Her Body, Our Laws

by Michelle Oberman

  There’s no real way to know whether their position on abortion is a majority view, but it turns out that that question is almost irrelevant. Their viewpoint will continue to hold sway until it offends the sensibilities of enough of those holding a contrary view that they, in turn, are prompted to mobilize in opposition. This phenomenon is precisely what Kiesel and Smith meant when they referred to the political battles likely to ensue should Roe fall.

  I was amazed at how much admiration and heartache I felt for Steele. Amazed because his views on abortion were, at least in one sense, more extreme than anyone else I interviewed. He alone was comfortable endorsing the prosecution of women for abortion. “I’d expect there to be punitive consequences for blatant offenders of the law,” he said, without hesitation. “Of course, I’d also incentivize carrying to term, but the core function of government is to protect its citizenry, so there must be consequences for those who break abortion laws.”

  What drew me in was the extent to which Steele expressed compassion for women facing an unwanted pregnancy. Smith had shrugged off the likelihood that women with enough money would evade the law by traveling. He seemed untroubled by the way the law would have a disproportionate impact on poor women. To him, the question of whether the law would stop abortions was almost beside the point.

  Steele’s response was different.

  “Of course,” he said, as we ended our conversation about abortion laws, “the best way to lower abortion rates is to deal with what causes women to want to abort in the first place.”

  Alone among the pro-life lawmakers and activists I met, Steele has direct experience working with poor women. Like the others, he wants the law to send the message that abortion is wrong. But only he seemed ready to acknowledge how little a change in the law will do to stop women from seeking abortions.

  CONCLUSION

  As I left Oklahoma that summer, I realized I’d learned a lot about the connection between morality, symbolism, and abortion laws. The message that abortion should be a crime was so pervasive that I suspected most Oklahomans no longer noticed it. At first I felt as though I couldn’t escape it. It was on the billboards: “Abortion stops a beating heart.” It was on the counter in the gym, where they sold Plexiglas photo key chains that said, “It’s a life, not a choice” around the edges. It was there on the “I survived Roe v. Wade” bumper stickers on the trucks I passed on the highway.

  After a while, I got used to the signs and the emblems. Images of fetuses became part of the landscape, like American flags or the crimson and cream of the University of Oklahoma Sooners. The pro-life messages were so ubiquitous that they faded into the background. But it’s not a tranquil background. Instead, these messages generate an ominous sense that things are awry, and that it’s on each of us to put them right again.

  The mystery is how making abortion illegal will put things right. The battle over abortion law seems utterly disconnected from Steele’s observation that “the best way to lower abortion rates is to deal with what causes women to want to abort in the first place.” Doesn’t everyone agree with him?

  Oklahoma’s ambitious body of abortion-restrictive laws is a testimony to the belief that the law matters. And if nothing else, the epic battle over abortion suggests that both sides share that belief: we take it for granted that changing abortion laws will change things in the lives of women facing unplanned pregnancies.

  We’ve seen, both in El Salvador and in Oklahoma, how the law has become a vehicle for voicing moral opposition to abortion. And we’ve seen enough in El Salvador to know that banning abortion won’t stop it from happening. We are now ready to investigate how and why abortion laws matter here in the United States.

  The next chapter examines US abortion laws and policies, as well as those governing reproductive health care and motherhood in general. By illuminating the ways in which existing rules shape women’s lives, we gain insight into how and how much abortion laws actually matter.

  FOUR

  THE ABORTION-MINDED WOMAN AND THE LAW

  We’ve seen how abortion opponents have come to look at the law as a means of underscoring their belief that abortion is immoral. But the law is a tool; enforced, it has practical consequences. This chapter explores those consequences, considering the question of whether and how the law affects pregnant women who are considering abortion.

  To think meaningfully about the issue, it helps to see the world through the eyes of such women. We must be clear about why a woman might consider having an abortion.

  The largest research study into the question of why women choose abortion—it surveyed twelve hundred abortion patients—found most women cite not one, but several reasons: 74 percent said having a child would interfere with education, work, or their ability to care for dependents; 73 percent said they could not afford a baby now.1

  The women are telling us something that is hiding in plain view: motherhood is really expensive. What’s interesting about the costs of motherhood is that most of the costs actually could be reduced, if a government chose to do so. The price of being a mother is not foreordained. There is no “neutral” policy that dictates how much of the cost of mothering should fall on the individual mother. Instead, a country sets the price via a constellation of laws and policies: housing, day care, food, health care, education, and so on.

  In order to understand how abortion laws work, we must also understand the impact of laws and policies that determine the costs of motherhood. You might picture a pregnant woman balanced on a scale, with abortion on one side and motherhood on the other. To understand the impact of changing the one side, you have to know what’s on the other.

  I knew I wanted to understand, up close, the sorts of things that really matter to women who are struggling over whether to terminate their pregnancies. The starting place for thinking about the laws and policies that influence women facing unwanted pregnancy was to spend time with those who are trying to influence actual women. This chapter begins with an extended interview with a group of pro-life advocates who think it’s possible to sway those considering abortion. Indeed, they’ve spent the past four decades trying to do so.

