Sarah Rose is a originally from Maryland and has been attending Quaker Meeting in St. Louis for over a year. She has also been organizing with AFSC's Undoing Racism Core Team over the last year .
“Sometimes I forget that I live in Missouri.” It’s a peculiar sentiment; forgetting which state you live in, but its one I have heard a couple of times in St. Louis, especially since May when it became clear that Missouri was going to pass a ban on abortion after eight weeks. St. Louis is home to the single remaining abortion clinic, and the State of Missouri is throwing all they’ve got at it.
The City of St Louis is known as a blue bubble in a used-to-be purple state. I’ve never experienced Missouri, the bellwether state; it hasn’t been known as that since the 2008 election, and I only moved here a year ago. I’m not even sure I can speak to the Missouri of today, having only been St Louis and Columbia. In the only recent statewide poll, composed of folks “expected to turnout for the 2020 election” and commissioned by conservative-leaning Remington Research Group, 51% of residents would support a ban on abortion if it contained exceptions for instances of rape and incest.
It’s easy to paint access to abortion as a “red vs blue” or “rural vs urban” issue. While state legislators voted overwhelmingly for the recent eight-week ban (110-40 in the House and 24-10 in the Senate), a number of St. Louis alderpeople and elected officials signed on to a statement against the bill, and an alderwoman was even arrested in an act of civil disobedience. But no group is monolithic; not all alderpeople signed on, and some Republican State House Representatives voted against the new bill. Even a community as small as a meeting house is not monolithic; St Louis Friends Meeting is not of one opinion when it comes to access to abortion.
I moved to St Louis from Maryland, where “pollsters haven’t bothered to ask about the issue [abortion] because it seemed to be settled...,” as the Baltimore Sun put it. I supported Planned Parenthood but tended to not discuss the particulars of my beliefs. After I moved to Missouri, the Midwestern-nice seeped in and I spoke less about abortion with people whose beliefs I didn’t already know, nervous about the conflict that it may ignite.
I didn’t speak with peers and co-workers when the clinic in Columbia, Missouri lost their license to perform abortions because of insurmountable hurdles added by regulators. I didn’t share the information or take a stand. As the Martin Niemöller quote goes; I didn’t live in Columbia, I lived two hours away in St Louis. So now, they are coming for the St Louis clinic.
I can go to another state if I need an abortion. I don’t need the community to support my decision and I don’t need the community to provide access to me; I have that ability even if no one else in Missouri spends a cent on it and there is no clinic to provide it. However, that’s definitely not true for my neighbors and many people in my community. Those with less privilege and money have to rely on the community, be it the city or state, to protect and provide the ability to get an abortion.
Those who live near St Louis, who have the $500 to pay, and who have access to transportation will still have access to abortion at the Hope Clinic six miles away in Illinois, a state that just passed a number of protections for those seeking abortions. Those who don’t live in the suburbs of St. Louis can rely on nearby states to provide access, but only if they have a car, can get off of work, can acquire childcare, and can get to a clinic over three hours away.
I live in a state, in a city, and in a community where people disagree with me about people’s access to abortion. As more federal protections are disintegrated, state boundaries will increasingly determine the supportive services, health care, education, and safety available. But community doesn’t end at city, county, or state borders, and neither should conversations.
My Quaker beliefs demand that I be in community with those who disagree with me, and more importantly with those most affected by systemic injustice and more reliant on community. They demand that I figure out how to be open to those who disagree with me, those who want to curtail my ability to choose what happens to my body. I do not want to strawman their beliefs, but rather I want to truly hear their concerns and fears, and I ask the same of them.
We can agree that those who are raising children do not receive enough support, either from federal or state government. We can agree that there needs to be more support for the foster care and kinship care programs. We agree that Missouri’s maternal mortality rate is far too high, particularly among black mothers.
My beliefs also demand that I advocate on behalf of those I am in community with, and that I stand for the rights of those around me. That I stand with those who seek abortion and trust their integrity that it is the right choice for them. That I recognize that the lack of access to safe, affordable abortions disproportionately affects black and brown folk, poor folk, young folk, and folks living in rural areas. Lastly, they demand that I hold all of this at once, while others don’t see room for conversation.
Though right now we have the nation’s spotlight (and generous donations to our local abortion access fund), we won’t always be the center of attention. It’s easy to forget that community and support doesn’t end at the border of a city or state and it’s hard to determine exactly what that community looks like. Somewhere out there, there must be a balance between mutual respect, fierce advocacy, and an uncompromising commitment to justice and equity.