Intimate Wars (18 page)

HIP's law firm Stroock, Stroock, and Lavan advised me to hire Thomas Puccio, the attorney who defended Claus Von Bulow when he was accused of attempting to murder his wife. This was comparable to using an elephant to swat a fly, and only made the civil servants of the Health Department more incensed.

It took three years before I even learned exactly why they were investigating me, what they considered fraudulent in my practice. Feeling like Joseph K. in Franz Kafka's
The Trial
, I almost went crazy going over and over every act of my professional career at Choices, trying to figure out what exactly could be construed as a felony.

Those years were a special kind of hell. It felt as though I had a terminal disease that would go into remission and rear up again unexpectedly. I never knew when another subpoena would come, when the prosecutors would want another piece
of information. At one point there were two grand juries sitting on me and interviewing my employees about the most minute details of my professional life. The boundaries I'd so carefully fostered no longer existed; I was a potential felon, and my employees now held a silent and palpable power over me that I could not even articulate. I had to maintain the image of normalcy—give directives, meet with them, act as if none of it was happening. I could not even allow an unguarded glance to betray me, because if I gave the impression of communicating with them about their testimony, I would be accused of obstructing justice, yet another felony.

Eventually the prosecutor had a meeting with my attorneys and I finally learned the reason for the investigation. Because we were a licensed facility, I saw patients who could not have anesthesia during their procedures because Medicaid didn't cover it. I felt it was unfair that women with private insurance or cash could have greater care and comfort during their procedure than women who were poor, so I decided to offer anesthesia to Medicaid patients for fifty dollars (or whatever they could afford)—much less than it actually cost, but it defrayed the loss a bit. I had patients sign a form outlining the fact that this was not part of their Medicaid coverage and if they chose they could pay what they could afford out of pocket. I finally learned that the Medicaid regulations did not allow providers to charge any out-of-pocket expenses at all to Medicaid recipients; this was considered Medicaid fraud, a felony.

Marty offered to “take the rap” for me, but they wanted me. I told very few people, so he and I were left to ourselves to handle our anxiety. Out of frustration we would attack each other, blame one another for something for which no blame could be placed. We came home from our long days as weary warriors, no energy left over to comfort or actively support
each other. Marty began having difficulty concentrating as he grew older. Things started to go badly for him politically within the HIP system. Those in power had to know about the indictment proceedings, because his vulnerability would be theirs. If the wife of the chairman of the Medical Group Council of HIP was indicted for Medicaid fraud, HIP would have to eliminate him; he endangered their own political survival. And of course, Choices would be finished.

 

IF THERE WAS a possibility of no future, I would throw myself boldly into the present. I embodied Primo Levi's words, “The aims of life are the best defense against death.”

I woke at daybreak most mornings to prepare for actions, do radio interviews, or go in to defend my clinic against anti-choice demonstrations. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with what I saw as the passivity of the pro-choice forces. The antis were a passionate, at times dangerous, radical force; the pro-choice movement was reasoned, conscious, political—reserved. That had to change. We'd had some rallies and marches, we'd published articles and made statements, but we were continually on the defensive, and such strategies were usually created pell-mell, quickly, without deep strategic thought or discussion. We were being attacked, and I felt we were just standing there taking it, hoping our problems would right themselves or be reasoned away.

Feminists had to create a collective
J'Accuse
. Any individual woman who stands up against a powerful man must shed her “good girl” mentality to match his aggression. Real resistance, like great social change, doesn't happen just because people get angry. Anger is not enough. We had to say no to the system, no to the historical definitions of “female,” and no to the historical oppression of our class. It was time for feminists to match the anger of the antis with our own righteous rage.

In 1985 I volunteered to lead a pro-choice march and rally to commemorate the twelfth anniversary of
Roe
. Members of NARAL and NOW had been talking about marching down Thirty-Fourth Street to the right-to-life headquarters, but no one wanted to lead it. It was dangerous to be so high profile; the rash of threats and bombings had left people afraid to come out.

I was afraid, too, but I knew facing my fear was the only way to practice and display courage.

I dressed carefully the morning of January 22. I knew that the cameras were going to be on me. I wore an Italian trench coat that looked like something out of the late thirties in Berlin. With civil rights attorney William Kunstler standing protectively at my side, I took my place on the platform, raised my bullhorn, and made a great rousing speech to the couple hundred people who had bravely come out for the march.

We rallied and marched with passion that day, but anti-choicers had also marched—Nellie Gray led seventy thousand of them in Washington on her annual March for Life. It was obvious that there was a necessity for progressive women and men to work together in coalition. If I could unite the factions of the pro-choice community, emphasize our shared goals and minimize our differences, I could channel our collective energy to pose a formidable challenge to the antis and their political allies. I put out a call for members, sending letters, placing ads, and calling people personally to tell them that it was important that we all meet to strategize and come up with a plan. The enthusiastic response I received led to the founding of the New York Pro-Choice Coalition (PCC), the first umbrella organization of pro-choice individuals, politicians, nonprofits, activists, providers, and organizations committed to ensuring legal, safe abortion in New York.
¹⁶
Our mission statement held that we would fully
utilize the talents and input of organizations and individuals to ensure the continued existence of reproductive freedom for all women.

This was, of course, easier said than done. I found myself once again the leader of a group of people with very different ideas about how things should be run and how our goals should be accomplished. We agreed that it was necessary to come up with a new strategy to combat the language, symbols, and actions of the antis. The question was, could we agree on the tactics?