  After hearing their stories, the chapter considers the backdrop factors, economic and social, that might make a woman more or less inclined to carry a pregnancy to term. By examining these default norms, from child care to jobs and housing, we are able to see how the societal policies we take for granted shape the decisions of women facing unplanned pregnancy.

  Then, with this background in mind, the chapter turns to an examination of the abortion laws and regulations enacted in the years since abortion became legal. Specifically, it considers the ways in which these laws and policies shift the balance, tilting women away from abortion.

  In the end, we come away with a surprisingly clear, if troubling, sense of how the law can shape the decisions made by abortion-minded women.

  LOBBYING AND LOVING THE ABORTION-MINDED WOMAN

  One of the first organized responses of abortion opponents in the years following Roe was to open counseling centers that catered to women in “crisis” over an unplanned pregnancy. These centers aim to reach what they call “abortion-minded women,” offering advice and varying degrees of support in the hopes of convincing a woman to carry her pregnancy to term.

  There’s a lot of controversy surrounding these centers. Abortion-rights advocates accuse them of false and misleading practices, like deliberately locating near abortion clinics or neglecting to mention that their center does not provide abortions or even abortion referrals. Pro-life advocates respond that they’re enhancing women’s choices by helping them find the support they need in order to keep their pregnancies. Even the name of these centers is controversial. Supporters call them “pregnancy care centers,” while opponents employ the term historically used in the clinics’ advertisements—“crisis pregnancy centers.”

  Regardless of the controversy, these faith-based counseling centers exist in far greater numbers than ab
ortion clinics. Every day, they see women who are struggling in response to an unplanned pregnancy. And because they’re endeavoring to persuade them not to have abortions, they know all about the things that make a woman consider having one.

  Birth Choice of Oklahoma’s main office is on the far south side of Oklahoma City. The red brick building sits alone on a stretch of a busy four-lane highway. Baby shrubs mark the lot’s perimeter. With yellow Doric columns and three doorways topped with cheery porticos, it’s like a mansion crossed with a strip mall.

  I couldn’t figure out which door was the entrance. The few cars in the otherwise empty lot were crowded near the smallest entrance, but there was no sign. Small piles of dirty snow flanked the sidewalk as I walked in the crisp March air. I approached the biggest door. Still no sign, but I peered through the glass window and saw a waiting room. A woman with long brown hair held her toddler in a worn armchair. She looked up, noticed my leather briefcase, my interview blouse and pearls, and glanced away as I raised my hand in a half wave.

  When I had told people back home about my plan to visit a crisis pregnancy center, they’d joked about my needing a bulletproof vest. Would I pretend to be neutral, they’d wanted to know, or even pro-life?

  I’d sent an e-mail to Barbara Chisko, the executive director, mentioning the names of two prominent pro-life advocates who had referred me to her: “I believe your long commitment to Birth Choice gives you a unique perspective on the law and its limitations, in terms of impacting women’s responses to unplanned pregnancy.”

  Before I’d even explained my project, my background, and the questions I had, she wrote back, “Would love to meet with you.” We spoke by phone and I think I said enough about why, as a law professor from California, I needed to travel to Oklahoma to better understand pro-life culture and its connection to the law. I didn’t hide my position on legalized abortion, but later I wondered whether I’d been clear enough.

  The young receptionist led me through a short hallway and across an empty dining room into a cozy pastel living room. Three women stood to greet me. I circled the group, shaking hands, smiling and saying my name, and took a seat on a soft floral sofa. A toddler with hair like corn silk sat on the floor across from me, playing with a plastic truck. The women looked at me expectantly.

  “I want to thank you for being willing to meet with me,” I said, hoping I seemed comfortable and relaxed. “It’s hard to find people who will speak openly about abortion, and I come from such a blue state, if you know what I mean. I don’t know very many people who are pro-life. And I don’t know any pro-life activists.”

  “Let’s begin by introducing ourselves,” suggested Chisko, in the silence that had suddenly grown loud. Sitting in an armchair to my right, she pointed with her open palm to the pretty, spry woman who sat next to me on the couch.

  In her late fifties, Katie Gordy was one of four Birth Choice founders. “I’ve done debates and abortion clinic confrontations for the Right to Life,” she said. “But I hate all that. I’m a specialist in post-abortion counseling. I’ve been volunteering with Birth Choice since 1973. And I’ve been president of our board for the past fourteen years.”

  Rae Merchant walked into the room as Gordy was speaking. The drive down from the north-side clinic, which she’s directed for thirty-four years, was slower than usual.

  “I have eleven children,” she offered when Gordy finished. “Eight are adopted and three are my biological kids. I’ve been a foster parent to 180 newborns. It all flows together for me,” she said, lifting her hands and shrugging. “Adoption, foster care, parenting. That said, Birth Choice is my heart.”

  “It’s because there’s no shaming here,” said Chisko. “No judgment. Women come in and we love on them. No shame, just love.” She laughed.

  “I think people connect in their brokenness,” Gordy added quietly, looking down.

