When the draft of Dobbs v. Jackson Woman’s Health Organization – the case that overturned Roe v. Wade – was leaked, I read it quickly and then more slowly, again and again. I felt at first numb and then just cold. The opinion was sweeping, cruel, out of touch, sickening, dangerous, grotesque. Dobbs author Justice Samuel Alito and the majority of the Supreme Court (an astounding 3 of its members had been appointed by Trump in a measly, horrific four years) had taken a wire hanger and sliced through my country, myself, my body, my family, my friends, women who I know, women who I don’t know. Through all women. Through all people who love and respect women.
The Supreme Court, which I had revered as even a child, then a student of history, an ardent supporter of individual autonomy and fundamental human rights, and a lawyer, showed its disgusting true colors: four pathetic men and one pathetic woman preaching their warped views of Christian morality for all. Women would die. Families would crumble without their mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts. Women’s opportunities and dreams and goals would dry up and dissipate like smoke. Our country would become a pale imitation of itself as women dropped out of school and the workforce because they were so inferior that they could not be trusted to make their own decisions.
This bunch of Christian nationalist political hacks did this to me. They did this to everyone. They did this to us.
I look forward to discussing the weakness and petty thuggery of this court here with you all. I look forward to discussing what we can do when the Supreme Court super majority is made up of self-righteousness and cruel people who get to sit literally above us in black robes and the trappings of nobility for the rest of their lives, with no accountability, no repercussions, no decency.
For now, let me say, this decision was not about states’ rights. Like the Civil War was not about states’ rights. That’s a moral cop out and a lie. The Civil War was about slavery. Overturning Roe is about using women as incubators. A different type of enslavement but enslavement all the same.
When the Hobbs decision was published a matter of weeks later, I watched President Biden, the man I had voted for, half-heartedly give some weak statement along the lines of shucks, that’s too bad, but here we are. He is an old, Catholic white man, who hated to say the word abortion so much he told his speech writers to not use the word. And Christ, did it show, in his milquetoast pretention of caring about the greatest ripping away of human rights that had previously been bestowed under the color of law in the history of the United States of America. About the jagged, deadly wounds inflicted upon the women of his country. He wasn’t going to fight for us. He wasn’t going to prioritize this fight. He wasn’t going to fight at all.
Now I don’t feel numb. I don’t feel cold. I feel white hot rage. I feel staggering fury. But also, I feel powerful. Because I grew up post-Roe and pre-Hobbs, I was able to graduate high school. Graduate college. Graduate law school. Get married to the love of my life when I was 29 because I loved him and knew we would build a wonderful life together, not because I got pregnant as a teenager and just kinda had to. I got to have a career, work, make my own money. I got to plan my family with my husband. And I got to take these risks, to set my life’s agenda, without fear. Without owing my body, and therefore my security and my safety, to someone else, or someone else’s values.
I have a lot to say. We all have a lot to say. There is strength in sharing our stories. There is immeasurable value in having a voice. Voices turn into choruses; choruses turn into deafening roars. I’ve never shared personal information like this, I’ve never put my thoughts out there, really, truly.
It’s time. Let’s go.