Some Life Matters More
They did not call Ye crazy all at once.
It happened in stages.
First they laughed. Then they quoted him. Then they studied him. Then they used him. Then, when the wound stopped selling cleanly, they renamed him a problem.
That does not make Ye innocent.
Antisemitism is sin. Holocaust distortion is sin. Praising Hitler is not prophecy. It is rot. Jewish suffering is not a prop for anyone else’s argument, and the dead of Europe do not belong to rappers, bishops, activists, pundits, or broken men looking for a bigger metaphor.
But the machine is dishonest about why it panicked.
Ye did not merely offend people.
He disturbed the arrangement.
He dragged abortion, race, celebrity, eugenics, motherhood, Black death, God, money, madness, and family secrets into the same room and refused to let polite society keep its categories clean.
That was the rupture.
And underneath the chaos was the oldest truth in empire:
Some life matters more than other life.
Not officially.
Not in the sermon.
Not in the campaign literature.
Not in the university policy.
Not in the hospital hallway.
Not in the Church bulletin.
But in practice.
The wanted child matters.
The useful child matters.
The child with money behind him matters.
The child whose suffering can become a grant, documentary, sermon, lawsuit, brand, or political argument matters.
The child in the womb?
Complicated.
That was the word I hid behind for years.
Complicated.
I told myself abortion was a woman’s issue and therefore not mine to speak about.
Sometimes that was humility.
Sometimes it was cowardice dressed up as sensitivity.
I was once the complication.
I was the child in the womb of an eighteen-year-old Catholic girl.
Before I had a name, a passport, a son, a collar, a book, a criminal record, a diagnosis, a platform, or a scar, I was a question inside a frightened young woman’s body.
Who gets to live?
Who gets hidden?
Who gets explained away?
Who becomes the family secret?
Who gets called a blessing only after surviving the options respectable people once considered?
I am not sure I am ready to say every sentence the pro-life movement wants me to say.
But I am sure of this: abortion is not nothing.
It is not merely procedure, politics, privacy, or ideology.
It is a question of life.
And I can no longer look away.
But if that is the only truth pro-life men know how to say, they should shut up until they learn the rest of the gospel.
Because the mother matters.
Her fear matters.
Her poverty matters.
Her shame matters.
Her housing matters.
Her body matters.
Her future matters.
Her loneliness matters.
Her trauma matters.
Her impossible choices matter.
Catholicism cannot mean screaming “life” at frightened women while offering them judgment, silence, poverty, and abandonment.
That is not holiness.
That is cowardice with rosary beads.
I know what shame does inside a family.
I know what secrecy does inside a body.
I know what happens when the Church teaches loudly about sex and quietly disappears when real life gets messy.
So this is where I stand now:
Life is sacred before it is convenient.
The child is real.
The mother is real.
The wound is real.
And God help me if I only learned to say that because the child in question was me.
