Opinion
When does life begin?
Recent prosecution asks the big question
Eighteen-day old Kayla Fae Arandus is already having a
struggle to stay alive, but the lives of many other unborn
children could hang in the balance of a court decision for
or against Kayla Fae’s mother.
Deborah Arandus of Hastings is charged with abusing Kayla
Fae in her womb by drinking alcohol.
According to the American Civil Liberties Union and Center
for Reproductive Law and Policy, the case reflects a national
trend of women being prosecuted for their actions while
pregnant.
Lynn Paltrow, an attorney for the reproductive law center,
said that at least 167 women in 26 states have been arrested on
criminal charges because of their behavior during pregnancy. In
every case but one, the charges were dismissed or the woman
won.
Mrs. Arandus’s representative, Arthur Toogood, said he felt
the charges against her also should be dropped because he
thought Nebraska child abuse laws refer only to a “minor
child” not a fetus.
Maya Wiley, an ACLU attorney, said that alcoholism is a
disease and the court was making it a crime.
“What you’re really talking about is making a decision about
who’s fit to be a parent,” Wiley said.
But it also seems like the great question of the last decade
has resurfaced again — when does life begin?
Even the Supreme Court’s upholding of Roe vs. Wade
didn’t answer this plaguing question.
If the charges against Mrs. Arandus are dismissed based on
Toogood’s argumenis, the court will have decided that Kayla
Fac wasn’t assaulted because she wasn’t really alive.
Well, no one can argue that she’s alive now, barely.
If the courts continuing to set precedents that life docs not
begin until after birth, they will strike a staggering blow to the
pro-life movement and thousands of unborn babies.
Jay J. Sullivan, the lawyer appointed to represent the inter
ests of Kayla Fae, said he believed that once Mrs. Arandus had
made the decision to carry the baby full term, she had no right
to intentionally harm her through drinking.
“I don’t care if the baby is in the crib or in the womb,” Jay
said, “an assault is an assault.”
So, if an assault is an assault in or out of the womb, what is
abortion? AL
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Labels are a problem in society
Labels arc the tool of choice for
the haphazard way in which
I people try to understand one
another. You’re bom with a set of
labels if you possess gender and skin,
and you quickly assume those labels
of your geographic location and house
hold cashflow. I leaped into the melt
ing pot equipped with “poor, white,
farm, female. I quite recall having
requested “cosmopolitan heiress to
billions.”
You may go on to collect various
and sundry family tributes for espe
cially profound childhood moments,
like when you acquired a taste for dog
chow, or practiced spontaneous nu
dity.
You will ultimately assemble a
catalog of goodies from everyone else
in the world by virtue of now you
relate to their lives. Some good people
fl i ng their descriptives fast and loose,
making for the occasional absurd con
sequence. 1 should know, I've been
called a lot of things.
Feminist, for example.
The males in my family
parochialized the word “feminist,”
and in pre-pubescence, I was anointed
a “wimmin’s libber.” By what moti
vation, I have no clue, unless it was
the assertive way in which I objected
to being ground into a pulp by my
brother.
We had a discussion in my litera
ture class regarding the traditional
terms associated With the condition of
feminism, i.e., “independence,”
"wage disparity,” “male-bashing,”
etc.
Not within my glamorous lifetime
have I planted my feet firmly and
proclaimed to the world, “I AM A
FEMINIST!” Like I have that kind of
time.
I’m loobusy, trying tomakccnough
money (wage disparity) to pay the
rent (independence), or being mo
mentarily distracted by some guy
(male-bashing) who just called me a
name because I failed to curtsy at his
grunting reference to some part of my
anatomy.
Labels can arise from that time in
our lives described by cartoonist Matt
Groening as “the deepest pit in
hell,”— adolescence — and attach
themselves to us like slink on what
your cat does. I was the wild, rebel
lious, party-animal type of “crazy” to
the Wayne and Garth set of my devel
opmental years, and the self-destruc
tive, demented, dangerous type of
“crazy" to the adults in the commu
nity who espoused marginal non-in
volvement with troubled youth.
i nerc win always De uiat one small
Midwestern town where I could show
up in Elvis’ limousine driven by Garth
Brooks, married to Bob Kerrey, tot
ing the Nobel Prize in literature, and
doors would be locked, shutters fas
tened, and impressionable youth
would be pulled from the streets. It’s
nice to know such places still exist.
Sometimes, in moments of great
vision, we label ourselves. I’ve been
known, during an occasional lapse of
cognizance, to have used the term
“optimist" in relationship to myself.
Here’s a lip.
"Crazy" is by far a more benevo
lent label than is "optimist.” People
think you’re "crazy, and you have all
the room in the world, not to mention
total fashion freedom. The single
minor complication accompanying
“crazy” is possible personal intru
sions by those who sport the more
literal version of the label.
Optimism, however, seems to pro
voke everyone exposed to it. If you
make the blunder of displaying some
degree of optimism, let’s say, because
you don’t have lo undergo that major
surgery after all, transport yourself to
the nearest lavatory stall and wipe
that smile off of your face!
Ninety-eight percent of your peer
group is having a crappy day, and if
you nave the nerve not to, they arc
going to mess with you. The safest,
most assured way to maintain good
feelings about life is to disguise your
optimism by scowling constantly and
complaining of joint pain. If you must
smilc.do so in the most vapid-looking
way imaginable, so people might dis
miss you as “crazy.
One of my professors recently
lagged me with “abstract.” I was
mortified. I rushed home lo my bath
room mirror, expecting to see a rect
angular, one-eyed head with a
Samsonite handle for a nose. To my
somewhat modest relief, I looked as I
always had.
Some molds delicately suggested
that the good instructor was describ
ing my thought process as something
not widely understood. “Hmm,” I re
plied. They may have a point.
Most everyone I encounter seems
to understand things that I do not, like
why we flush our toilets with drinking
water. They appear to share the uni
versal understanding of how a man
can be given $7 million for semi
accuratcly hurling a leather-bound
sphere, while friends of mine are given
$5 an hour to handle infectious medi
cal waste.
I’m not so sure which of us has the
rectangular, one-eyed heads with
Samsonite handles.
Deborah McAdams Is a non-tradltional
«ophomore journalism student and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist