I stumbled across this, in searching for something else entirely. I’m sad that I did. It’s a story with a moral and a motivation that I can’t understand. It’s a story that’s interesting and somewhat lyrical. It’s a story of selfishness. It’s a story of how oxytocin changes abilities to reason. It’s a story of what we are told we can do. And then some women go out and do it. And some blog about it, and compare their choice to kill their lentil-sized baby with deeply significant religious events like Passover that do not celebrate what she thinks they celebrate. Then trendy magazines like Slate give a forum for such articles and the author feels satisfied that she is a real artist.
Pro-lifers in this world always understand what it means to be pro-choice better than pro-choicers understand what it means to be pro-life. That’s what it means to be a minority: you have to understand those you live with, at least a little, while the majority assume everyone thinks like they do. But sometimes I’m truly at a loss.