theintercept--2020-06-13--Police Budgets, Austerity, and Tax Cuts for the Rich Are Colliding in Democratic States and Cities

Rhode Island Gov .
Gina Raimondo said that it was time for privileged people like herself to “ listen with humility ” to those who have experienced racism .
Yet after nearly 10,000 people marched on the state House , Raimondo made clear that she does not care to entertain protesters ’ calls to rein in police spending .
Moreover , prior to the coronavirus pandemic , she had already proposed that the state balance its budget by squeezing poorer and nonwhite communities in so-called distressed cities and towns — terminology the state uses to describe Providence and the handful @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and whose inhabitants include the bulk of the state ’ s nonwhite population .
On Thursday , Democrats in the Colorado House of Representatives passed legislation that would roll back some giveaways to the wealthy and corporations included in President Donald Trump ’ s 2017 tax bill , raising roughly a billion dollars in an effort to prevent major cuts to K-12 education and reduce Colorado ’ s estimated $ 3 billion deficit .
Police budgets , meanwhile , are not currently on the chopping block , though some Denver City Council members @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now moves to the state Senate , which Democrats took control of in the 2018 wave .
In a state where Democrats control the entire government , the obstacle isn ’ t Republicans : It is Gov .
Jared Polis , who wants to funnel the revenue into new across-the-board income tax cuts that would disproportionately benefit the rich , leaving open the possibility that the newly blue state will choose tax cuts , austerity , and a robust policing budget over funding for education .
Urban cities , especially poorer and nonwhite @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a condition of austerity even in the best of times .
Now , the economic fallout of Covid-19 , a disease that has been disproportionately lethal for black people , is hitting these communities the hardest .
These already deadly and desperate conditions are about to be exacerbated by a cascade of deprivation fueled by cuts to funding for cities , schools , and social services , as 46 states ’ fiscal years begin on July 1 — and states themselves stare down deficits of on the order of $ 1 trillion , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The federal government should intervene with more fiscal relief , but failing that , states must step up and ensure that critical spending is protected .
Unfortunately , this sort of leadership remains elusive even in states run by Democrats .
Deep blue Rhode Island , with a general assembly that is 85 percent Democratic , today faces a pandemic-driven anticipated 13-month budget deficit of nearly $ 1 billion , out of an annual budget of around $ 10 billion — much more severe than when Raimondo first proposed her cuts to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ engagement from activists over the coming weeks and months , Democrat-imposed cuts will serve to further entrench the racism that governors are now so quick to decry when invited onto MSNBC or while trying to placate protestors who march on their state houses .
Even Democratic state leaders default to using what tend to be regressive revenue structures ( especially when factoring in the sharply regressive property taxes that states enforce as the primary driver of municipal revenues ) to pour exorbitant sums into prisons and policing functions — while penny-pinching where schools @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and transit services are concerned .
This parsimony is particularly damaging for African Americans , who represent a much higher percentage of the workforce in the public sector , especially in cities , than in the private sector — and while unemployment fell overall in May , it increased in the public sector and among African Americans .
We can expect the destruction of lives and livelihoods to intensify in the months ahead , propelled by elected officials who kowtow to their wealthiest constituents by levying relatively low income and capital gains taxes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those least able to afford it .
State budgets , as organizer Sochie Nnaemeka has said , are moral documents , and activists concerned with racial justice must demand a different form of accounting .
June 6 , next to where D.C. Mayor Muriel E. Bowser had “ Black Lives Matter ” painted on the road near the White House , Black Lives Matter activists painted their own message : “ Defund the Police.
” Bowser ’ s budget for D.C. — which encompasses the traditional functions of both a city and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in funding to D.C. police , an approximately $ 18.5 million boost , along with a significant decrease in funding to violence prevention programs .
Across the country , police departments are some of the only agencies not seeing significant coronavirus-related cuts ; in many instances , they are on track to receive more public money in 2021 than they did in 2020 .
Reducing prison and police budgets is a critical vector in the fight against structural racism because those systems perpetuate discrimination while diverting funds from the things people actually need @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prison spending as a percentage of total budgets has ballooned , with increases , for instance , vastly outpacing growth in education spending .
