends for pep talks. Over IM or text message, some friendly words sent all in caps are absolutely motivating. “YOU GOT THIS.” “YOU’RE AMAZING!” “YOU’LL ROCK IT!!!” See what I mean?
Lesson 5: Change is necessary
As I’ve mentioned before, leaving Boston and my friends and family has been incredibly difficult. But change is necessary to grow, to find new adventures, and life live. Change isn’t always easy, but eventually it evens out for the best.
May 2014 be better overall. May it be full of adventures, success, love, warmth, life, friends, family, change, knowledge, and new lessons learned. I wish the same to you dear reader (Mom).
Happy New Year!
Why This Win Means so Much More
The Boston Red Sox are the 2013 World Series champions—our third title in ten years. This still feels like a novelty to me, given that our victory just nine years ago was our first in eighty-six years when we broke the dreaded curse. This is made all the more impressive in comparison to our performance last season, where the Sox were last in the AL East, and third from the bottom in the American League. This year was supposed to be a rebuilding year, but instead we won. We’re the champs. It’s still surreal.
How We All Felt
But I think this year, more than any year, we as a city, as Red Sox Nation, needed this. This championship is the embodiment of the city’s new unofficial motto, “Boston Strong.” These two words are our encouragement to keep going, to keep fighting, for the victims to keep working at getting better every day. This city has grown even stronger since the tragic events in April, and the Red Sox have played a major role in that. Boston has some of the most rabid sports fans in the country, and this team’s devotion to the city, especially in our time of crisis, was nothing short of amazing.
David Ortiz is right: this is our &%!*^#@ city and this championship was for us. The World Series trophy, and even Ortiz’s MVP award is for the citizens of Boston and Red Sox Nation; for Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, Lingzi Lu, and Sean Collier. This is for Jeff Bauman, and Celeste and Sydney Corcoran, and the Brassards, and Brittany Loring, and Officer Richard Donohue. This is for everyone who was injured, physically and emotionally that day. This is for us.
Even more for me personally, this series and this win is for my Aunt Linda. Growing up in my family, being a Sox fan is a birthright, and Linda was one of the biggest fans of our bunch. Just like her father, you could find her sitting deep in a chair on game day, wearing her cap, and cheering along with the game. Or, given the Sox for most of her life, yelling at the game (this is a habit I have also picked up, but I add in some more colorful language and nicknames for the players). Linda passed away in March after a battle with cancer.
As the Sox progressed through the post-season, I thought of her more and more. I know she would have been elated at how well we were doing and how far we were progressing. When we clinched the pennant, my first thought as I danced around my living room to “Dirty Water” and “Sweet Caroline” was “this one’s for Linda.” And that was that. Although it wasn’t as easy a series as it was in 2004 or 2007 (obstruction calls, anyone?), I was convinced we would win, and would win it for her. There was no better way to honor her memory.
My mother watched the games from Florida with her hat, her Wally, and a photo of Linda by her side.
The Sox brought the victory back to Fenway for the first time in nearly a century. It was worth going to Game 6 to see it happen on our turf. In our &%!*^#@ city. I was incredibly emotional that night because this victory meant so much more. It was for Linda. It was for the victims. It was for Boston. It was for us.
Thank you, Red Sox, thank you.
2013 World Series Championship flag is already hanging outside of Fenway
(Courtesy Brian Baldeck)
An Ode to Boston
It is no secret that I am homesick. Although the initial and heartbreaking pangs of aching have faded a bit, I still long for my adopted hometown of Boston. Admittedly I have grown nostalgic for things that I don’t actually miss, but they seem so novel now that I’ve relocated.
As I pack up my bags for my first visit home this weekend, I thought I’d post an incomprehensive list of some of the things I’ve missed about Boston, ultimately nostalgic or not:
- The way the city vibrates when we’re in the playoffs
- Fenway Park and belting out “Sweet Caroline” in the middle of the eighth
A Boston Tradition at its Finest
- The Bon Me truck in Dewey Square, where you can have a picnic lunch under a huge public art installation
Banh mi from Bon Me
- Walking through the park down the middle of Comm Ave in the winter through the lines of twinkling light
- The Citgo sign lighting up as the sun sets
- The frustrating system of roads
Hilarious and Apt.
