In January, I attended the Zoom dissertation defense of my friend Jamie Morgan, who is researching anti-abortion violence and abortion clinic resilience. I was dazzled by the excellence of her research and by sharing the Zoom room with Professor Anita Hill —THE Anita Hill! — who is an adviser on the project.
The Alito leak and the Dobbs decision overturning Roe v Wade were months away, but the experts in that Zoom room knew what was coming. I saw it in their grim smiles. Anita Hill shook her head and said, “We’ll have to stay hopeful. We’ll have to remember how we did that in the 60s.” I’ve held tightly to that thread ever since.
Let’s say it: For Americans who hold the majority perspective that abortion should be legal and accessible, this is a devastating time. But the thread Anita Hill unknowingly handed me has been strengthened by listening to those who knew the hard times before Roe and have remained engaged. One activist explained to me her investment in the battle, saying:
My reasons stretch back 52 years to a time when the only place to get a legal abortion was California or New York. I have the clearest memory of sitting huddled over an atlas trying to find Schenectady, New York. My new coworker and now lifelong friend was pregnant and wanted the nightmare to end. She had never flown in a plane before and me only once. We were both poor, and tickets to New York were cheaper than California. I don’t want anyone to go through this same experience.
And yet: Here we are again, with some 40 million people about to lose access to abortion. Oh, how to stay hopeful?
I’ve been collecting oral histories for inspiration. Along with Notre Dame doctoral student Eli Williams, we’re interviewing local activists who organized before Roe and in the tumultuous decades afterward, when abortion was often inaccessible, even though it was legal. While the new HBO documentary,The Janes, details the activism of the Chicago area Jane Collective, did you know local volunteers drove people to Chicago pre- and post-Roe, until we had a clinic in our area? Now you do.
One thread of these lively interviews is finding joy in diverse coalitions. Earlier activists organized across interest groups and across social, economic, and racial lines, long before folks spoke about intersectionality or ally-ship. Dr. Ellyn Stecker, a now-retired family physician, warmly recounted putting together the city-wide publication, “Around the Bend” (some of which are archived at the Civil Rights Heritage Center). In those pre-computer days, representatives from different groups — feminists, anti-war activists, environmentalists — typed up columns and brought them to a collating party at someone’s house, where pages were laid out on furniture. Conversations crackled while people stacked, stapled, and addressed newsletters for mailing. Food and music fostered friendships that ensured groups advocated for one another. Leaning back to reflect, Ellyn said, “One person can make a difference, but it’s a whole lot easier to do with more people.”
Community leader Charlotte Pfeifer described the way people can open up, quietly, one-on-one, if the dialogue is respectful. In her time working with Planned Parenthood, she said of those conversations with patients, “If you could imagine it, it happened.” She recalled civil and valuable exchanges with those opposed to her views, urging us, “Don’t give up on people.”
More signs of hope: The tsunami of well-wishers at the Planned Parenthood volunteer table at this year’s St. Joe County 4-H Fair — nine days of hearing powerful stories: about the relief of an IUD, disappointing high school sex ed, worry about access to birth control. The fear is real, as is the determination for legislators to hear their voices. I see that resolve in the the many rallies blooming all around us, organized by fierce younger people who know they stand on the shoulders of others.
And I’m tutored, always, by the enduring optimism of longtime organizers. In the dead of winter, Ellyn signs off emails with hopeful reminders: “4 weeks to snow drops and early crocus blooms.”
At a backyard meeting to mull over the Dobbs decision, I wore my depression like a shroud. Cynthia, decades in the fight, strolled with me along our perennial beds, between bloom cycles and bedraggled. With a light hand on my shoulder, she pointed to stems swelling with spiky buds. “Ah, well,” she said. “Next week, the coneflowers will be in bloom.” And, just like Anita Hill, she was right.
Music: “Can't You Year Me Calling?” by Ike and Tina Turner
