Three years ago I went in for my yearly Well Woman exam and found out I was 10 and a half weeks pregnant. I was single and unemployed, with health insurance that was set to expire in two months. My ex-boyfriend, Kurt, half of the reason for the unexpected pregnancy, and I were still living together as I hadn't yet found a place of my own, but we had split up a month earlier. I called him. I called my sister. I called my therapist. I called my parents. And then I called Planned Parenthood. I had a little over a week to decide what I wanted to do. I made an appointment for an abortion in one week in case that was what I ended up going with.

It was a rough week. Kurt and I cried and fought. We yelled and made accusations. My sister offered whatever support I needed whether that was a ride to the clinic and care afterward or someone to raise the baby with. My parents were far more measured with their support, mostly offering up reasons why having the baby would be the wrong choice. I had my career to consider. I was just getting going again with an acting career I had put on hold for four years. I was booking work and things were looking hopeful. I was having more success than I had had for many years. A baby would certainly put a giant kink in that trajectory. And how would I afford the labor and the subsequent baby without insurance or a job? What about my mental health? Would I be able to continue my meds while pregnant and nursing?

I was raised pro-choice. I always believed abortion was a woman's decision. I believed a woman shouldn't be forced to put her own goals on hold because she happened to get pregnant. And I always assumed if I got pregnant before I was ready I would have an abortion. I was 33. I didn't want kids. My career was important to me.

And yet. There was this nugget of an idea that kept making its way to the front of my brain. What if you did have this baby? It was a radical idea. Crazy, And yet. The nugget got louder and louder. Seriously. What if you did have this baby? And I started to think about what if. And, of course, I had no idea what if. I didn't know what having a baby would really do to my life. I couldn't possibly know. It could be the worst thing that ever happened to me. On the other hand. What if I had the baby?

Kurt and I took a weekend apart to think (and so I could stop throwing shoes at him), and when we came back together that Sunday, we decided to go with the terrifying unknowable future of the what if. I canceled my appointment with Planned Parenthood.

Seven months later I gave birth to a boy I never thought I'd have. And he is perfect. I mean, for real, the kid is a perfect specimen, I won't bore you with the details of how perfect he is. If you want to know, read the rest of my blog. But I challenge you to talk to a person on this earth who has spent more than 10 seconds with him who won't back me up.

And yet. I suffered major postpartum depression. Six months after Monty was born I found myself laying on my apartment floor barely able to breathe. Our financial situation made it nearly impossible to hire any kind of help. The only respite I got was from friends who would offer a few hours here and there for "date nights". We made too much money to get any kind of assistance but not enough to afford any childcare. I was hardly able to produce milk anymore because of general anxiety and anxiety about losing "the baby weight" in order to be skinny enough to get work in my industry. Monty was the easiest, happiest little guy and yet there were days when I didn't know how I would possibly survive 'til Kurt got home. I was sure I was a failure. I strongly considered hospitalizing myself. I went back on my meds and switched Monty mostly to formula.

Once my meds were stabilized I was able to think a little more clearly. I was better able to distinguish reality from the lies my sick mind was still whispering to me. You're a failure. Okay, maybe, but not today.

I am so glad I didn't have that abortion.

A year and a half after Monty was born I found myself once again unexpectedly pregnant. Six weeks after a slip up and a prompt ingestion of the morning after pill, my chest started to break out for the second time in my life two weeks after I should have gotten my period. This time I was employed (temporarily) and still had no insurance. Before I took the test, Kurt and I talked about the possibilities. If I was pregnant, we decided, we would downgrade to a one-bedroom apartment to save money. We would move back to New York. My family would help. Yes, we would make it work. I stood in the doorway of our bathroom staring at the two little lines on the pregnancy test in my hand. I looked up at Kurt and literally couldn't find the words. He reached out for me and I laid down next to him. We lay there in silence for 15 minutes. And then I burst out laughing and Kurt burst into tears, How had we let this happen again? Did we not know how babies were made? Did we miss that day in Health class? What were people going to say?

I called Planned Parenthood and made an appointment in one week in case that was the way we decided to go.

It didn't take us a week to make the decision. We knew right away. We had already taken risks having Monty and those risks were paying off in spades. ​He made our lives infinitely better.

And yet. We were barely getting by. I was still mostly unemployed. Turns out the nearly yearlong break my pregnancy demanded of my career made it harder to get back in. We managed to feed Monty well but at the expense of our own down time. We still had no child care help. We never got a break. Our situation wasn't quite dire, but it wouldn't take much to put it there. And people kept telling me every baby is born with a loaf of bread under its arm. But a loaf of bread doesn't pay the rent. And we all know where a loaf of bread landed Jean Val Jean.

And there was my mental health. We considered ourselves lucky that I had made it through my postpartum situation relatively unscathed. We didn't know if we'd be so lucky again. I honestly didn't think I could handle a second baby. What if it was colicky? What if it was sick? What if it was one of those babies that has no personality?

