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Florida: Where My Reproductive Rights Go to Die
Florida: Where My Reproductive Rights Go to DieGreetings from the Fascist State of Florida.
It’s already been a little over two months since Gov. Ron DeSantis quietly signed the “Heartbeat Protection Act” into law in the middle of night, effectively banning most abortions after six weeks. Unless the conservative Florida Supreme Court rules otherwise, the law likely puts the last nail in the coffin of Florida’s status as a sanctuary state for abortion access, a Southern oasis in the “pro-life” Bible Belt. According to the Florida Agency for Health-Care Administration, in 2022, 6,726 people traveled to Florida for abortion care; 2,980 have traveled in 2023 as of June 6.
As I write this, it would appear that we have entered the end stage of my state’s turn from a national punchline and bumbling playground for Florida Man’s endless adventures to an actual authoritarian hellscape mired in oppressive legislation. I work quite literally in the shadow of the state Capitol, so I get to witness the fallout up close. From the balcony of my building, I’ve had a front-row seat for countless demonstrations, protests, and rallies. I rub shoulders with these firebrands of freedom, and my heart aches as their strained, yet unwavering voices fall on the unlistening ears of those fortified in the ivory tower behind them.
“The fight to stop government interference in personal medical decisions is important to me because I’ve had traumatic pregnancies, said Sarah Parker, president of Women’s Voices of SW Florida. “I know at the end of the day my community will bear the brunt of this near-total abortion ban. This isn’t about politics. This is about health care, this is about Black patients dying, this is about the single mom who can’t afford to travel out of state. And this is about being able to choose our own life path.”
By choice, I will never bear children. However, I do sit at the treacherous intersection of Black, female, and queer identities, and understand that it doesn’t have to happen to me for it to matter to me. This brings to mind Martin Niemöller’s lament: “Then, they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
It’s already been a little over two months since Gov. Ron DeSantis quietly signed the “Heartbeat Protection Act” into law in the middle of night, effectively banning most abortions after six weeks. Unless the conservative Florida Supreme Court rules otherwise, the law likely puts the last nail in the coffin of Florida’s status as a sanctuary state for abortion access, a Southern oasis in the “pro-life” Bible Belt. According to the Florida Agency for Health-Care Administration, in 2022, 6,726 people traveled to Florida for abortion care; 2,980 have traveled in 2023 as of June 6.
As I write this, it would appear that we have entered the end stage of my state’s turn from a national punchline and bumbling playground for Florida Man’s endless adventures to an actual authoritarian hellscape mired in oppressive legislation. I work quite literally in the shadow of the state Capitol, so I get to witness the fallout up close. From the balcony of my building, I’ve had a front-row seat for countless demonstrations, protests, and rallies. I rub shoulders with these firebrands of freedom, and my heart aches as their strained, yet unwavering voices fall on the unlistening ears of those fortified in the ivory tower behind them.
“The fight to stop government interference in personal medical decisions is important to me because I’ve had traumatic pregnancies, said Sarah Parker, president of Women’s Voices of SW Florida. “I know at the end of the day my community will bear the brunt of this near-total abortion ban. This isn’t about politics. This is about health care, this is about Black patients dying, this is about the single mom who can’t afford to travel out of state. And this is about being able to choose our own life path.”
By choice, I will never bear children. However, I do sit at the treacherous intersection of Black, female, and queer identities, and understand that it doesn’t have to happen to me for it to matter to me. This brings to mind Martin Niemöller’s lament: “Then, they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”