Toward the end of the hearing, Catherine Davis, a founding member of the National Black ProLife Coalition mischaracterized black women as victims of a Planned Parenthood scheme to eradicate black people. Yeung succinctly responded, “Black women choose abortion.”
When she said that, I wanted to jump up and say, “Yes! I am a black woman who chose to have an abortion!” Planned Parenthood didn’t bust down my door when my pregnancy test turned positive, strap me down, and end my pregnancy. My boyfriend supported my decision, and I went to a Planned Parenthood in downtown Manhattan for a medication abortion, where I received competent, compassionate care. At Planned Parenthood, I was never coerced, I was never shamed, and I was never made to feel guilty for my choice.
In the 17 years since my abortion, no one beyond the Planned Parenthood staff, my boyfriend, and my two best friends knew I had an abortion. I grew up in a fiercely feminist and pro-choice household, yet I could not bring myself to tell my parents because of the outside stigma I had internalized. Externally, the world told me that abortion was a sin, that it was a “problem” that “loose girls” got themselves into. And decent people never spoke of it. And even though my parents taught me abortion was merely a form of health care, West Indian girls weren’t supposed to have sex. I was ashamed. All the sacrifices they had made for my education would be for nothing. “Smart girls” who had access to birth control and in-depth knowledge of conception didn’t get pregnant at 19—or so I thought.
Stigma kept me silent, but the racist comments in the hearing felt like a personal attack and made me want to shout. And now I shout whenever I can. My abortion allowed me to continue down the path I had set for myself with my parents’ support. I would not be the successful woman I am today without it, and I don’t want to begin to imagine what my life, or any other person’s life, would be like without access to care. Access to abortion is crumbling across the nation—we all must do our part to sound the alarm. In response to the hearing, I co-authored a letter, signed by people of color who have had abortions, to correct the record and the offensive things said at the hearing. At a rally before the Supreme Court issued its decision in the historic Whole Woman’s Health case striking down many of Texas’ anti-abortion restrictions, I got on the microphone and told everyone I was a black woman who'd had an abortion.
As we celebrate the 44th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, we may be also watching its decline. Our nation has a president who has not only promised to appoint Supreme Court justices to overturn the decision, but also appoint a cabinet poised to roll back civil rights. If that wasn't bad enough, we also have an anti-abortion Congress that has already introduced multiple bills limiting access to abortion, including a near-total ban. The promise of Roe has never been at such risk, which means it’s more important than ever to be vocal and defend our rights. I commit to using my privilege as an independent woman to speak for those who do not feel safe to share how abortion access positively impacted their lives.
Kristine A. Kippins is a constitutional lawyer and an abortion storyteller with We Testify, a leadership program of the National Network of Abortion Funds.