  “I’m doing pregnancy tests now on women whose mothers I helped years ago,” said Merchant. “We listen with a nonjudgmental ear. We work on offsetting this quick-fix society. We help them understand that abortion won’t fix things.”

  It was the first time I’d heard the term “quick-fix society,” but I didn’t need a translation. I thought about the women I’d met in the Ohio Reformatory for Women when I was studying mothers who killed their children. My coauthor and I had asked them why they hadn’t terminated their pregnancies. The chaos in their lives was profound and long-standing. They must have known a new baby would make their lives even harder.

  “My family doesn’t believe in abortion. That’s murder,” many replied without irony. Indeed, most hadn’t intentionally killed their children. Instead, their babies’ deaths were almost predictable by-products of their grim circumstances.

  “I know what you mean about the quick fix,” I said, and told them about the mothers I’d met in prison.

  Typically when I speak about their crimes, I can sense the disgust these mothers evoke in others. Their situations may have been terrible, but their crimes seem too heinous to merit sympathy, let alone empathy.

  The women all started to speak at once.

  “I suspect the majority of those women may have had previous abortions,” said Chisko.

  Merchant offered a different theory, saying, “I’ve observed in my work with women who abuse their children that a lot of them wanted to have kids, but then their kids failed to meet their expectations.”

  From across the room, Ellen Roberts spoke for the first time. Sitting on the floor next to her small son, Roberts was at least twenty years younger than the rest of us. She tucked her chin-length chestnut hair behind an ear and said, “Working here, I’ve learned that it’s not their bad choices that have landed the women at our door, but rather God’s grace that kept me from being in their situations.”

  Conversation began to flow as the personal merged with the professional. We all had stories to share.

  A woman in a pink polo shirt walked into the living room, calling, “Time for lunch, ladies.”

  She walked over to me. “Hi, I’m Ruth Blakely,” she said, extending a firm hand. “Another one of the four founders. Nice to meet you.”

  We moved into the dining room, taking seats around the big square table. From the galley kitchen tucked behind the far wall, another woman stepped out to join us.

  “This is my daughter and our accountant,” said Chisko, with a broad smile.

  With Roberts’s son in his highchair, we were eight in all. Without hesitation, I bowed my Jewish head as Chisko said grace.

  With the exception of Roberts and Barbara’s daughter, these women all were veterans of 1973. Each dated her entry into pro-life activism to learning, in church, that abortion had been legalized.

  “I couldn’t believe that women would tear apart their own babies. Or that they could be coerced into doing so,” said Chisko. “You know, doctors have a way of telling women what they think is best. And our clients . . .”

  “People judge our clients,” Merchant interrupted. “Especially those on welfare. ‘Why do these women keep having babies?’ they ask. The common denominator is the desire to be loved. Even a ‘lowlife’ wants to be loved. We all crave intimacy.”

  “The four of us met at a church event,” Chisko began, sitting back in her chair. “We signed up to volunteer with the Right to Life. They suggested we put ads in the paper for ‘crisis pregnancies.’ But they left after four months, leaving us with one phone line and a folding chair.

  “We offered a training session for volunteer counselors and a hundred and eighty people showed up. But only twenty stayed on as regular volunteers. We just didn’t know what we were doing. We had a burning desire to help people, to meet them where they are. I myself had just had a miscarriage. At that time, pro-life simply meant ‘don’t murder your baby.’ We felt our job wasn’t to evangelize or proselytize. Just live life as you should. Be a model. At first, we were part of ‘Birth Right,’ an international group. But by the 1980s, the organization set rig
id rules: no shelters, no clinical services, just administer pregnancy tests and give out baby clothes. Just persuade the women not to abort their babies.”

  “They like to shame women,” said Merchant. “In Lawton’s clinic, they have a life-size cardboard Jesus in the lobby.”

  “Birth Choice’s priorities are shaped by the belief that the best place for a child is with mom,” Chisko added.2

  I was beginning to understand what Roberts had meant when she’d said, earlier that morning, that there were “two kids of pro-life people. People who are pro-life and people who are antiabortion.”

  “The antiabortion folks are really difficult to work with,” Roberts remarked. “They use our clients to fight their fight. But they never come to fight our fight.”

  The women’s passion for supporting the poor surprised me. I thought social conservatives typically blamed the poor for not working harder to change their circumstances. It was the Democrats who supported welfare, minimum wage laws, and a bigger safety net. Yet these women, like everyone else I’d met in pro-life Oklahoman circles, were Republicans.

  I didn’t really know whether they were exceptions to the norm among social conservatives, though, because I couldn’t remember the last conversation I’d had with a social conservative.

  “How did Rose Home come to be?” I asked. Several of the pro-life religious and political figures I’d interviewed had mentioned Birth Choice’s shelter for pregnant women.

  “It was through an adoption agency referral, back in our crisis pregnancy clinic in 1986,” said Chisko, setting her fork down. “The woman had had several prior pregnancies that ended in abortion or adoption. She’d planned to relinquish her current pregnancy, but slowly she changed her mind.”