As a woman with privilege who has depended on the law, I am grateful for Roe. As a queer, Indo-Caribbean from an immigrant family in the Bronx, I remember that laws often require less than justice does.
Abortion or no abortion is a choice, but that is not the choice of the United States government, that is not the choice of men. It is the choice of that soul housed in that vessel that is the body.
I grew up in a conservative area and had internalized some challenging attitudes about abortion, poverty, and the death penalty—attitudes aligned with policy that worked against my (and my family’s) interests. Still, I discovered that I was ready to drop everything for a friend who needed my help. Eventually, I learned to hold this level of compassion for complete strangers, too.
Every year when the anniversary of Roe v. Wade rolls around, I am troubled by the loud silences in our triumphant tales of struggle. As a history doctoral student who researches African Americans and abortion, the story I tell is quite different.
The words “pro life” have been pitted against “pro choice,” as if they are opposites. In my experience it’s a false dichotomy, and while politically difficult and messy, our truths are much more complicated.
40. Significant also for the landmark Roe v. Wade decision 40 years ago that made it legal for women to obtain an abortion. I wonder, what is next for Roe v. Wade?
After 40 years, isn’t it time that our policies reflect real women and real families?
After making it past numerous financial and legal roadblocks, choosing an abortion is still not an easy thing to go through.
I often hear the question from African-American women, “What do they [the right] want? We either have too many kids or too many abortions. Which is it?” The truth is, to them, it’s both.
However a person feels about abortion, it’s not their place to make that personal decision for someone else. And it’s certainly not the place of our elected officials.