- Taking the Red Line across the Longfellow Bridge; emerging out of the darkness of the tunnels and speeding past the best view of the city
One of my favorite views of Boston.
Bonus view of 100 Beacon Street.
- The way the Charles looks at sunrise and sunset
Boats are common here.
- How the city’s unofficial theme song is about how terrible the water of the Charles used to be
- Karaoke on Friday nights at the Charles Playhouse
I only wear the finest clothes to sing karaoke.
- Not having to take your CharlieCard out of your wallet to board the T (or having to pay an exit fare)
- The access to Broadway-level theatre right in your backyard
- The leaves in the fall in the parks dotting the city
- How the Public Garden explodes with plants and flowers every spring
- How the people of the city can rally together, especially after a major tragedy
- Monthly flavors from JP Licks
- Indie movies at the Kendall followed by weird and delicious meals at the Friendly Toast
- A Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner
- Driving across the Tobin Bridge in to Boston at twilight when the city is truly alive…it’s actually worth the $3 toll
Although it’s no longer where I hang my hat, I am forever a Bostonian. And that’s wicked cool, ked.
Who Says You Can’t Go Home?
I can’t. I can’t go home. At least not really.
The house that was.
This past Monday, my parents closed on their house, and that same day packed the last of their belongings and hit the sunny trail to a retired life in Florida. While I am beyond thrilled that they are finally following their dreams and relocating for warmer climes and far superior diving, it is still…odd. The house that I called home for years no longer belongs to a member of my family. My strongest connection to my hometown, where I lived until I moved to Boston for college, is gone.
Londonderry, NH is and always will be a part of my identity. It helped to shape
Idyllic, no?
who I am, and has been the base of many fond memories (and many memories that I wish I could forget). Yet having this house was like my security blanket of familiarity. I liked knowing that I could drive up 93, and get off exit 4, and I could pass the standard landmarks that I now feel a strange nostalgia for, and sail into the driveway. The sale of this house of course does not bar me from visiting Londonderry; from driving the hilly back roads, or passing the seemingly countless apple orchards, or getting ice cream from Mack’s in the summer, yet it does not feel the same. Not having the tether of a house filled with my parents and their belongings makes me feel like I would be a visitor in my hometown.
The Londonderry Marching Lancers are world famous.
But is that really a bad thing? Leaving Londonderry for Boston to attend college was one of the best choices I ever made, and my recent move to Virginia for school and my future career is proving to be another smart choice. So do I really need this house to be the manifestation of my past? Does the house mean that it’s not home?
I know this strange feeling will fade, as will this sudden attachment to the idealized notion of home. We all need to keep moving forward, and the sale of the house is helping my parents move forward. I think it will help me too.
My Penultimates and Lasts
In one week I will be moving from Boston, my second home, where I have lived for nearly a decade.
In one week I will be leaving behind the New England that I’ve known my whole life, and entering a new world just south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
In one week I’ll say so long to family and friends. I’ll load my belongings on to a truck and start driving down I-95.
As suspected but not wanting to fully believe, the summer raged on with what seemed like a vengeful capacity. My “Boston bucket list” has been shrinking at a decent rate, but with one week left, I am destined to leave many tasks unanswered. I’ve been able to do things in town that I have yet to try in all my time here, and has helped me enjoy one last time of others to truly remember Boston.
Since May, I’ve been marking experiences as penultimate and lasts. It began at the end of that month, upon returning from a week-long seminar in Washington. As I watched the city of Boston grow in my window from the plane, I realized it was the last time I was going to land at Logan as a Bostonian. At least for the foreseeable future, I won’t be landing in Logan and taking the T home. Next time I’ll be waiting for a friend to take me to their home.
This new way of marking time has made for nostalgia. It’s made the summer both easier and much more difficult. While sitting at my desk at work, I am certainly comforted in thinking in to the coming weeks and realizing “this will not be my problem anymore,” yet my last Sox game, last docent tour of the JFK library, and last family gathering have been trying to sit through.
I realize this is not the last time I’ll attend a Sox game, see my family or friends, or sing on stage at my favorite karaoke haunt. Yet it feels so final. So ultimate. Visits home will be joyous for sure, yet I’ll feel like an interloper; a visitor in my own past. I’ll feel like an alumna visiting her alma mater to find that things have changed as much as they’ve stayed the same.
