By Francis C. Won, Merafe Gedewon, and Genevievre T. Miller
Introduction
On May 2, 2022, Politico published a draft of Justice Samuel Alito’s majority opinion in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization, a decision that would overturn Roe v. Wade. In many ways, this draft confirmed what felt inevitable following former President Donald Trump’s sweeping installation of conservative judges at every judicial level. Perhaps most foreboding were the appointments of Justice Brett Kavanaugh and Justice Amy Coney Barrett. Setting aside the troubling personal shortcomings of these individuals, the politics on display during their installation lacked even a baseline level of decorum and were instead defined by ruthless self-interest. June 24, 2022 marked the official release of the opinion reversing a landmark decision that protected people’s rights to bodily autonomy. It is confounding that such a right was ever threatened at all. As members of the Executive Board of the Northeastern University Law Review, we pen our reflections to share with our community how we as individuals have been processing this decision through the lens of religion, medical care for Black women, and intersectional solidarity efforts.
Note on Gender
This piece is written from our perspective as cisgender women. We acknowledge that abortion affects people of all genders, and we recognize the intersectional impact of the Dobbs decision.
Disclaimer
Additionally, the views expressed in this reflection are that of the authors and do not reflect the views of the Northeastern University Law Review or its members.
Processing Dobbs as a Christian
I was born and raised in a Protestant Christian household, and I identify as a practicing “believer.” My interpretation of my faith heavily informs my outlook on life, including how I have been processing the latest surge in conservative politics underpinning the Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization decision.
I spent my early childhood in Atlanta, Georgia, where Southern Baptism¹ is woven into the cultural DNA. I spent my adolescent years in South Korea, home to the largest church in the world, where the traditionally conservative and shame-based culture frequently aligned with the dos and don’ts of Southern Baptism. All this to say, I spent my formative years in a rather conservative bubble — both in America and Korea — where shared beliefs largely went unchallenged.
Coming to Boston was quite a culture shock for me, shattering my illusion that the aforementioned beliefs were ubiquitously shared. I attended Wellesley College, an institution built on progressive values. At Wellesley, I began to seriously examine my beliefs and the reasoning behind them. I started feeling ashamed of my religious affiliation as I fumbled through several tough conversations and experienced negativity from people when they learned I was a Christian. However, feeling shameful about something that is so core to my identity has helped me to relate to and sympathize with others, particularly those whom Christians have traditionally condemned.
Jesus’ ministry was focused on loving and caring for “the least of these”: the hungry, the poor, the rejected, the sick, the incarcerated—those who were often overlooked and condemned by religious communities.2 I see Jesus’ call to “follow him” as a call to action to love and accept others. In fact, Jesus was most critical of religious leaders:
They pile heavy burdens on people’s shoulders and won’t lift a finger to help. Everything they do is just to show off in front of others. They even make a big show of wearing Scripture verses on their foreheads and arms…3
Among Jesus’ many teachings, he specifically calls for those in positions of power to use their privilege to serve others: “Whoever is the greatest should be the servant of others.”4
I feel frustrated when those engaged in politics vehemently advocate for “Christian values” that are not actually rooted in Christian teachings, generating harmful ripple effects. The religiously-motivated Dobbs decision is a prime example of how those in power have weaponized “Christian values” to persuade a critical mass of people that the pro-life movement is God-honoring. Yet, at the onset of the pro-life movement in the 1970s, prominent Christian leaders were not necessarily opposed to recognizing a woman’s right to bodily autonomy.5 The modern-day critical mass is largely unaware of the fact that Christians were not a part of a pro-life narrative until political leaders realized abortion could be an effective platform to mobilize Christians, a key voting demographic, to uphold racial segregation.6 Decades later, the pro-life effect remains unchanged. Black and Brown people are disproportionately affected by anti-abortion laws that are now legitimized by Dobbs. Those in political power who pedal pro-life agendas do not advocate for endeavors that support life outside the womb—such as housing, food, or medical assistance because their pro-life stance is not actually rooted in faith; it is rooted in power.
