I was born in Albany, OR with Dad passing out in the corner and tiny, terrified Mom in stirrups–blaring hospital lights and too many people in the room.

Madonna’s single “Like a Virgin” was number one on the billboard but my story would be more in line with “Papa Don’t Preach.”

My parents were teens and their parents were religious Catholics and Christians–God fearing and devout. Well, Grandmother’s definitely were. But, to this day the old cowboy, Dad’s dad, hasn’t said more than ten words to me. He’s not one to be making friends in the pews. And, Mom’s stepdad, a southern man going through the motions, went to church on Sunday but also drove Mom to the abortion clinic.

The story goes that Dad’s mom intervened and saved my life. And I know she believes that. Though it’s hard to save the life of someone who hasn’t lived. Mom’s life didn’t cross this woman’s mind, or her son’s. But, her own damnation for not stopping what she considered a mortal sin–she couldn’t bear the guilt of it.

Mom nor I were ever like a virgin. Not to the white colonial patriarchal world we live in. She is Salvadoran. Her style and beauty were exotic to people like Dad’s mom. Grandma called Mom a “woman of the world”, a backhanded way of saying “slut.” Then Mom found herself pregnant, and solidified the claim. Sullying Grandmother’s perfect boy.

Mom says my pregnancy saved her life. It was how she escaped the advances of Grandpa, who made regular passes at her and generally made her homelife a living hell. Hence his enthusiasm to get Mom an abortion, despite his proclivities for Catholicism.

My own virginity was called into question long before it was lost. My mere interest in boys and sex, the development of my body into that of a woman’s, was disturbing to my parents and cause for vigilance. A signal of innocence lost. My puberty was a disruption to their picture of me as a tomboy. I prided myself on that label, but hormones always win. The transition from tomboy to slut was inherent in me, like fire in firewood.

Madonna was my favorite pop star when I was little. At 5 or 6 years old I was choreographing dances to “Like a Prayer” to perform for whomever I could get to watch. That music video radicalized me. The mixture of Catholic imagery–crucifixion and lace, the blood. (Was there blood? Why do I remember blood?) The sexiness of Madonna and the tearful Black man–all waxy like Jesus on the cross in Grandma’s dining room. The emotionality of the choir, the candles…so much paradox and catharsis melded together. It was all there for my little queer psyche to absorb and integrate. A seed was planted. I too was becoming a woman of the world.

Madonna made me feel like I could grow up and be someone completely different from my family. Someone not bogged down by shame. Someone who could dance and sing her pain and turn it into something beautiful. Someone who could turn sexuality into something holy instead of something in need of exorcism.

I wouldn’t have missed anything had I been aborted butI am grateful I was born at a time when Madonna was popular–so she could save my life a second time, and for real.

Heather Carpenter is a queer poet and songwriter living on the rugged coast of Oregon in rural Splendor. By day, she teaches yoga and gives massages at her studio of 13 years. She is currently engaged in composing a memoir but mostly spends her free time writing poetry and songs about nature, love, and the cross between the two. She posts regularly about yoga, parenting, and wellness. She lives with her partner and children, plays music when she can, and is engaged in writing and yoga practices that give her life meaning beyond her roles as a householder.