It looks like Target policy involves refusing to fill emergency contraception prescriptions. In a Missouri Target store, a 26 year old woman was refused an emergency contraception prescription. When she asked why, she was told by the pharmacist, “I won’t fill it and I don’t have to fill it and that’s my right!”
Why should something as ridiculous sounding as “Target Greatland” have control over a woman’s body?
I’m not really surprised, given that when you walk into a Target store, you are a “guest” not a “customer.” This is fantastic linguistic chicanery, because while one can legitimately claim “the customer is always right,” anyone who has unknowingly served Drink Number 7 to a party guest would be hard-pressed to suggest that “the guest is always right.”
Planned Parenthood has sent three letters to Target. There have been an additional 4,600 letters from people around the country. Target refused to respond to them.
Target has however answered the City Pages. And Target claims, without producing their findings, that the “alleged incident” was a he-said, she-said thing and, through perhaps unintentional subtext, they have essentially endorsed the refusal clause.
There are two solutions here: (1) boycott Target or pressure them to adopt a wholesale ban on refusal clauses and (2) engage in a national campaign to get state legislation (in as many states as possible) passed that prohibits any pharmacy from employing the refusal clause (specifically in relation to a woman’s right to buy an emergency prescription).
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (