A War on My Body: A War on My Rights

By Di Angelo Publications

A riveting, educational, and powerful assemblage from a multitude of global leaders, entertainers, educators, medical and legal professionals spanning several generations and walks of life. A War on My Body; A War on My Rights chronicles the history of abortion rights, its role in gender equality and its cruciality to healthcare infrastructure while offering a mosaic of raw, passionate perspective of the crisis concerning women's reproductive rights and the dire impending consequences should the right to choose wane in the United States and on a global scale. It is a tribute to leadership and advocacy, illuminating the voices of those willing to take a stand on an issue that has long been cloaked in controversy and dishonor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erudition
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955690942

Book preview

A WAR ON MY BODY

A WAR ON MY RIGHTS

A War on My Body: A War on My Rights is published under Erudition, a sectionalized division under Di Angelo Publications, Inc.

Erudition is an imprint of Di Angelo Publications.

Copyright 2022.

All rights reserved.

Printed in United States of America.

Di Angelo Publications

4265 San Felipe #1100

Houston, Texas 77027

Library of Congress

A War on My Body: A War on My Rights

First Edition

ISBN: 978-1-955690-15-7

Cover Design: Savina Deianova

Interior Design: Kimberly James

Editors: Elizabeth Geeslin Zinn, Stephanie Yoxen

Downloadable via Kindle, iBooks, NOOK, and Google Play.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law For permission requests, contact

[e-mail].

For educational, business, and bulk orders, contact

[e-mail].

1. Social Science —- Abortion & Birth Control

2. Political Science —- Human Rights

3. Political Science —- American Government —- State

4. Biography & Autobiography —- Personal Memoirs

5. Biography & Autobiography —- Women

Printed in the United States with int. distribution.

w.o.m.b.

a WAR ON MY BODY

A WAR ON MY RIGHTS

The views of the individual contributing authors are their sole opinions and experiences and do not necessarily reflect each other’s views, respectively. While it is the publisher’s wish to allow each author the liberty to express their view without conceptual editorial interference, we understand that some chapters may present conflicting arguments or opinions to those in other chapters; thus, we ask our readers to remain cognizant of the varying perspectives within this exclusive and unexampled collection of writing, as it is meant to exhibit the nuanced spectrum of opinions and experiences that exist within the pro-choice movement, created by leaders and powerful voices from all walks of life.

Insights

Foreword

7

Paxton Smith

Introduction

11

donna Howard

A Steady Regression

27

Gloria Allred

Why I Am So Strongly in Support of the Right to

Choose Legal Abortion

47

Marsha Jones

From the Afiya Center

57

Paxton Smith

The Teenage Abortion

75

Judie Saunders

Is There a War on Women’s Rights?

97

Samantha Brown

Monster Inside of Me

109

Elliott Kozuch

A Hydra of Hatred: The Antichoice Movement’s Decades-Long Attack on Our Freedom and Democracy

123

Sarah DamofF

One Christian’s Perspective on Abortion

139

Facts & Figures

151

Paxton Smith

The Jane Collective

157

Alison Cano

Gay and Pregnant

173

Carliss Chatman

We Shouldn’t Need Roe

183

Sarah Holliday

Power & Control: A Historicization of American

Attitudes Toward Abortion

201

Wendy Murphy

Equal Justice Under the Law

215

Hollie S. McKay

El Salvador: Where Abortion is Akin to Murder

233

Congresswoman Carolyn B. Maloney

Fighting the Good Fight

247

Wendy Davis

Why I Support Abortion

261

Paxton Smith

Closing Remarks

271

FOREWORD

Written by the founder and president of

Di Angelo Publications (DAP)

Sequoia Schmidt

The musky scent of smoke and pheromones lingered on Adam’s leather jacket. I pulled my head back from his shoulder as he brushed the hair from my eyes and, in the cramped music room of a performing arts high school on the outskirts of Sydney, at that exact moment, I knew I was in love. My inconsistent past had molded me to be walled—but at fifteen and full of fire—those walls burned down fast for Adam Wilson.

Blurred weeks turned to months—and Adam became a sense of familiarity in an otherwise unstable world. I had moved to Australia alone—spats of foster care mixed with loving but absentee parents resulted in my emancipation in the New Zealand court system. After being granted the opportunity of a scholarship at the Australian International Performing Arts High School. I moved to Sydney, where I would study hard, work nights at KFC, and begin to make a path for myself in the world.

It wasn’t until after Adam and I split that I found out I was pregnant. Heartbroken by the recent break up, I struggled with whether or not I would tell him. So I wrote it on a note—those three little words no teenage boy ever wants to read— and it was passed in confidence from Sarah, to Katie, then Marie and finally to Adam.