In recent years , we have seen the beginnings of a reconsideration of this unchecked growth , precipitated in part by the budget deficits that followed from the 2008-2009 economic crisis ( which opened more lawmakers ’ minds to the possibility of cuts ) and in part by advocates ’ arguments about the fundamental injustices of the prison industrial complex .
As activists have long argued , funds divested @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reinvested to support those communities that have long been subjected to racialized state violence and decades of state disinvestment ( what the abolitionist scholar Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls “ organized abandonment.
” ) The # 8toAbolition platform , to give one recent example , lays out various things that funds could be used for to ensure real public safety and health , including housing , health care , mental health support , grocery cooperatives , gardens , and more .
Earlier this month , Janeese Lewis George , a 32-year-old democratic socialist , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a Washington , D.C. , Council seat ; her platform included reallocating a portion of the Metropolitan Police Department budget .
“ Investing in the community actually solved problems in public safety more than just sending police officers , ” George told The Intercept , speaking of her experience working as a D.C. assistant attorney general .
Unfortunately , even a wildly successful “ divest/invest ” approach alone won ’ t come close to filling the budget gaps so many states now face .
To simply ensure that the current , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in poorer communities and communities of color will even be maintained , we will need to do more .
With many states facing deficits equal to around 10-25 percent of their budgets , we must demand a restructuring so that communities least burdened by the ongoing pandemic and recession — and by discriminatory and regressive state fiscal practices — pay more .
In other words , we need to tax the rich — an uphill battle even in states like Colorado or New York , where Democrats hold both legislative chambers and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sabotaged the Democratic trifecta in Albany , consistently preferring to close the budget gap on the backs of the state ’ s poorest residents , who have already experienced the bulk of coronavirus-related layoffs .
The recent New York budget also rolls back hard-won cash bail reforms , condemning more cash-strapped people who are charged with a criminal offense to jail , where they are at increased risk of exposure to Covid-19 .
Though his state was an epicenter of a global pandemic , Cuomo has pushed forward with Medicaid cuts that were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now proposing $ 8.2 billion in cuts to municipalities , to precipitate further reductions in Medicaid spending , as well as public education , transit , and other critical services .
Moreover , as New York City faces a fiscal catastrophe , Cuomo appears inclined to deny the city permission to borrow to meet its needs — even as interest rates are at historic lows and the Federal Reserve has created a facility to ease access to such funds .
Amazingly , elites at the New York Times and elsewhere are pressuring New @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lean heavily into cuts — including by reducing the health benefits of public workers in the coronavirus-ravaged city .
Cuomo claims that he “ stands with the protesters , ” but his budget plans indicate otherwise ; New York City Public Advocate Jumaane Williams was not buying it at a protest in Manhattan last weekend , and neither should the rest of us .
Meanwhile , California ’ s Gov .
Gavin Newsom and its state legislature are in the final stages of considering passing a state budget that banks on more federal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ billion in cuts to K-12 schools , higher education , and state employees if that money doesn ’ t show up .
It ’ s far from a given that it will ; a hoped-for “ second stimulus ” to help states weather the last economic crisis never emerged in 2009 — even though Democrats controlled the House , Senate , and presidency — whereas today Trump is in the White House , Mitch McConnell runs the Senate , and each has expressed disinterest in providing more support to states and cities .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ foist upon municipalities played a role in the original Black Lives Matter protests .
After demonstrators shone a global spotlight on the police murder of 18-year-old Michael Brown , the legal advocacy organization Arch City Defenders released a report noting that Ferguson , Missouri , had issued almost 33,000 arrest warrants in 2013 despite having just 21,000 residents .
The warrants were issued because people could not pay their municipal fines and fees — charges often incurred for trivial offenses such as leaving a trash can on the street or a broken brake @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jail if they didn ’ t pay up .
As in many other American municipalities , the police — otherwise so concerned with protecting property rights — have become a mechanism for racialized , punitive revenue extraction , and in Ferguson , this abuse helped push residents to rise up .
Austerity is not inevitable ; it is a choice .
Taken together , refusing further cuts to essential services , divesting from police and prisons , and taxing the rich will mitigate the damage inflicted by the pandemic and economic crisis while @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , even if it will take far deeper changes to meaningfully remedy structural racism .
At minimum , Democratic state lawmakers should seek more than a mere reversion to an unacceptable status quo ( perhaps with more police body cameras or implicit bias training ) .
