The Woe of Roe vs. Wade

Everybody has a right to have their own opinion, whether they express it or not. And here in America, we like to think that we have the freedom to express those opinions—it’s called Freedom of Speech or the First Amendment.

Americans also like to think that they have the freedom of choice…and most times we do until the government or other well- endowed agencies imposes restrictions upon us.

Tuesday morning I awoke to the “breaking news” about the leaked Supreme Court’s majority opinion draft to overturn the Roe vs. Wade legal precedent which has given women the right the choose whether or not to terminate their pregnancies for the last 49 years. Am I pro choice? Yes. Is it a choice I would make? At my age, no; ten years ago, no; twenty years ago, no; thirty years ago, maybe depending on the situation. With age comes wisdom. I believe in having a choice and not having my body legislated by anyone including nine Supreme Court justices of which six are men and none who understand my situation.

I was born and raised in the South. Roe vs. Wade encompasses many things—is it a moral issue, is it a religious issue, is it a political issue, is it a class issue, is it a race issue? On several levels I am conflicted but when it comes down to it I am for a women’s right to chose, always and forever. Whatever choice that may be, she will have to live with it and have whatever reckoning that may come with her Saviour. God is the only judge that matters in the end.

I am particularly close to this issue. As a wide-eyed freshman on a large public university campus, two of my freshmen dorm mates and I were approached by a well-spoken, culturally aware woman while hanging out in the courtyard near the student center where we would people watch.

She asked about some of our beliefs and then if we wanted part-time jobs.

We thought we were being punked or kidnapped but we took her card to ponder it anyway. A few weeks later after a few phone calls and a visit, my friends and I took that job at a women’s health clinic.

My friend “Kristina with a K” was a white, agnostic from Louisiana raised by a single dad. My friend Carly was a Catholic, Irish descendant from Miami. We were an interesting trio. Our health facility turned out to function as an abortion clinic on the weekends. It was an eye opening experience in many ways—we met a lot of interesting people with varying backgrounds and stories. None more interesting than John Bayard Britton, MD.

Some may recognize his name. He was shot to death in 1994 at a Pensacola, Fl. clinic by a radical pro lifer, the second such murder of an abortion doctor within a year. We came to learn a lot about Dr. Britton, though he rarely spoke and always had a quirky smile. He was a doctor that began his career delivering babies and concluded it by terminating pregnancies. He loved KFC chicken, hated gum chewers, and often showed compassion to his patients.

When he wasn’t certain that a woman was certain about her choice, Dr. Britton would refuse her service and tell her to think about it and come back in a week.

I remember in the months prior to his murder, radical activity had picked up and he would arrive at the clinic wearing his bulletproof vest with a security guard but still smiling and seemingly unfazed. He said the “fanfare” would meet him at every clinic he visited.

I remember the day the news broke that he had been shot. We were no longer at the clinic, the director felt it was an unsafe environment for young college students so she had forbidden us from continuing to work there.

I learned a lot about myself in those days including on what side of the fence I would stand about several issues.