Before I knew it, the principal of our small school of artists asked me to join him in his office. Due to the fact that I had no parents or legal guardians in the country, an office worker from the school had volunteered along with the principal to take me to the doctor to determine if I was, in fact, pregnant.

The lack of period for a few months, in addition to a positive blood test, indicated that I was most likely eleven weeks pregnant.

I didn’t want to get an abortion—no one ever does. However, I was not ready to bring a child into this world. I had no stability in my life; my pillar of stability had crumbled with Adam, and I was starting to act out in ways that scared those around me, including the principal of the school I was attending.

The stark white room, numbing sting of a bright light, and aftermath of emptiness is still burned into my mind.

Since then, I firmly support and believe in the legalization of abortion up to twenty two weeks. Primarily, this support hinges on freedom of choice… a female’s right to autonomy over her own body and her choice of whether or not she wants to bring a child into this world.

Like many, I first came across the video of Paxton Smith’s speech while scrolling through social media. Although my publishing firm’s headquarters still reside in Houston, I had been away from Texas for some time and did not realize the extent to which abortion rights were under attack. From the moment the video of Paxton’s powerful words ended, the message lingered in my mind. I pondered what my life might be like if I, at fifteen years old, had been living in Texas when I became pregnant. Under these new laws and having been well past the six weeks mark, my abortion would not have been legal. I contemplated where I would be now, with a fifteen-year-old child to care for, if that child did not wind up in foster care due to my negligence—a vicious cycle of my own upbringing. As my mind began to warp into a spiral of circumstances and decision, it all came back to the point of choice.

I contacted Paxton, as well as many of my colleagues and friends who I knew felt strongly about women’s reproductive rights. Together, they share their raw and poignant stories to create this anthology. As the owner of a small publishing firm, I am a strong believer in free independent press, and I knew that this was an opportunity to publish something powerful about another type of freedom - the freedom of choice. For, without that freedom of choice, my life would have taken me in another direction, a direction that would have most likely not included the creation of this publishing firm and, as a result, this book.

ONE

paxton smith

Introduction

When I was seven years old, I was the definition of sexist. I used every ounce of my power to be seen as anything but a girl. I played rugby with my front yard neighbors, wore boys’ clothes, and played on the local boys’ basketball team, even though I had to play with boys a year younger than me to participate. I viewed girls as weak. I was mean to the girls in my class and consistently excluded them, all the while refusing to acknowledge that I, myself, was one of them.

I look back on my seven-year-old self and wonder why I was like that. There’s a popular idea that kids start off as blank slates, clean minds ready to be molded into something unique and special. Any time a child feels hate for someone because of their demographic, then surely that must be taught. I don’t think anyone ever said to me, aside from my second-grade heartthrob crush, that women were innately inferior, but I believed that to be true with every ounce of my being.

Perhaps my belief stemmed from the fact that every time I play-wrestled with my front door neighbor, his mother would exclaim at him to take it easy on me because I was a girl. I was a frequent winner of the wrestling matches, so why was she trying to protect me and not her son?

Perhaps my belief came out of the fact that physical appearance was such a big deal to my mother. She spent hours in her bathroom every day fussing with her hair, putting on makeup to lounge in the house, and painting her nails. She talked endlessly about her nails and how beautifully red they were. She tried to make me look as pretty as her with fancy clothes. They were never what I wanted to wear, but it didn’t matter to her. It was the cuteness of my clothes that determined how others viewed me, not the content of my actions or character—choosing my own outfits and risking harsh judgment wasn’t an option in her eyes.

Perhaps my belief felt true because every time a teacher needed help moving something, they asked specifically for a big strong boy to help them. In the prepubescent state of a five- or six-year-old, my competence in chair-carrying was the same as any big strong boy in my grade, so how come the teacher didn’t ask for help from some big strong girl?

Maybe it was the difference in Christmas toys my brother and I received from distant family. I received clothing while he received Legos—something to build and be innovative with. Maybe it was because the biggest insult my peers could ever come up with was comparing someone to a girl. Maybe it was because everyone assumed that I liked being called cute, that I liked sparkly things, that I needed to be protected all the time, while my male counterparts faced no such treatment.

In every part of life, seemingly harmless stereotypes were created and used to separate the boys from the girls. The key differentiators between the genders, however, were levels of competence and quality of appearance. Looking back now, maybe I wasn’t sexist, but instead, I was anti-everything associated with being a girl.

