By F. Diaz

Most people with uteruses have had the moment that they’ve thought to themselves: Could I be pregnant? This question occurred to me on a weeknight at around 11:30 pm. The possibility was rather slim. 

Since I was seventeen, long before it was truly necessary, I have utilised contraceptives. However, sometimes when I was a few days late for my period or had symptoms that felt odd for my body, this fact would linger in my mind: every contraceptive has at least a 1% chance of failing.

I’ve always liked children, but the act of parenting is not one I have felt like committing. Other women responded to this revelation with claims that they had said the same thing. They believed that, just like they did, I was sure to change my mind. My family responded to my words with their wants of grandchildren. It felt unfair that my body should be made to reproduce just because my body could. Especially when women across the globe wanted to be parents and couldn’t conceive. It felt like they should have more ability than I. 

It was the return of the 1% fact to my mind in the fall of 2020 that sent panic through my body and led me to reluctantly go to the local grocery store. On the way, I was hyperaware of every possible negative outcome, including the stares and judgement of strangers. I pulled my hood further over my head in an attempt to block out their ideas, which would all be based on misunderstandings. 

Once I got inside, the family planning section was not far. Condoms, lubricant, pads, and everything in between sat readily available on the shelves. For the pregnancy tests, however, you had to take a strip of paper stating what the item was and bring it to the cashier for them to grab it for you. At this, it crossed my mind to leave the store. With everything else around sex easily and discreetly within reach, access to the tests felt like a production. 

With my strip of paper, I headed to the line. The store was busy and, as always, only one register was illuminated. A female cashier began to walk up to the register; I was relieved. At least, I assumed, she would understand my situation. 

She began with pleasantries, but when she read the paper her face fell and she raised her eyebrows. As she walked away to grab me a test, a tall man got in line behind me, looking for something. When he asked, I aided his search and then turned back around. I saw the line getting longer and felt my body begin to shake. 

When the woman serving me came back and began cashing me out, she stated unnecessarily, “We got that test for you.” She seemed to wave it around as she spoke. The man behind me, who I had helped, took notice. He looked me straight in the eyes and proceeded to say one of the most vulgar things imaginable. “Oh, a pregnancy test! You let some dude bend you over backwards, ride you bareback, and have his way with you, huh?” 

Silence followed on my part. Hanging on the graphic nature of his description, the passivity of the word ‘let’. I began to speak but he cut me off by asking, “What are you going to do if it comes back positive?” The judgement that I had feared was actually happening. I mustered up enough courage to say that it wasn’t a possibility, but the man wouldn’t leave me alone. “Yeah, but if it is,” he continued. “Are you ready for that? Is your little dude ready for that? Probably not. You think he’s going to stay?”

I was in line alone. In his comment, he made a determination about who he thought I was. He rudely asked, “Are you going to keep it? You have to keep it.” The test wasn’t scanning. The man heard the cashier call a colleague for help and said to the crowd behind us, “This lady let some dude rawdog her, so now we gotta wait cause obviously she needs this test bad!” 

Everyone, including the cashier, laughed. The open mouth kind of laughter, with pity in their eyes. I was a young Puerto-Rican woman in a less wealthy part of town, paying in cash, hiding behind a hoodie. What about me was laughable? 

After what felt like an eternity, the system started working and I paid. When I reached for the change, the man got one last comment in: “Yeah, don't forget that you'll definitely be needing it.” And everyone, including the cashier that wouldn’t look me in my eyes, laughed again.

Angry tears fell as I exited the store. The confidence in his mockery. His excited eyes as he described the imaginative sexual scene that he believed happened. The line laughing. These people weren’t seeing me. They only saw what they assumed about me, and they used that assumption as validation to disrespect and degrade me.

If they could see my loving boyfriend, supportive family, and well-paying job, would they respect me then? But then again, why should knowing those factors somehow warrant more respect? I wondered what I had internalised that allowed me to feel, for even a split second, that his words had any validity. 

When I finally mustered the strength to tell my boyfriend what had happened and to take the test, the results were negative. We were relieved and mostly unsurprised by the results. But we were disappointed. We wondered at the state of a society in which people had been taught that publicly humiliating anyone was justifiable or acceptable, whether that person was potentially pregnant or otherwise. If you’re ever in a line like the one that I was in, don’t laugh at the stranger others try to mock – speak up for them.