Boston is a part of my identity, and I know I’ll never lose that. It’s not just the city, and how it makes me feel, but of all the memories I’ve created by walking on its sidewalks, eating in its restaurants, living in dorm rooms and apartments in very different neighborhoods, and by just living.
As I enter my last week at work, training my successor, I have to keep reminding myself that this is not goodbye. This is so long. And that perhaps my life is in a perpetual state of penultimate moments, as there is always a chance of experiencing them again.
Forever and Always.
I’ve Made My Choice
And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Or at least some of you…
Drumroll please…
I have made the life-altering decision of where to attend grad school. In the fall, I will be relocating the Virginia to go to George Mason University.
Going in to the decision-making process, the voice in the back of my head constantly needled me, saying “You know it’s going to be Mason. It’s your top choice.” Yet I needed to weigh all factors, all options, all offers. If just the right offer from the right program came along, I would snap it up, but almost all offered the same amount of federal unsubsidized loans.
Once I gave in to that ever present voice in my mind (which, coincidentally had been growing 
exponentially louder), I felt elated. I e-mailed a confirmation of enrollment to George Mason, and within a matter of minutes, it was settled.
Yet something still did not feel right. Perhaps because the enrollment process was not more of a ceremony, or required no deposit. Perhaps because other offers still lay open. Perhaps just because this decision signified entering unprecedented territory.
This uncertainty has eased as I have assuredly rejected the other programs to say “I’m just not that into you,” yet a feeling of stress has taken over. It’s difficult to not get bogged down in fretting the details of relocation, funding, and leaving all I know but every once in a while I take a moment and smile.
I’m going to George Mason University.
I’m taking a huge step toward the career I want and have dreamed of for years.
And that’s pretty incredible.
A Few Thoughts on Boston
This blog has been on radio silence since the utterly tragic events at the Boston marathon April 15th. I had planned on posting that day about my grad school decision, or perhaps even about the marathon itself, yet have taken these past two weeks to attempt to come to terms with what happened to my city, and to find adequate enough words to express what I want to say. Although I am not sure either of those has really happened, I feel it’s time to say something.
Since I began work at a university in Cambridge three years ago, Marathon Monday has not been the same day of reverie (or really even the day of annoyance) that it has been in years past: I had to work. It was not a vacation day, and as the bombs went off, I was plugging away at my desk. This year was different in that I knew two people running: my cousin was running for Dana-Farber, and my former colleague’s husband was running for Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. I was insanely proud of my cousin and was really enjoying following both runners along online as they hit each checkpoint.
Boston Magazine Cover, May 2013
My world changed as a friend messaged me with the news: explosions at the finish line. I was confused: perhaps it was just some sort of cannon fire. I immediately tuned to Twitter and the local NPR website, and refreshed the runner check-in. Vague reports of bombs. Ghastly videos of explosions and twitpics of bloodied sidewalks. I sat at my desk for what felt like hours learning everything I could, tweeting and retweeting, assuring friends and family of my safety (side note: thank goodness for Facebook that day. Knowing the whereabouts of all friends that day by a simple status update or a like was an extreme relif).
My cousin was safe. As was my colleague’s husband. Had my cousin not stopped twice at the medical tents for to treat blisters, she might have been there when it happened. I have never been more thankful for blisters.
That day I walked across the Weeks Footbridge which spans the Charles River and connects to Boston to get home (I had been afraid to take the T after reports of bridges being closed and police investigating a suspicious package at the Harvard train station). I was so struck by how normal everything looked: people rowing, people running along the river. Ducks swam merrily along. The sun was shining beautifully. If only the unthinkable hadn’t occurred hours before a few miles away, it would have been a perfect day.
April 15th was an emotional day. I felt violated, numb, scared, unsafe, angry, and overwhelmed. How could someone do this to my city? At such an event which honors the ultimate athletic achievements? To hurt such innocent people? Tears were plentiful that day, but I quickly grew saturated from the constant rotation of news footage. We quickly turned on a comedy on cable.
I was still scared on April 16th. I hadn’t wanted to leave the house for fear of the unknown. Yet I told myself to have the conviction to show that I was not afraid, even if I was trembling on the inside.