One of our first internal debates revolved around how to publicly counter the imagery used by the pro-lifers. We had to find a psychological match for those shameless bloody fetuses, contrasted with the “cute” pairs of fetal feet. The possibility of using the iconic image of Gerri Santoro—she bled to death as a result of a botched self-abortion in 1964—lying dead in a pool of blood was brought up, but quickly put aside for fear it would be seen as just another exploitative media image. The use of multiethnic and multigenerational women's faces was also discussed as a variation of NARAL's theme, “We are your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your friends,” but it was felt that this was too timid a response.

Finally, I suggested we use the simple image of the wire coat hanger, which represented all of the awful homegrown abortion remedies: poison, lye, throwing oneself down the stairs, putting a knife in one's stomach. It addressed the severity of the issue without stooping to graphic shock tactics. Many thought it was too negative, and some representatives of Planned Parenthood worried that it might turn off funders. Others thought that young people would not know what it meant. Since we were unable to reach a consensus, I went ahead and used the hanger as a symbol myself. It went
on to become a ubiquitous symbol of reproductive rights and a powerful visual cue that reached younger women.

The lack of minority representation within the PCC was another subject of many heated discussions. We broadly publicized our meetings and were totally open to new membership, but few women of color joined us. This meant that when women of color did attend, they were often put in the uncomfortable position of speaking for their entire racial group.

Another source of tension within the PCC was more personally directed at me. I'd founded the coalition on the strength of my will and ideas, and I was the natural leader for practical reasons as well: thanks to Choices, I was able to spend a great deal of money supporting the coalition's political actions—and many of the activists on an individual basis, too. Some saw this as contradictory; I was radical on the streets, but I had the financial resources to assist in the necessary day-to-day needs of street politics: having expensive props made, paying for printing costs, phone bills, transportation, and publicity. People were grateful for my generosity, but there was always some degree of resentment. Rhonda Copelon, a fellow activist who would become a lifelong friend and supporter, once called me a mixed bag.

Others—socialists, in particular—were sensitive to the notion of me or anyone being the acknowledged leader of the coalition. I recall one telling occurrence that took place during an action in front of the New York City Planned Parenthood: when the police asked, “Who is the leader here?” I had to carefully reply, “I can speak for the group.” I was able to understand everyone's need for recognition and participation.

These tensions were the predictable result of forming a coalition, but they never came close to overpowering the success
of PCC as an organization. Working together, certain of our common goal, the coalition proved itself to be one of the most formidable opponents of the anti-choice movement. Over the next few years feminists across the country were beginning to recognize that all kinds of silences had to be broken. Wide media coverage of rallies, marches, and awareness weeks—on both sides of the war—placed the abortion debate more prominently in the public spotlight than ever.

Every January tens of thousands of antis marched on Washington, vowing to overturn
Roe v. Wade
. Reagan offered his support with statements like “Together we will insure that the resources of government are not used to promote or perform abortions.”
¹⁷
The PCC and other pro-choice organizations answered them with meticulously organized rallies of our own that meshed performance, battle, and theater. In one of our first actions, the PCC participated in the nationwide commemoration of the anniversary of
Roe v. Wade
with local demonstrations in ninety-seven cities. Women lobbied to defend and broaden the right to choose abortion and birth control; some delivered coat hangers to right-wing legislators.
¹⁸

Our New York contingent was five hundred strong, and together we chanted:

“Women should be able to have abortions without the threat of dying by bombing or terrorist attack,” I told
Newsday
that afternoon.

Each action required dozens of meetings and hours of planning. There were dates, venues, and speakers to work out, each element carefully orchestrated to make the maximum impact. I often took on the role of emcee and gave the opening speech.

I began our 1986 rally in Bryant Park by asking for a moment of silence for all the women who had laid down their lives for the right to choose. I asked those who had had an abortion or knew someone who had to raise their hands, and as each hand raised it was as if we were being validated again and again. Some shot up boldly, others came up more slowly—but each one was a triumph of will.

Time for me was measured by planning, actions, and political events. There were no babies' birthdays to celebrate; my husband's birthdays were more of a reminder of his mortality and my potential loss than anything else; and I was so totally immersed in the work that January 22, the anniversary of
Roe v. Wade
, began to take on as much, and sometimes more, significance as March 6, my own birthday. I felt as if I had been born for this moment in history, that the dreams of my girlhood had finally come to life, and my work was a continual affirmation of that.

 

MY WORK WITH the PCC led to some of my deepest friendships. I met Phyllis Chesler at a demonstration for Mary Beth Whitehead in Hackensack, New Jersey, in 1987. Whitehead was fighting to gain custody over a baby she'd contractually arranged to carry to term for a wealthy woman, making her the baby's surrogate mother. The court conducted a “best interest of the child” analysis to determine which woman had
the right to raise the child, putting definitions of motherhood in the spotlight. When I learned that Whitehead had been declared an “unfit mother” for giving her daughter pots and pans to play with instead of stuffed animals, I decided to go down to the courthouse for her trial.

Phyllis had convened a group of women to rally for Whitehead's right to keep her daughter. Watching her give a passionate speech in front of an empty crib, I was immediately drawn to her fierce support of Whitehead. I introduced myself to her after the speech and told her I wanted to cover her cause for my magazine.

She thanked me and asked me to get her a cold drink from inside.

The next day I shocked her by sending her a thousand-dollar check to support her work. I knew that she was considered brilliant and controversial—she had written the feminist classic
Women and Madness
—and I also knew that she saw herself as a prophet and a revolutionary, and was comfortable working alone. We had much in common.