What the Texas abortion ban means to me as a Black woman
Our will to rise is greater than the history of oppression
By Fola Onifade
Last week, as I watched the media frenzy following the passage of a Texas bill that would ban abortions for pregnant people after six weeks, I stepped away from my computer to take a walk and clear my head. I was overwhelmed: by the news; the voices shouting across the internet in reaction; the flawed (and quite frankly, Islamophobic) comparisons of Texas to countries in the Middle East or to the white-centered novel and TV show The Handmaid’s Tale. I sensed my body bracing itself against the familiar pangs of anxiety and dread. I felt my heart heavy and racing, palms sweaty, as my stomach ached with tightness.
It took me a while to articulate the meaning of my physical and emotional reaction. But over the last several days, I’ve come to better understand that although my fears are rooted in a long history of violence against marginalized people, my hope is grounded in a deeper and richer history of our undefeatable will to rise.
To be a Black woman in America
As a Nigerian-born immigrant who came to this country at the age of seven and was raised in a large urban city in northern New Jersey, my experience of Blackness in America is a diasporic one, diverse in ways but undeniably connected and related to that of Black Americans descended from enslaved people of Africa. As a Black woman in her late 20s, I am regularly bombarded with racist and misogynistic attacks against my autonomy, exhausting reminders that I will always have to fight for and justify my humanity in every choice I make.
At every turn, I watch my government negate my right to thrive. Black women and people of marginalized genders and ethnicities across the spectrum have to fight on a daily basis for our basic rights, including our right to choose who should speak on our behalf in the seat of government (without lawmakers going out of their way to suppress our votes), and our rights to true public safety, adequate healthcare, housing, living wages, and more.
Abortion laws and us
This new Texas abortion ban is another reminder of how Black folks, other people of color and of diverse genders have to fight on several fronts in order to be seen as humans deserving dignity, safety, and choice over our livelihoods. While abortion bans rarely stop people from terminating a pregnancy, such bans do put poor people and people of color at greater risk by leaving them fewer options for safe abortion care.
In 2019, about 70% of abortions in Texas were provided to women of color, according to the Guttmacher Institute. For many poor folks, beyond the physical and mental health implications of the right to reproductive choice, these abortions are a necessity for economic stability and well-being. In the U.S., about half the people who get abortions live below the federal poverty level (and Black, Native Americans and Latinxs disproportionately make up the population living below this level). A recent study of women living below the poverty line found that over a span of a decade, 72% of the women who participated in the study and who were denied abortion care ended up living in poverty (compared with 55% of those who received abortion care).
Even for those of us not living in Texas, the current attacks on bodily autonomy paint a terrifying picture of the not-so-distant future, and pose a stark reminder of the horrors of the not-so-distant past, including forced sterilizations performed on Black women and other women of color. According to the Guttmacher Institute, nationally an African American woman is 2.7 times more likely to have an abortion than a white woman, and a Latina 1.8 times as likely. Also, and in the context of reproductive rights as a whole, Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women.
These abortion laws also disproportionately affect Black and brown teenagers. While it’s good news that pregnancy and birth rates for Black and Latinx teens have dropped significantly in the past two decades, they’re still more than twice as likely as white (predominantly cisgender) girls to become pregnant, due to poor culturally-specific reproductive health programming and state-specific legislation that makes comprehensive sex education difficult to access.
Still we rise
I’ve been doing my best to stay calm and find hope in the lasting tradition of resistance in this country and around the world, the collective political response of oppressed people — especially those of us marginalized because of our gender — to rise up at times when oppressors are at their most vile and dangerous. When I look to the generation behind me, I see the country’s youth and young adults, driven to take their future into their own hands, armed with more knowledge and enlightenment than I could have imagined for myself at their age.
Specifically the 16- and 17-year-olds leading reproductive justice movements, marching in the streets for climate justice, educating their families and friends on voting rights, and fighting for a better, safer world for everyone remain my greatest source of hope. It’s their ability to rise up from the dirt, from the “bitter, twisted lies” — as the late Maya Angelou said in her famous poem “And Still I Rise” — that reminds me: it is often the darkest moments in history that galvanize great movement and change.
My hope is in the youth
As we noted in a recent episode of the Democracy in Color podcast about the 2020 Census, people of color make up more than half of the nation’s total youth population, with Latinx youth comprising 25.7% and Black youth 13.2%. According to a Pew report, people of color made up 38% of Democratic votes in 2020, and young people between the ages of 18–29 made up 17% of the party’s votes. Those numbers are only set to grow. Every year, about 4 million young people turn 18 before election day in the U.S. That’s 16 million new voters by 2024 who, as Steve has pointed out before, are not easily startled by the terms “socialism” or “defund the police.”
That’s why Republicans and conservatives are so afraid: because they see the writing on the wall and are doing anything to try to curb this rising tide.
When I am most overcome with distress about what the future may hold, I remind myself that the future includes these young people too: the rising New American Majority that isn’t afraid to dream big and demand a more just and equitable society that protects everyone regardless of race, ability, faith, gender identity, and sexual orientation; one that prioritizes mutual cooperation to make amends for the past and work towards the greater good in order to care for an ailing planet.
I believe the future of our country will encompass a story greater than oppression, and to achieve that we’ll need to listen to, invest in and support the young people who are ready and desiring racial and social justice, and change.
In Solidarity and Love,
Fola and the Democracy in Color Team
A version of this article was published in the Democracy in Color newsletter. Sign up to receive weekly letters like this in your inbox here.