I respect every person’s right to make their own reproductive decisions. In my church community, I make an effort to engage in conversations that encourage people to more critically examine the formation of their political beliefs. Like me, the vast majority of people I encounter at church grew up in the church embracing an entire belief system that was passed down to them. I feel troubled by the number of well-meaning Christians who do not actually know the origins of the pro-life movement or how the dangerously restrictive anti-abortion laws deny necessary medical care. I also feel troubled by the number of Christians who cast a vote based on their misunderstanding of the actual issue at hand.7 I do not discount that despite the discriminatory origins of the movement, one may genuinely fight for the unborn in order to protect the sanctity of life. However, anti-abortion laws are hardly about protecting the sanctity of life—if anything, they are a grave threat to life at all stages. In the words of pastor and author Eugene Cho:
When Christians pledge blind allegiance to a political power and its leaders and cannot objectively evaluate what a politician states or espouses, we travel down a dangerous path. We cease to see the world informed first and foremost by the life and teachings of Christ. Instead, when we allow political allegiances to identify us, we distort the Bible to justify our politics and allegiances.8
Whether pro-life or pro-choice, Christian or not, my goal is not to change someone to be in complete alignment with me, but rather, inspire people to be thoughtful about why they believe in the things they believe. For those who take political action based on religious beliefs, there is a need to scrutinize details of policies and legislation that seemingly espouse religious values.
Francis C. Won is a third year law student at Northeastern University School of Law. Her legal interests are in private equity, governance, and mass incarceration. She is one of the Editors-in-Chief of the Northeastern University Law Review, Volume 15.
1 The Christian faith is far from a monolith and is comprised of thousands of denominations globally that hold varying theological and socio-political beliefs. As such, each denomination tends to have its own unique culture. Southern Baptists are 85% white, 64% Republican or Republican-leaning, and more socially and theologically conservative compared to other Protestant Christians in America.
2 Matthew 25:31-46 (New International Version).
3 Matthew 23:4-5 (Contemporary English Version).
4 Matthew 23:11 (Contemporary English Version).
5 “Two successive editors of Christianity Today took equivocal stands on abortion. Carl F. H. Henry, the magazine’s founder, affirmed that ‘a woman’s body is not the domain and property of others,’ and his successor, Harold Lindsell, allowed that, ‘if there are compelling psychiatric reasons from a Christian point of view, mercy and prudence may favor a therapeutic abortion.’” Randall Balmer, The Religious Right and the Abortion Myth, Politico (May 10, 2022), https://www.politico.com/news/magazine/2022/05/10/abortion-history-right-white-evangelical-1970s-00031480.
6 See, e.g., Randall Balmer, The Religious Right and the Abortion Myth, Politico (May 10, 2022), https://www.politico.com/news/magazine/2022/05/10/abortion-history-right-white-evangelical-1970s-00031480; Matthew Rozsa, The Christian Right Didn’t Used to Care About Abortion – Until They Did, Salon (Dec. 18, 2021), https://www.salon.com/2021/12/18/history-of-abortion/; Throughline, ‘Throughline’ Traces Evangelicals’ History on the Abortion Issue, NPR (June 20, 2019), https://www.npr.org/2019/06/20/734303135/throughline-traces-evangelicals-history-on-the-abortion-issue.
7 Many Christians in my sphere of influence view abortion as a “birth control” procedure. I recognize the many fallacies that form the premise of this view, but addressing such harms is beyond the scope of this reflection.
8 Eugene Cho, Thou Shalt Not Be A Jerk: A Christian’s Guide to Engaging in Politics 37 (2020).
Familiar Tales
Safety is not a privilege—it is a right. Far be it from me to question the decision-making abilities of the justices of the Supreme Court of the United States (SCOTUS) as they reign from their high towers. But for people of color, particularly women of color like myself, blatant inequity seems rather cyclical.
In the wake of the Supreme Court decision to overturn the right to bodily autonomy guaranteed by Roe v. Wade, we must assess the implications of such a ruling for marginalized communities and communities of color alike. We must grieve the loss of a constitutional right that provided women with legal protection to practice bodily autonomy as they see fit. For the purpose of this reflection, I will not cite a myriad of articles and journals that emphasize the disastrous impact that this ruling will have on individuals in marginalized communities. I will not speak of these communities as hypothetical people that are far away, out of sight or out of mind. I will speak as a Black woman from the South who is not only a product of these communities, but who has the privilege of publishing my reflections on behalf of my sisters, my cousins, my friends, and many others that might not have the privilege of reading about a new SCOTUS decision before the laws dramatically change.