That fear has since subsided (aided by the capture of the suspects), and my energy has refocused on two words: Boston Strong. This phrase, which has been adopted as the slogan of the city’s collective efforts to heal, is more than just two words on a t-shirt. Boston is a strong community. We’re the host of America’s revolutionary spirit, the diehard sports fans, the intellectual elite. We honor our first responders, help those in need, demand justice, and love our community even when it makes no sense. As Garytt Poirier (@Garytt) said on Twitter “If you expect #Boston [to] ease up, you are not aware of how we treated Bill Buckner for 18 years after a baseball rolled between his legs.”
This is changed our city forever, yet I believe that our city can turn this tragedy into a positive change. As long as we can stay united, if we can stay Boston Strong, then we can make the right steps forward.
It’s Crunch Time
I have been longing to return to school for an “official” graduate program for years. Although I am technically enrolled in one currently, I take classes here and there part time through my employer, and it does not feel cohesive. It feels as though I am collecting piecemeal knowledge and throwing in a thesis at the end.
This past fall, I decided it was finally time to take the plunge and apply for “real” grad school. After extensive research and a pretty lengthy pro-con spreadsheet, I whittled my choices down to nine. Months later, I am now in the unenviable position of choosing where to go next fall.
I have started feeling like one of those helicopter parents who obsess about getting their child into the right preschool. If they make it, their child will be on the right path toward becoming a Supreme Court justice. If they don’t, then they will obviously never make it in life and end up collecting garbage for a living. I know in reality that there is not likely that large a disparity in opportunity between one program from the other, but I am legitimately afraid of what this choice is going to mean for my future. I am constantly reminded of the enormity of this decision, which deepens my fear.
I realize this is a great problem to have: I have options. I was accepted to more than one program, including my top choice. Yet, unlike my college acceptances nine years ago (seriously, it was that long ago?) it is not an automatic decision. At twenty-six, I am now considering many more factors than I did at seventeen.
I am now ever conscious of money. Aside from the fact that aid is generally less available to graduate students (I mean, come on! Don’t penalize me for furthering my education!), living is just expensive when you’re not in a dorm, and not working full-time. My top choice will only be offering me federal unconsolidated loans. A school that I am not too excited about is offering me at least one year of full tuition, and a graduate teaching fellowship that includes benefits and a living stipend. At the beginning of this process I told myself that I would go where the money was, but is it worth it to give up my top choice for a program that does not really fit what I am looking for, but will essentially pay me to go there?
Last year, I would have said yes, it’s worth it. I was determined to add as little (or no) debt on to the remaining $62,000 I still owe to Citibank and Sallie Mae for my undergraduate education. Yet now, I’m not really that certain. It seems silly to throw away free money, but it seems like that opportunity cost is just too high.
Rory’s pro-con list led her to Yale over Harvard! It’s a helpful tool!
I built another pro-con list, a la Rory Gilmore. Hers helped her realize that she should attend Yale. No one expected that. Rory was destined for Harvard. Mine so far has elucidated that my top choice has the best pros, but some stronger cons. The next school in line (which is offering some funding, for a point of reference) is strictly at the middle of the road. The school offering all the funding had the strongest cons and the fewest pros. It has also shown that the school where I am waitlisted has the most amusing cons.
This could be me studying on campus, but which campus?
I have poured over faculty lists, examined class schedules, googled cost of living indexes, and checked out what apartments were going for on Craigslist in their respective locations. I have imagined myself living in each of these places, introducing myself as a graduate student there. I picture myself wearing that logo sweatshirt, walking on campus, going to a football game (because I will actually get to go to a school with a football team this time around).
I have less than a week to decide. Going to graduate school is going to change my life no matter where I go. I have to remind myself that my life likely will not be drastically different (at least not career-wise) by choosing my top choice over the second choice. Yet I still cannot shake that feeling in the pit of my stomach that THIS is the decision that will make it or break it for me. THIS is the one that I need to tread lightly on or suffer the consequences.
Only hindsight will clarify my choice. Despite my latent fear, I also have a feeling that I just need to follow my gut, as I did with my undergrad. There, I just knew what to do. I have already paid dearly for it (and will continue to do so for another two decades), but it was worth it for four years of an excellent education and an amazing college experience. My gut was right once, and I think it can be right again.
How about you? If you went to grad school, what was your decision process like? Or your process for general huge life decisions? Was it gut or money?
Falling Feet First 