Rather , they should proactively steer a recovery through spending programs that establish a less punitive and more democratic ( and , ideally , green ) economy and society , even leveraging low interest rates and Federal Reserve lending support to implement stimulus programs with such aims @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any of this absent sustained and strategic pressure from social movements .
In his 1967 book “ Where Do We Go from Here : Chaos or Community ?
” Martin Luther King Jr. reflects on the profound challenge of achieving true racial and economic justice in this country .
The civil rights movement , he argues , had , to date , won only low-hanging fruit .
“ The practical cost of change for the nation up to this point has been cheap .
The limited reforms have been won at bargain rates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no taxes are required , for Negroes to share lunch counters , libraries , parks , hotels and other facilities with whites , ” King explains .
“ Jobs are harder and costlier to create than voting rolls .
The eradication of slums housing millions is complex far beyond integrating buses and lunch counters.
” The things activists are fighting for today demand a redistribution away from police , prisons , and the capitalist class — and an increased investment in public services and everyday people .
Democratic lawmakers need to budget accordingly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to racial justice that they actually are .

Photo: Tasos Katopodis/Getty Images
Last week, Rhode Island Gov. Gina Raimondo said that it was time for privileged people like herself to “listen with humility” to those who have experienced racism. Yet after nearly 10,000 people marched on the state House, Raimondo made clear that she does not care to entertain protesters’ calls to rein in police spending. Moreover, prior to the coronavirus pandemic, she had already proposed that the state balance its budget by squeezing poorer and nonwhite communities in so-called distressed cities and towns — terminology the state uses to describe Providence and the handful of densely populated cities that surround it and whose inhabitants include the bulk of the state’s nonwhite population.
On Thursday, Democrats in the Colorado House of Representatives passed legislation that would roll back some giveaways to the wealthy and corporations included in President Donald Trump’s 2017 tax bill, raising roughly a billion dollars in an effort to prevent major cuts to K-12 education and reduce Colorado’s estimated $3 billion deficit. Police budgets, meanwhile, are not currently on the chopping block, though some Denver City Council members have raised the issue. The bill now moves to the state Senate, which Democrats took control of in the 2018 wave. In a state where Democrats control the entire government, the obstacle isn’t Republicans: It is Gov. Jared Polis, who wants to funnel the revenue into new across-the-board income tax cuts that would disproportionately benefit the rich, leaving open the possibility that the newly blue state will choose tax cuts, austerity, and a robust policing budget over funding for education.
Urban cities, especially poorer and nonwhite communities within their limits, live in a condition of austerity even in the best of times. Now, the economic fallout of Covid-19, a disease that has been disproportionately lethal for black people, is hitting these communities the hardest. These already deadly and desperate conditions are about to be exacerbated by a cascade of deprivation fueled by cuts to funding for cities, schools, and social services, as 46 states’ fiscal years begin on July 1 — and states themselves stare down deficits of on the order of $1 trillion, equivalent to 5 percent of U.S. GDP. The federal government should intervene with more fiscal relief, but failing that, states must step up and ensure that critical spending is protected.
Unfortunately, this sort of leadership remains elusive even in states run by Democrats. Deep blue Rhode Island, with a general assembly that is 85 percent Democratic, today faces a pandemic-driven anticipated 13-month budget deficit of nearly $1 billion, out of an annual budget of around $10 billion — much more severe than when Raimondo first proposed her cuts to “distressed” communities.
Without swift engagement from activists over the coming weeks and months, Democrat-imposed cuts will serve to further entrench the racism that governors are now so quick to decry when invited onto MSNBC or while trying to placate protestors who march on their state houses.
Even Democratic state leaders default to using what tend to be regressive revenue structures (especially when factoring in the sharply regressive property taxes that states enforce as the primary driver of municipal revenues) to pour exorbitant sums into prisons and policing functions — while penny-pinching where schools, social welfare, and basic municipal and transit services are concerned. This parsimony is particularly damaging for African Americans, who represent a much higher percentage of the workforce in the public sector, especially in cities, than in the private sector — and while unemployment fell overall in May, it increased in the public sector and among African Americans.