Post-Dobbs, maternal healthcare is on the brink of catastrophic decline. Prior to this decision, maternal mortality in the United States was higher than that of any other developed country, and the rate is higher now than it has been in decades. In fact, the rate of maternal mortality in 2020 was 23.8 per 100,000 live births. Women of color, in particular, have higher mortality rates than their white counterparts. Whether pregnancy results from a lack of access to insurance, contraceptives, family planning education, or the crime of sexual assault, women of color will be at greater risk of maternal mortality in the post-Dobbs era. The end of constitutional protection of bodily autonomy, coupled with the enforcement of abortion restrictions for both medical and personal reasons, will exacerbate the crisis of maternal healthcare.
Additionally, although not all states provide data pertaining to racial and ethnic demographics of abortion rates, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has found that a disproportionately high share are women of color. In 2019, the abortion rate for Black women was 23.8 per 1,000 women. For Hispanic women, it was 11.7 per 1,000. And for white women, it was 6.6 per 1,000. The already-existing disparities in healthcare quality aside, these abortion statistics reveal yet another barrier preventing women of color from receiving the proper medical assistance they require. According to the CDC’s 2019 Abortion Surveillance, “non-Hispanic Black women had the highest abortion rates [at] 23.8 abortions per 1,000 women[] and ratio [of abortions to births at 386 to 1,000].”
Some states have gone so far as to criminalize abortion, effectively reinforcing Uncle Sam’s draconian, patriarchal chokehold on women’s freedom to make decisions for themselves. Isra Pananon Weeks, the interim executive director of the National Asian Pacific American Women’s Forum, lamented about the already-challenging landscape that many marginalized communities were forced to navigate prior the Court’s recent change-of-heart, “[t]his is a direct and pernicious assault on people of color, including Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) communities where the path to abortion care is [already] riddled with language barriers, cultural stigmas, and low rates of insurance coverage among our most vulnerable community members.” The painful reality is that, even with Roe as the federal floor, “access to abortion has been ‘very limited’ for marginalized groups, who often encounter financial and structural barriers to accessing medical care, [] not having proper identification or documentation, a lack of sex education or not being able to afford or access contraception, for example.” With the removal of this federal safeguard, these existing issues will be exacerbated to an unimaginable scale. Per usual, marginalized communities will bear the brunt of this nationwide trauma.
The Dobbs decision speaks volumes about the belief still held by the courts, politicians, and an alarming number of Americans: bodily autonomy and freedom of choice are matters of politics rather than a fundamental right. This belief reflects systemic hypocrisy that performatively preaches equity in travel brochures with fingers crossed behind its back. It is yet another example of blatant disregard for marginalized communities. This decision will not only disproportionately devastate these communities—it is a direct “attack on racial justice, economic justice, and equality,” sealed with a stamp of federal approval.
With that being said, I want to address my fellow women of color. I do not speak for, but I speak to, women like me—from communities that are often forgotten, unheard and unseen. Communities that cannot always afford health insurance, are seldom taught about sexual safety in schools, and are quickly dismissed by our doctors. I am sorry that once again, the system has failed us. I am sorry that again, we must fend for ourselves and for each other. And I am sorry that, so soon after the excitement of a Black woman ascending to the role as the Vice President of the United States, we have been swiftly reminded of our inconsequence.
To physicians of color, who worked tirelessly to overcome societal prophecies of “failure,” I am sorry that you have been forced to turn away women who desperately need your services— women that resemble your mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and friends. I am sorry that you must listen to the heart wrenching testimonies of patients who cannot carry healthy pregnancies, but are left with no other choice. I am sorry that a right that was once constitutionally protected, a right that you were trained to uphold, has now been weaponized such that protecting it would force you to risk the medical license you sacrificed countless sleepless nights for. I am sorry that you must stand idly by as the rate of maternal mortality increases precipitously. And lastly, I am sorry that as a physician, you are legally compelled to breach your oath to “apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required.”
Merafe Gedewon is a third-year law student at Northeastern University School of Law with an interest in immigration law. She is the Chief Diversity Editor of the Northeastern University Law Review, Volume 15.
Where Do We Go from Here?
I was raised in a household with a strong emphasis on “hard work.” Being the daughter of an immigrant and a person from the projects, I was raised to believe I need to work twice as hard to get the same opportunities as my white peers. I grew up participating in dance, academic after school programs, competitive cheerleading, and church. My schedule was booked solid from the age of five. It has taken me years to understand the meaning of rest. I have divulged to my friends, who are mostly Black women, my struggles to properly rest. They have also spoken about how our lives mirror each other, and they deal with the same difficulties.