A second child would mean a significant downgrade in our quality of life, such as it was. Unless we came across some kind of financial windfall, we didn't see how having a second child at that point would be fair to us or to Monty or to it. We just didn't have the financial or emotional resources to spare.

​So, we kept our appointment with Planned Parenthood. We went in on July 5th, 2014. We got there before the clinic opened. The only protester there was a small guy with a graphic poster, speaking in spanish. But Kurt got called a coward and a murderer on his way out by a woman who had decided that she understood his life better than he did. The three other women in the waiting room were all mothers, too. They seemed fine with their decisions. We all felt fine with our decisions. And yet. We found ourselves defending our choice to each other as though we had anything to defend. We didn't. We were four loving mothers who were making the best decision for themselves and their families. The nurses and doctors who cared for me were extremely compassionate and kind. The doctor told me my last name means "good" in Hungarian. Or Polish. Or some language. And then I woke up in the recovery room and it was over and I felt relief.

I am so glad I had that abortion. It was absolutely the right choice for myself and my family. I have never once regretted it. I have never felt sad or mourned for "the baby that never was." Instead I have loved the baby that is. And all of our lives are infinitely better for it.

Ben Brantley is asking for it.

In his review of Of Mice and Men in Wednesday, April 16th's edition of the New York Times, Ben Brantley says Curley's wife, portrayed by Leighton Meister, "provides no evidence" of being either "slatternly" or "provocative" which, "[G]iven the grim events that eventually befall her character... may have been a conscious choice. We don't want to be left thinking, 'Well, she was asking for it.'"

Mr. Brantley, I am a woman of average looks. I'm no model. I'll never be cast in a Carl's Jr. ad. I am quite short, and, I think it's safe to say, I'm something of a tomboy. Some might even characterize my appearance, on occasion, as slatternly. However, since the age of 13 I have been faced with the unendingly exhausting task of thwarting unwanted attention and advances from strangers and friends, alike. I am in no way alone in this experience. Nearly every woman I know has a story of being harassed, followed, threatened, frightened or raped. In 100 percent of these cases these women, however they may have been dressed, whatever state of sobriety or inebriation they were in, whether they were "slatternly" or well-groomed, were not "asking for it."

When I was 14 a strange man touched my thigh on a crowded subway and then spit at me when I slapped his hand away. That same year a man poured his beer on my head on a subway when I wouldn't let him touch my face (an incident, I might point out, in which no one on the train came to my aid). That same year on a subway a man exposed himself and masturbated while staring at me. That same year I was forced to perform a sexual act on a stranger out of fear that if I didn't, something much worse would happen to me. Then there was the time a man followed me down a subway platform, holding the hand of his very young son and then called me an "ugly bitch" when I asked him to stop following me. And the time I woke up in a strange man's bed after having been drugged (he acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary). These are just a handful of examples.

In each of these circumstances I was wearing long pants and t-shirts, but this is an insignificant fact. Mr. Brantley, if I had been wearing a short skirt, or had my cleavage exposed, if I looked "slatternly," would I have been asking for these experiences?

Perhaps you don't know what it's like to have to think about your safety every time you get dressed in the morning. "Is this suit going to attract unwanted attention?"... "Will this tie make someone follow me?"... "Do these shoes give off the wrong message?" These kinds of considerations are what I (and most women I know) have to factor in every day. Do you have to worry about your sexual safety every time you leave your house? I do.

When we talk about a "culture of rape" in this country, we are referring to a culture in which, "She was asking for it" is a common, acceptable defense for criminal behavior. The only time a woman is "asking for it" is when she is literally asking for it. As in, "Let's have sex," or "Will you have sex with me," or "I'd like to have sex with you," or some variation thereof, either explicitly or implicitly with another consenting adult with whom sexual contact has been mutually agreed to by both parties. "Rape culture" is a culture in which an educated, prolific theater critic would assume that anyone would ever think "she was asking for it."

Furthermore, Mr. Brantley, I'm confused. What, exactly, is Curley's wife asking for? (Spoiler alert.) Is she asking to have her neck broken? If Ms. Meester's portrayal were more slatternly and provocative, would we really be left thinking she was asking to be murdered? What she does ask for is for Lennie to stroke her hair. That's it. This is not an invitation for intercourse. And frankly, even if she says, "Let's have intercourse," once she becomes frightened of Lennie's strength, she has the right to ask him to stop without anyone telling her she was "asking for it." Perhaps Ms. Shapiro made the choice she made with Curley's wife specifically to avoid this kind of ignorant and dangerous line of thinking. If so, it's a sad day for art.

As a member of the media and someone who has a public forum, I hope, in the future, you will consider what such a statement says about what is and isn't acceptable in our culture. I won't go so far as to suggest the paper let you go. Though, frankly, you are kind of asking for it.