We can expect the destruction of lives and livelihoods to intensify in the months ahead, propelled by elected officials who kowtow to their wealthiest constituents by levying relatively low income and capital gains taxes and shifting the burden to pay onto those least able to afford it. State budgets, as organizer Sochie Nnaemeka has said, are moral documents, and activists concerned with racial justice must demand a different form of accounting.
On Saturday June 6, next to where D.C. Mayor Muriel E. Bowser had “Black Lives Matter” painted on the road near the White House, Black Lives Matter activists painted their own message: “Defund the Police.” Bowser’s budget for D.C. — which encompasses the traditional functions of both a city and a state — includes a 3.3 percent increase in funding to D.C. police, an approximately $18.5 million boost, along with a significant decrease in funding to violence prevention programs. Across the country, police departments are some of the only agencies not seeing significant coronavirus-related cuts; in many instances, they are on track to receive more public money in 2021 than they did in 2020.
Reducing prison and police budgets is a critical vector in the fight against structural racism because those systems perpetuate discrimination while diverting funds from the things people actually need to thrive. For decades, state prison spending as a percentage of total budgets has ballooned, with increases, for instance, vastly outpacing growth in education spending. In recent years, we have seen the beginnings of a reconsideration of this unchecked growth, precipitated in part by the budget deficits that followed from the 2008-2009 economic crisis (which opened more lawmakers’ minds to the possibility of cuts) and in part by advocates’ arguments about the fundamental injustices of the prison industrial complex.
As activists have long argued, funds divested from police and the prisons should be reinvested to support those communities that have long been subjected to racialized state violence and decades of state disinvestment (what the abolitionist scholar Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls “organized abandonment.”) The #8toAbolition platform, to give one recent example, lays out various things that funds could be used for to ensure real public safety and health, including housing, health care, mental health support, grocery cooperatives, gardens, and more.
Earlier this month, Janeese Lewis George, a 32-year-old democratic socialist, defeated a moderate incumbent in the primary for a Washington, D.C., Council seat; her platform included reallocating a portion of the Metropolitan Police Department budget. “Investing in the community actually solved problems in public safety more than just sending police officers,” George told The Intercept, speaking of her experience working as a D.C. assistant attorney general.
Unfortunately, even a wildly successful “divest/invest” approach alone won’t come close to filling the budget gaps so many states now face. To simply ensure that the current, and woefully insufficient, baseline of state investment in poorer communities and communities of color will even be maintained, we will need to do more. With many states facing deficits equal to around 10-25 percent of their budgets, we must demand a restructuring so that communities least burdened by the ongoing pandemic and recession — and by discriminatory and regressive state fiscal practices — pay more.
Photo: Andrew Lichtenstein/Corbis via Getty Images
In other words, we need to tax the rich — an uphill battle even in states like Colorado or New York, where Democrats hold both legislative chambers and the governorship. Gov. Andrew Cuomo has sabotaged the Democratic trifecta in Albany, consistently preferring to close the budget gap on the backs of the state’s poorest residents, who have already experienced the bulk of coronavirus-related layoffs. The recent New York budget also rolls back hard-won cash bail reforms, condemning more cash-strapped people who are charged with a criminal offense to jail, where they are at increased risk of exposure to Covid-19.
Though his state was an epicenter of a global pandemic, Cuomo has pushed forward with Medicaid cuts that were initiated several months ago. He is now proposing $8.2 billion in cuts to municipalities, to precipitate further reductions in Medicaid spending, as well as public education, transit, and other critical services. Moreover, as New York City faces a fiscal catastrophe, Cuomo appears inclined to deny the city permission to borrow to meet its needs — even as interest rates are at historic lows and the Federal Reserve has created a facility to ease access to such funds. Amazingly, elites at the New York Times and elsewhere are pressuring New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio to lean heavily into cuts — including by reducing the health benefits of public workers in the coronavirus-ravaged city. Cuomo claims that he “stands with the protesters,” but his budget plans indicate otherwise; New York City Public Advocate Jumaane Williams was not buying it at a protest in Manhattan last weekend, and neither should the rest of us.
