Hello, Chicago.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

I came to abortion work in a rather circuitous way. It was not expected after seven years of strict Catholic schooling and twenty-one Thanksgivings full of staunchly conservative, pro-life family debates. By the time I arrived in Seattle in 1998, a newly graduated college-educated feminist, I had left all of the conservative Catholicism behind me, but I still did not anticipate that abortion work would become my passion.

When I was 19, I was in a car wreck. As a result I had a spinal fusion that was successful for two reasons. First of all, I can walk and second, the fusion is in excellent shape twenty years later due to an excellent surgeon and prudent care on my part.

However; this puts me in a category known as "pre-existing condition" to insurance providers. Once you have one, you must stay insured at all times or you will never be insured again.

With all the media and political talking heads yakking about teen, unwed, or single mothers these days, I have a wake up call for everybody...

I have been a teen mother. I have lived with a man just to keep my baby. I graduated from a high school for teen mothers. I have been a single mother for eight years. I know a bit about this issue. Most of these politicos and talking heads have never lived my life, never had an inkling of what it's REALLY like to have a baby at sixteen and another at nineteen, and I cannot be silent about this subject that has, for the last few days, replaced the MISSING WHITE WOMAN headlines or CELEBRITY O.D.s on 24 hour "news." This does not happen often. Maybe in the last year, teen moms have been on the radar, in the form of US Magazine or whatever trash people are reading these days, because of what? Britney Spears, our tabloid queen, with more covers than Princess Diana, her little sister got pregnant at sixteen, sold her story to a trashy magazine for a million dollars, and suddenly teen pregnancy is a hot topic again--that and the fact that it has, for the first time in decades, increased. If the topic of teen/single moms can only be brought up because of some chick I've never heard of, in a National Enquirer-type magazine, which sadly is more widely read than newspapers.....Well, I quote Thomas Jefferson: "I tremble for the fate of my country."

I am not Jamie Spears. I am not a millionaire fake celeb. I am not Bristol Palin. Do you think either of these girls will walk into their local welfare office and wait hours, just for that extra $100 a month in foodstamps? Will they ever spend week after week on the phone with operators hired by a privatized Medicaid system, trying to find a doctor who will actually see their asthmatic child? Will they spend years fighting the Attorney General's office for child support, waiting a year just to get to court? Will they ever try to pay for their generic can of beans with WIC coupons and be treated like a leper? Have someone roll their eyes as they buy food with food stamps after they just got off an eight-hour shift standing on thier feet, cutting nasty hair?

First Ricky Lake made a movie, the Business of Being Born, inspired by her own homebirth and actor John C. McGinley (Scrubs) and his wife Nichole had a baby at home and People magazine wrote a nice blurb about it.

Then ACOG (the American College of Obs and Gyns) felt so threatened they issued a press release reiterating their "long-standing opposition to home births" in which they state:

"Childbirth decisions should not be dictated or influenced by what's fashionable, trendy, or the latest cause célèbre. Despite the rosy picture painted by home birth advocates, a seemingly normal labor and delivery can quickly become life threatening for both the mother and baby."

Apparently childbirth decisions should only be influenced by celebrities choosing planned cesareans, despite that being a much riskier option.

"I don’t know how you do it," my neighbor’s girlfriend commented. My five-year-old daughter Siu Loong was at her father’s house and I had taken advantage of my free night to attend and photograph a march against police brutality, then stayed out till midnight developing the film I had shot.

"I dunno. I just do," I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

But that’s not entirely true. To simply say that leaves out the resources and community I’ve gained from years of being engaged in social justice work.

A couple weeks ago I traveled to New York City for work. It was my first visit to the city, and on my one free afternoon, I shot out of my hotel room and into the city like a pinball. I popped in and out of stores. I raced up and down streets. I bounced in and out of subway tunnels. I wanted to see it all: the visual assault of Times Square; the carousel at Central Park; the tiny, closet-like cafés in the Soho district; the children skipping through the fountain at Washington Square Park. I was so busy shopping I didn't even have time to buy anything. In the evening, as I made my way back to my room, I passed a street vendor selling t-shirts for children printed with images of pop icons. The shirts seemed like the perfect New York City souvenir for my children: hip, edgy, irreverent. For my six-year old daughter, I chose a purple shirt with Einstein sticking his tongue out for the camera. For my two-year old son, a bright blue shirt with Che Guevara's chiseled profile set against a red background.

I was pleased with my purchases, and so were my kids. The first morning after I returned, I dressed them in their new shirts. On the drive to my son's Spanish immersion daycare, my daughter amused herself in the back seat by teaching her brother to say the name of the man on his shirt. He caught on quickly. Over and over in the car, she pointed to his shirt and asked, "Who's that?" And he responded proudly: "Shay Gebaba," and all three of us giggled. When we arrived at his classroom, he ran up to his teacher, a soft-spoken Cuban woman who never failed to greet him with a hug. He pointed to his chest and squealed: "Shay Gebaba!"

Reflections on 9/11
By Jarid Nidal Manos

I'm still a primitive monkey. I don't like loud noises. I also don't find recreation in throwing myself off cliffs, out of planes, or through twisting, upside-down loops of crazy-ass rides at Six Flags Over Texas. Why would I? Although, if I'm to be honest and share too much information, when I was a little mug I was sure I'd eventually check out with a high dive at sunset or twilight from the top of a building, even a five- or six-story one. I've always had excellent form.

Monica and Me
By Laura Fokkena

Some people remember where they were when they heard Kennedy was shot. Others remember where they were when they watched the moon landing. I remember where I was when I first realized Bill Clinton was lying about his sex life: Falls Church, Virginia, on the balcony of my friend Erik's apartment.

My daughter and I were crashing at Erik's while we waited for the triple stars of housing, job, and day care to align in exactly the right combination. It's a trick, that. Find day care without a job and you won't be able to afford it. Find a job without day care and you won't be able to go to it. And find either without an apartment and, well, let's just be thankful that Erik had a couch.

War and Protest: Scenes from the Homefront on the First Day of Spring
by Shaunna Harrington

My day officially begins when my four and a half year old daughter runs into my bedroom and announces, “It’s the first day of spring, Mama!�

Zoë’s nursery school has been counting down all week. We toast “Happy Spring!� to each other and to Ennya, our 5 month old baby, and the three of us snuggle under the covers in my bed and talk about the great things that happen in spring: leaves and flowers and chirping birds and going to school without snow pants.

We eat breakfast and get ready for school. I open the kitchen door and the fresh smell of early spring immediately greets me. With the first gulp of warm air, I feel the winter tension in my body begin to dissolve. I smile uncontrollably. I know I will not spend this day counting down the hours until bedtime.