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THREE YEARS AGO TODAY, on my birthday, I had the abortion. Always the abortion; never an abortion. It was an eight hour drive, round trip, between Madison and home. The abortion took fifteen minutes. Push ing it, I was back in time for the birthday party my mother had planned. She didn't know about the abortion. In my scrapbook there is a photograph of me, smiling, cutting the cake. I've captioned the photo: "Twenty-two. Laura grows up." Some years before I had met with a group of women to view an abortion film. I was raising my consciousness. I remember the girl in the striped socks, brave, letting her abortion be filmed for all her sisters' peace of mind. She was on the table, her feet in stirrups. She had left her socks on, striped socks. We never saw her face nor heard her voice. She was motionless, si lent. But she was saying something to us all: "Look! It's so easy I can do it with my socks on!" In the film the doctor and the nurse were very efficient, smiling. So white. They talked to the camera: "Now we are dilating the cervix. Now we are inserting the suction tube. Now we are turning on the machine." The tube turned red. The machine hummed awhile longer. Then there was a sound, like when you suck up the end of a milkshake. "You have just seen a successfully completed vacuum aspirator abortion with no complica tions." The lights came on. The women murmured: "It really is very sim ple." "Very clean." "Looks painless practically." I was motionless, silent. This was not a Hollywood movie. It was real life, real death. Right on the screen.

The Girl in the Striped Socks