Abortion is commonly defined as “the termination of pregnancy and expulsion of an embryo or fetus,” or “a procedure resulting in such termination and expulsion.” Other shadings include “to bring to premature or fruitless termination.” In biology, “abort” means “to undergo arrestment of development.”
“Abort’s” root is from L. orior, “to arise, appear, come into being.” Anyone seeing similarity between this root and the root of the word “originate” would be correct. Take the root of “originate,” affix a preposition, ab, “off,” “away,” “from,” and you get a complicated word that seems to self-immolate: “To arise, appear, come into being” + “off” or “away.” To appear off? To come into being away? The AHD helps out here. Aboriri, “disappear, miscarry.”
The word “abort” is applied widely, as in “The mission has been aborted.” “Abort” keys on computer keyboards can interrupt a program’s or function’s progress toward its natural end. Are these uses of the word literal or metaphorical? Metaphorical or not, using the word to describe decisive actions resulting in the interruption of a process, natural or mechanical, is commonplace.
Can we use it to describe ideological miscarriages or attitudes resulting in the expulsion of embryonic ideas or the termination of competing lines of thought? Could we say that for a medical abortion to occur, certain ideological, or just plan logical, abortions occur first? Is the decision to abort a fetus itself an abortion, an expulsion of the concept of gestating, giving birth to, and raising a child?
In other words, may we use the word “abort” to speak of terminations of conceptions in general? If we develop a line of thought or literature whose purpose is to set cultural, political, or other ideological boundaries, may the rejected ideas be considered aborted?
IMO, narrative, not just literary but the daily narratives we construct about our experiences, is a function of agency. The stories we tell ourselves mark the boundaries of our choices, how far we’ve gone in taking responsibility for ourselves, how far we’re willing to go, and how far we expect others to go. Some people, like my disabled daughter, depend upon caretakers not only for food and other basic needs but also for narrative, stories that open possibilites from which they may choose and from which others may choose for them. To a greater degree than is usually true for the rest of us, caretakers control narrative for at least some of the disabled.
If caretakers, communities, organizations, or branches of science usually associated with helping people construct narratives saying “there’s nothing we can do here” or “this is the only thing we can do here,” everyone involved runs the risk of limiting the agency of dependents relying upon them for physical and narrative aid during mortal crises or other circumstances requiring life-defining decisions. If we develop narratives that say, “These people are not productive members of society” (with “productive” limited here to “capable of holding down a job, paying taxes, and doing one’s part to keep the wheels of society going”), such storylines not only limit choices for the disabled, the abandoned, or abused but threaten life itself. Agency and the progress that may result from actively engaged agency falters all the way around
The EPA’s new rules for testing hazardous chemicals used in pesticides “categorically” protect pregnant women and children from human dosing but contain loopholes specifically permitting testing on abused or neglected children. On one hand we have the EPA’s mission statement: “The mission of the Environmental Protection Agency is to protect human health and the environment.” On the other, we have the EPA’s response to challenges to their rules: “Abused and neglected children were specifically singled out [for systematic and daily pesticide experimentation] to create “˜additional protection’ for them …” Clearly, the EPA is negotiating narrative with the public.
Birds like cuckoos and cowbirds lay eggs in other birds’ nests. Some bird parents, returning to the nest, notice intrusive eggs and push them out. Undiscerning parents wind up nurturing invasive fledglings, who monopolize food, bully native fledglings, and often wind up the nest’s sole occupiers. I’m not familiar with the whole EPA story yet, but like other forms of miscarrying rhetoric, including rhetoric surrounding abortion and forms of abortion after the fact (like the euthanization of the disabled), I suspect the EPA narrative is striving to push other narratives from the nest.
Some might argue that prevailing narratives always “abort” other narratives; that is, in choosing any narrative course we reject other conceptions. This is where I think the agency-oriented language of the gospel shines through.
Satan’s narratives turn on the phrase, “This is the only way.” Christ’s turn on the phrase, “Choose ye this day.” “This is the only way” narrative admits no other possibilities; it’s abortive narrative that funnels choice in particular directions and coerces behavior, usually for the narrator’s personal gain. “Choose ye this day” narrative admits to other narratives and allows for their choice. “Choose ye this day” narrative invests in human potential, imagining new personal and communal spiritual possibilities and frontiers for human progression. Also, “Choose ye this day” language allows for other choices’ existence, even depends upon them to mark pathways for man’s eternal life and immortality.
IMO, fertile, native narratives tapping directly into pro-creative, pro-active “Choose ye this day” rhetoric aren’t forthcoming fast enough. Miscarrying, cuckolding language of “This is the only way” narratives abound. We LDS aren’t always discerning enough to recognize the invading rhetoric of parasitic ideologies; sometimes we take them underwing and raise them as our own (like this one). Also, we aren’t producing enough native narratives of the “Choose ye this day” variety to meet the needs of people within and without the church searching for viable and possibility-laden language. Stories merely reinforcing cultural boundaries won’t do; they won’t matter to others in the way that stories reinforcing others’ cultural boundaries don’t matter to us. We need to produce original stories in the root meaning of “arising, appearing, coming into being.” Truly original narratives open possibilities for development: they multiply and replenish agency, not just for humans but for other species living on Earth.