(EDITOR'S NOTE: The following column contains a graphic image of an aborted child and may be disturbing to some readers.)
Let me introduce myself. My name is Baby Nobody. Shame, Detritus, Zed, Vanished, Nothing, Oblivion, Rape, Nada, Inconvenience, Unseen, Silence, Abandoned, Zip, Disparu, Scratch, Pressure, Fear, Nihilo and N'existe Pas...
As a "product" of abortion, I was bequeathed so many reasons not to be that I will never know them all. Call me Neverwas for short.
Though I'm only a plastic token, a semblance of a three-month child in the womb, please consider me a memento mori. It will help you recall a multitude of foundered lives. 1,326,012,558 of us worldwide since 1980 is a good guess.
TRENDING: St. Patrick's role on the 'external hard drive'
I always make people uncomfortable. Even my present meek form is too much for them to bear. Since you all began life looking like this, I find your revulsion strange.
Huffington Post quotes Mystical Listrom, who was incensed over my appearance in her mail (sent by Wisconisn Right to Life): "I shouldn't have people telling me what I can and can't do with my body," she said.
Apparently I am "telling her" via my mute resemblance and reference to the real dead. Perhaps gravestones "tell" her things too. The conscience is such a difficult thing to understand.
At a Clark County Washington fair, organizers sent spies to make certain we stayed safely stuffed in covered boxes. If we escaped into the public imagination, who knows what could happen? Riots, confusion, Pandora's box unleashed...
But don't be sad. I don't exist to spread condemnation and guilt, but to make it stop. Truly, if there were fewer abortions, there would be fewer regrets and other troubles.
Over decades I've made many guest appearances at pro-life tables and educational events, where I'm passed around or ignored. So far I haven't made too much fuss. But when my supporters dare use real photographs of my dismemberment or little fetuses floating in jars – oh the horror!
Abortion promoters are stricken with gruesome attacks of conscience and propriety – perhaps for the first time in their lives. Suddenly they find standards and discover compassion. Indignantly they object to being "forced" to view such indecencies, violence and gore. Think of the children!
Pro-choicers are patriotically concerned with the national morale and our mental hygiene. Let it be clean and unsullied – free from meditation of the killing rooms and all such messy by products of 'womyn-hood.'
What happens behind abortion clinic doors STAYS behind clinic doors.
Illustrations of our fate are truly scary. Strange that the celebrants of my death rage at photos, but fiercely defend the "right" to dismember, cut or burn me in real time – anywhere and at any point. Only it must be with a quiet, dignified efficiency – and in secret, even from parents. This is a private nightmare, a lonely and intimate surgical invasion with few witnesses. With the evidence disposed of, how could it be a crime scene?
So our likeness is forced off the streets, scrubbed off the Internet and banned from newsprint and books. We are the .003812%. Yet I know some of you will remember us for a long time, no matter how hard you try to forget.
Lobbyists for my death, such as Samantha Gordon from NARAL, are real "fetal-phobes." She found my little plastic form so disturbing that she complained to ABC over my distribution to children.
"Watching the anti-choice movement attempt to engage the public by using extreme and unsettling tactics is nothing new," she said.
People called us "aliens" and "squish babies." Did Gordon ever watch an actual abortion? Was it "extreme and unsettling," or can you bring popcorn and soda to watch?
But I am only a cipher, a sweet pink meme – a soft metaphor for unspeakable actions. Why are you afraid of me?
Now we swell the ranks of the unjustly dead to 58 million unborn (give or take a few hundred thousand). Crowds of our children didn't grow up, travel, sing, cover a couch with jam, learn Hungarian, skateboard, save their neighbors from fire or do anything else this year.
We, the Legally Dead Babies of America, are enough to populate a new country about the size of Great Britain – a Disposable Nation no one recognizes. In spite of our diplomatic obscurity, the U.N. demands we increase our population and is generous in its efforts to make it swell. They give our exterminators billions of dollars to improve our mother's health but they say we have to die first, to get the money.
And the generosity of the nice U.N. people never stops! This year they went to El Salvador to spring mommies from jail for killing babies who were already born. They called it "infanticide" before, but now they've changed that to "women's reproductive rights." We're getting some very big babies up here.
Recently I traveled, keeping this columnist company. I inspired her to think about abortion in all those places we lodged and visited, even though she'd rather not. Maybe I'm not much fun because I get so heavy. She posed me here and there, places I may have visited had I been tolerated.
Visa for this world? Denied.
Most of our time we've spent in the States where so many of my family reside. Although late to the abortion business (and it is a business!), we enthusiastically caught up in numbers with the nations who legalized abortion ealier.
It boggles our minds (we have them too) that after abortion, some people are proud and happy about doing this to us. They exult with shirts and signs proudly beaming out the good news to their friends. "It wasn't a boy!" "Yeay, it's dead!"
People of my generation (1973 on) love coffee shops, social media and games. I visited a few of those. Making a Facebook page is a bit of a challenge; but if anyone needs a social presence, it's us. But we do get some attention. Some of our supporters – like Right to Life, C-Fam, Pro-life Action League, Bound4Life, LifeSiteNews.com, Rachel's Vineyard, Susan B. Anthony List, and Operation Rescue – think only of us and our parents.
And there's those metal bands "Fetal Stench" and "Dying Feuts" who celebrate the blood, violence and pain in our lives. We can appreciate their honesty, compared to the simpering platitudes of those arranging our demise. "Make abortions legal, safe and rare" is their motto (but they really only want the first two – shhh, it's a secret).
Here I am at JFK airport and it's a creepy place for us, especially if our parents had dark skin. In 2012, more African-American babies were killed in New York City (31,328) than were born alive (24,758). Some people, like Planned Parenthood, think this is a wonderful thing. Business is booming for PP, but I see a lot of empty seats around here.
I love churches because that's where almost all my friends go. They started caring when the Romans left us for dead, creeping out at night and following our weak cries. Possibly this was the first social mission of Christianity.
Now the old gods, who have a taste for children, are piling in for a comeback. Tlaloc, Quetzalcoatl, Moloch, Cronus, Saturn and the Lady Tanit all laugh at Elohim and his Christ. They think sacks of money and laws in their favor have made them the strongest, that they've won. But we know it isn't true.
Friends, I hope you'll remember my younger brothers and sisters. Below I'm leaving a prayer for them at the Wailing Wall – that we will have few babies added to the Disposable Nation from now on.