At a young age, I decided that if I could distance myself as much as possible from being a woman, then the world wouldn’t treat me like one. I didn’t want people to see me as weak, incompetent, or unable to handle myself, so I decided to be a boy in all the ways I thought possible. I acted like one, dressed like one, and only hung out with boys. As puberty hit, however, I could no longer avoid being treated like a girl. My body developed and my outward appearance changed. The world began to see me as a woman; I begrudgingly began to see myself as one, too. I had to acknowledge that the treatment I faced as a child would become my reality. It wasn’t a pretty prospect.

After so much time spent pushing away my identity and managing to be treated like a young man by my peers and their parents, puberty and the transition to a new school was the first time in a long time that I experienced the microaggressions that came from being a woman. They were fresh in my mind and reinvigorated my anger with womanhood. However, this time my anger wasn’t directed at women; my anger was directed at the people who treated women with the same lack of respect normally given to a rambling five-year-old.

My genitals don’t make me any less competent or human, but for some reason, societal behavior does not always reflect that. Maybe that perceived drop-off in the capabilities of women is why women’s voices are the ones often left out, ignored in the world of politics, and ignored in the argument for basic human rights. Maybe it is these sexist structures that are cemented into the minds of children as they grow up, that influence adults into seeing a woman as needy, incapable of large decision-making, or untrustworthy when it comes to handling themselves.

There were only a couple of weeks left until school was over for the summer and I would graduate high school. I was biding my time in government class as the teacher droned on in a long-winded spiel. Most of the students were distracted, fiddling around with laptops, books, phones, anything under the sun. My attention, like theirs, was slipping. Then he mentioned abortion. I looked up from my desk and listened intently.

I want you guys to look at these bills on Google Classroom and write down whether you agree with them or not, and whether you would change anything about them.

The teacher had a habit of reading the assignment out loud for the class and essentially doing the work for us, so I continued to listen as he explained the bills.

The Heartbeat Act is being passed with the intention of stopping abortions after a detectable heartbeat is found, which can be as early as six weeks. Although, there is some scientific evidence to say that it’s not an actual heartbeat, it’s just an electrical pulse from the mother… With vague disinterest, I began to work on the assignment. I don’t think it had quite hit me in that moment that this bill was real and was being proposed to be put into law.

During my time in high school, abortion had been protected under the Constitution for almost fifty years. In Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court had ruled that abortion was legal, although restrictions could be passed once the fetus was viable; at that point, it would be up to the states to decide whether or not to ban abortions (with exceptions to protect the life or health of the woman).

Within the ten years before Roe v. Wade, a number of other laws were passed and cases won, guaranteeing women basic rights that men already had. They were finally free from pay discrimination and employment opportunity discrimination, were allowed to use/access contraceptives (regardless of marital status), and were granted equal access to educational and athletic public resources.

When this wave of rights became accessible to women, many people were deeply disturbed. There was worry that if women could access the same opportunities as men, then the groundwork of society would be uprooted. No one would have children, and if they did, the children wouldn’t be cared for because women would be working. Houses would grow dirty, meals would remain uncooked, and the decision-makers of the time (men) would become distressed and unable to carry out their crucial roles in society. It’s easy to see now how heavily flawed that logic is, but at the time, equality was something many people dreaded. Given the great lengths to which society has come since then, it was hard for me to believe that a law was now being proposed that would take women back to those dark days of inequality. It felt dystopian; it couldn’t be possible.

How was it possible that in America, land of the free, a person’s right to decide whether or not to have a child could be taken away from them? Having a child is a life-changing decision, so how was it possible that that decision could be taken out of the hands of millions of Americans? The bill violates the most basic principles of what America claims to stand for: freedom and equality. It took nothing more than common sense to know that that bill would not be signed into law.

About a week later, my government teacher mentioned in passing that the bill had, in fact, been signed into law.

There was almost no reaction to the news. The room had its usual low hum, except for a girl making a loud remark across the room.

Ugh, why?

If my thoughts could be summed up into a concise and school appropriate statement, that might be it.

I went home that day and did my own research on the bill. I read article after article, watched the video of Abbott signing the bill—observably staged in a room full of almost entirely white men—and sat in silence on my bed.

A day or two later, I left class to go sit in the relatively quiet band hall and work on an upcoming psychology essay. I racked my brain as I tried to type out the essay, but no words came to my mind that fit the context of the assignment. Instead, on repeat, my brain played out its thoughts on the bill.

I was going to college soon. For the first time, I would have total freedom—or I was supposed to. If every precaution failed, if every birth control failed, if I got raped and was faced with an unplanned pregnancy, then my freedom would be stripped from me. I would be forced to have