Shaylah McQueen is her name and the son who changed their “Destiny” is named Alander Jr.; she calls him A.J. and has written one of the finest, most God glorifying letters, I have ever read; praising those who were there for her at the abortion mill as she was planning to kill her, “Destiny.” 

To the Saints in Connecticut –  Hooo-Rah!  And  Hallelujah!

Enjoy!   ~ Flip

Giving Birth to My Destiny

by Shaylah McQueen

It was a miserable morning in New Haven, CT as my boyfriend and I managed our way through the frozen January air across the street to the abortion clinic, Planned Parent Hood. The building resembled that of an old cathedral which I found ironic because this place was not at all a place of worship; especially not for the reason I came here. The clinic used to be a part of Yale University, one of the most prestigious schools in the country. But now it just stood alone and abandoned, just as I felt that day.

When I found out I was two months pregnant, I immediately knew what I had to do. As a young, intelligent, humble, motivated, wise, athletic, diligent and a hardworking African American female, I had a role to play and image to portray in my society. If I had a baby during my junior year of high school, my image as well as the image of all African American females would have been distorted. I would be labeled as another black girl who will drop out of school, sell my body for money and/or raise a child who would suffer from the generational curse of poverty, fornication, incompetency, and illiteracy. So as you see, I couldn’t be a mother, at least not at this time period.

 As we approached the side of the abortion clinic where the entrance waited, I began to tell myself that I was making a big mistake. What if people find out that I had an abortion? I would never be able to live that down. There, there I told myself.  Everyone would be proud and I will not have to hear anyone’s harsh comments about me getting pregnant. I mean besides, being a mother is a disadvantage and a curse. I am going to abort and that is that  I said, convinced.

Now we were face to face with the clinic and my heart beat turned to thunder.  We were now literally five steps away from entering when suddenly these two anti-abortion protesters stopped us dead in our tracks. They introduced themselves as Marilynn and Marilynn’s granddaughter, Colby.

Marilynn with her brown winter coat looked like an oversized chocolate marshmallow with whip cream in the center. She had to be about 35 years old. Colby’s face was a cotton ball with rose buds as cheeks. She wore a gray corduroy coat that fit snug.  She was 17, two years older than me, at the time.

Colby spoke first. You would think since she was close to my age she would have had more of an effect on changing my mind. But, no, I almost instantly ignored her and brushed what she said aside. I mean how much could she relate to me and understand my circumstance? She didn’t fornicate out of wedlock, so she ought to have minded her own business.

Seeing, that I was still walking toward the clinic, Marilynn walked along side of me, grabbed my arm gently and asked if I could just please listen for a few moments. I was going to ignore her as well but before I could, she presented some pamphlets and posters that displayed babies that were aborted, or in her words, “killed”.  I felt compelled to see what she had to say about them. As I turned to my boyfriend, he stared at me furiously, barely blinking. His dark deep wrinkles shriveled up as he urged me to ignore them. Once he realized I was not going to budge his urges subsided.

The babies, well what was left of them, were fully developed regardless of how many weeks they were; the corpses ranged from two to twenty-four weeks old. Their transparent bodies were filled with a thick, charcoal-colored chemical that liquefied their insides. Their fragile, fragmented bodies were dismantled, making them look like some type of freakish lab experimentation that went wrong. “The babies that you showed me were actual babies; just smaller and underdeveloped? They were not just some glob of string like cells, called the fetus that would later form into the child- the fetus was the child in its entirety?” “Yes, you are correct, adds Marilynn, the abortionists don’t want you to know that you are murdering your precious baby, so they use words like “fetus” instead of baby and “abort” instead of kill.”

“Are you going to let the abortionist butcher your child to pieces? Do you know your child was not a mistake but planned by God? She asks me as she points to the verse in the bible that says how God knew our name and all about each and every one of us before we were even born.

Before I can answer her questions, she repeats herself and asks me if I was going to let the clinic butcher my child. As my stomach churned and felt a little light headed as I imagined them ripping my 2 month old child’s body apart, I answered no.

Colby and Marilynn laughed and hugged me with all their might. I cried while they embraced me because little did they know that I had a bigger issue to abort now;  the disappointment I will cause for my family and friends when they find out I am pregnant and keeping the baby. When I was in their arms, I felt like I could get through it. But the minute they let me go and dropped my boyfriend and I at his house, I knew I was alone again. Well, I thought I was. But they ensured me that they would keep in touch and help whenever I needed it.

They kept their word. A week later they invited me to their home town, Bridgeport, to share my testimony with their friends and family.

Even 7 months later, on August 10, 2010, when I had given birth to my 7 lbs. 14 oz. son, Alander Zaccaeus Folson, they were both there; Marilynn and Colby.

When I look at my son, I always think of that miserable morning day when my life was changed forever. I could have let the pressure caused by my society weigh me down and force me to abort my son. I could have killed my child unintentionally. I could have pleased my boyfriend enough so that he could stay with me. I could have done a lot of things. But one thing I could not have done was kill something that I knew was a part of me—something that once destroyed could never be restored; my identity.

I gave birth to my destiny; my son. Ever since I had him I have never felt so alive. I used to think that popularity, good grades, expensive clothes (so expensive it hurt my pocket and my feet) and having so many to be proud of me was all that I needed to make me feel like I had purpose. But, I came to the epiphany that the best things in life are free and that having a few to be proud of me like my Lord Jesus Christ, myself and my son are all that I need to know that I have purpose.

Yes, when my boyfriend told my whole school that I had given birth to a son, of course I lost a lot of respect, confidence and hope from friends, teachers, family members and so forth.

Yes, I couldn’t play sports or hang out as much as I used to. Yes, I couldn’t think about only me anymore. Yes, I lost myself….my selfishness.

Raising a child showed me how to raise and discipline my own self so I do not get out of line. I learned that though it seemed that I was self-less as I thought about how others would react or behave if I had a child. But, I was too blinded to see by my selfishness of wanting to have the spotlight, gratitude, and recognition. This was what I feared most of losing once I had my son for it would be all about him and not enough about me.

But, here I was wrong. You see, I found out that the very thing I feared of losing because of my son, I gained.

I gained recognition for being a young, single African American mom who after giving birth, though missing a horrendous amount of days of school, graduated in the top 1% of her class. I gained gratitude by those that doubted me at first and labeled me as a statistic; another name and number in the record book of black shame. I gained the spotlight. Now, all eyes are on me to observe how good of a mother and young lady I am and how good of a son and gentle man my son will turn out to be. Also, I was given this privilege to show the reader how I developed into becoming my true self and how I took hold of my destiny; my son.

I write before you as a firm believer in Christ and a true believe that being a mom is a blessing and privilege because it takes someone with great skill, tolerance, young/child-like (pure) love, self-respect, wisdom, motivated, humility, intelligence (do some of these adjectives ring a bell?), and resilience to be a great teacher. Just as I teach my son, he teaches me how to be a better mother and person, every day. I do not know about you, but to be taught every day how to be a better person is priceless and something worth cherishing.