First note about the Culture of Houston

Originally, my idea for this blog was for Matt and I to record our impressions of Houston as newcomers, and to compare them to Ben's thoughts about Berkeley. As these things tend to do, the organization never quite came together, and it was all we could do to jot down a few paragraphs here and there in the midst of all of the chaos of the move. An apology to all of our friends and family, because if there's anything less fun than moving, it must be reading about moving. Here then, is a break.
I think I had my first moment of culture shock last week. I had forgotten that the farther south one goes in the US, the greater the... how to phrase it... limits on one's reproductive choices? I know there are definitely exceptions, especially for some of the less populous northern Plains states, but I think it's a decent general rule. Because of an interesting insurance situation (the US health care system is the subject of many blogs I'm sure) I found myself at the Houston Planned Parenthood clinic for my annual exam and birth control prescription.
Here is the scene, as I arrive for my lunchtime appointment. The parking lot in front of the building is surrounded by a tall iron fence, with sharp-looking points at the top. There is no parking allowed in this lot, so I have to park across the street and walk over. Before I get to the door, I pass through a set of waist-high thick yellow concrete pillars, set presumably so that it would be impossible to drive a car into the front door of the building. Upon opening the door, I am confronted immediately with an a uniformed guard who takes my purse, examines the contents, and directs me through an airport-style metal detector. After passing through, I reach the building receptionist, who asks for my driver's license and records the number and my name, before directing me upstairs to the clinic reception.
After signing in, I scan the waiting room before taking a seat. There are two young black women with their boyfriends, who seemed to be happy to run into each other there and were having an animated conversation. A TV in the corner of the room is tuned to The Price is Right, and a bored-looking Hispanic man sits under it while watching a little girl play with the magazines on the table. Another woman, about my age, wears a long wool houndstooth coat, black pants, and pink shoes, and looks nervously at her watch.
Honestly, I could have giggled if not for the fresh memory of the stern guard downstairs. This... this is the reason for all of the security?? These run-of-the-mill people filling out forms and waiting for their names to be called? I am filled with exhilaration, hopelessness, and dread all at the same time. The only thing I have in common with the women in the room is a functioning uterus. And this is enough for iron fences, concrete pillars, security guards and metal detectors?? wow.