When I shared my life story with a friend I met a few years ago, she said, “You need to protect your peace.” At first, I was frustrated by this response. How can one rest when there is so much to do? How can one rest when our family is counting on us to succeed? How can one rest when our people, Black women, are still not capable of rest without suffering consequences? I was recently the president of the Black Law Students Association at my law school. I spent more hours than I can count uplifting and creating opportunities to support Black students in law school. Once my tenure ended, I went to a remote cabin and spent some time decompressing. It was the first time in two years I allowed myself to rest. Immediately after I returned to reality, the Dobbs ruling was announced. Hearing the news took me back to the fall of 2016. I was a freshman at a university in an area that subscribed to Trump’s policies. I remember falling asleep on a friend’s floor, too afraid to leave the room as I heard the cheers of celebration roar through the dorm halls. Ever since that difficult night, further demoralizing events like Dobbs felt inevitable. In some ways, the decision felt like a relief because it was no longer looming over my head.
Suddenly, social media was oversaturated with very upset white women. White women were posting tutorials on how to make a Lizzo-inspired protest sign, which companies to boycott, what day to strike from your workplace, and a tutorial on the best The Handmaid’s Tale makeup to wear to a demonstration. A few thoughts: first, how did these people have so much energy? What part of these strategies would alter the outcome? And angrily, I thought to myself, where have you been?
It is not news to me that Black women’s reproductive rights were stripped away long before this decision was announced. Compared to women of other races, Black women die at a disproportionate rate from childbirth or related complications. In fact, it is well documented that doctors have a comparatively greater tendency to disregard the needs that Black women vocalize during labor. Since slavery, the medical field has pedaled pseudo-science to make the world believe that Black women do not feel pain. Additionally, and most importantly, Black women in jails across the country have suffered from forced sterilizations. Now, Black women will disproportionately suffer the consequences of the overturning of Roe v. Wade. Crying now feels like too little, too late. I believe it is imperative to remember where solidarity was non-existent in our history, particularly for the rights of Black women, so that we can do better.
Black women have struggled to be accepted by communities of white women and Black men of the Civil Rights movement. Leaders of the suffrage movement did not want Black women to march with them, likely because they did not believe they would be able to gain the right to vote if they were attached to Black women. Civil rights activists have excluded Black women from representing the movement. Still, in the face of opposition, Black women have persevered: as the first woman to lead the Black Panther Party, Elaine Brown worked tirelessly to include the right to abortion in the Party’s platform. So, as the fight continues, what does solidarity look like at this moment?
The actions being taken post-Dobbs blatantly ignore the experiences of poor people and Black women. In this new call for solidarity amongst all women, I encourage all of us to remember our past. Our definition of solidarity must change. It must include the protection of queer people, poor people, Black women, trans women, and women of color. Additionally, we must build infrastructure that allows all community members to join in the protest. If we want people to strike their workplace, will mutual aid be available so that people can feed their families? Many communities are already providing such support. However, such tactics must be at the forefront of the struggle for reproductive rights rather than remaining on the periphery.
The Dobbs decision has given me a lot to contemplate. More specifically, the decision brought me back to my friend’s motto, “You need to protect your peace.” Dobbs helped me understand exactly what she meant. First, naively, I thought I was the only one capable and responsible to take up the exceptionally large task of fighting for the liberation of Black women. This goal will take a large village with a lot of sincere allyship. Even just in my small circle, Black women seem to be working twice as hard and are twice as exhausted as our non-Black counterparts. Additionally, “protecting my peace” means acknowledging and honoring the challenging work already accomplished. My ancestors, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, and I have already worked hard in this fight, and we are deserving of rest.
I welcome Black women to find an understanding of peace so that we may feel refreshed and ready to bring our full selves to the fight. In the meantime, I encourage non-Black allies to start carrying their weight, as they should be well-rested by now.
Genevievre T. Miller is a third-year student at Northeastern University. Born and raised in a New Jersey suburb, Genevievre values spending time with her family and getting involved in her ever-changing communities. She is one of the Editors-in-Chief of the Northeastern University Law Review, Volume 15.