A few thousand gathered in WSQ hearing speakers. Here’s the end of @JumaaneWilliams fiery speech pic.twitter.com/iMDNX42bcd — Scott Heins (@scottheins) June 6, 2020
Meanwhile, California’s Gov. Gavin Newsom and its state legislature are in the final stages of considering passing a state budget that banks on more federal funds — and will trigger $14 billion in cuts to K-12 schools, higher education, and state employees if that money doesn’t show up. It’s far from a given that it will; a hoped-for “second stimulus” to help states weather the last economic crisis never emerged in 2009 — even though Democrats controlled the House, Senate, and presidency — whereas today Trump is in the White House, Mitch McConnell runs the Senate, and each has expressed disinterest in providing more support to states and cities.
We mustn’t forget that the regressive taxation schemes states foist upon municipalities played a role in the original Black Lives Matter protests. After demonstrators shone a global spotlight on the police murder of 18-year-old Michael Brown, the legal advocacy organization Arch City Defenders released a report noting that Ferguson, Missouri, had issued almost 33,000 arrest warrants in 2013 despite having just 21,000 residents. The warrants were issued because people could not pay their municipal fines and fees — charges often incurred for trivial offenses such as leaving a trash can on the street or a broken brake light that could land a person in jail if they didn’t pay up. As in many other American municipalities, the police — otherwise so concerned with protecting property rights — have become a mechanism for racialized, punitive revenue extraction, and in Ferguson, this abuse helped push residents to rise up.
Austerity is not inevitable; it is a choice. Taken together, refusing further cuts to essential services, divesting from police and prisons, and taxing the rich will mitigate the damage inflicted by the pandemic and economic crisis while also beginning to address longstanding racial injustices, even if it will take far deeper changes to meaningfully remedy structural racism. At minimum, Democratic state lawmakers should seek more than a mere reversion to an unacceptable status quo (perhaps with more police body cameras or implicit bias training). Rather, they should proactively steer a recovery through spending programs that establish a less punitive and more democratic (and, ideally, green) economy and society, even leveraging low interest rates and Federal Reserve lending support to implement stimulus programs with such aims. But they won’t do any of this absent sustained and strategic pressure from social movements.
In his 1967 book “Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?” Martin Luther King Jr. reflects on the profound challenge of achieving true racial and economic justice in this country. The civil rights movement, he argues, had, to date, won only low-hanging fruit. “The practical cost of change for the nation up to this point has been cheap. The limited reforms have been won at bargain rates. There are no expenses, and no taxes are required, for Negroes to share lunch counters, libraries, parks, hotels and other facilities with whites,” King explains. “Jobs are harder and costlier to create than voting rolls. The eradication of slums housing millions is complex far beyond integrating buses and lunch counters.” The things activists are fighting for today demand a redistribution away from police, prisons, and the capitalist class — and an increased investment in public services and everyday people. Democratic lawmakers need to budget accordingly, or be recognized as the obstacles to racial justice that they actually are.


theintercept--2020-06-13--George Floyd's Murder May Finally End the Army's Fealty to Defeated Confederate Traitors

as protests raged against Confederate statues and monuments in cities and towns across the South , Army bases named for Confederates were largely ignored .
But the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis police has led to nationwide protests against police violence targeting African Americans and sparked a broader debate about systemic racism .
For the first time , the Army ’ s continued use of Confederate names on so many of its bases is coming under intense scrutiny .
When members of Congress and others sought to change the names of the 10 major installations named for Confederates , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ outrage over Floyd ’ s murder , Defense Secretary Mark Esper and Secretary of the Army Ryan McCarthy are supposedly “ open to a bipartisan discussion of the topic , ” the New York Times reported last week .
Of course , Donald Trump immediately got involved to defend the rights of Confederate generals , and said he wouldn ’ t allow the bases to be renamed .
“ It has been suggested that we should rename as many as 10 of our Legendary Military Bases , such as Fort Bragg in North @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Fort Benning in Georgia , etc .
These Monumental and very Powerful Bases have become part of a Great American Heritage , and a history of Winning , Victory , and Freedom , ” Trump tweeted .
“ The United States of America trained and deployed our HEROES on these Hallowed Grounds , and won two World Wars .
Therefore , my Administration will not even consider the renaming of these Magnificent and Fabled Military Installations… ” Yet Trump is ignoring the fact that the bases are all named for traitors to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and incompetents .
The men whose names those bases memorialize were also passionate advocates of a slavocracy who acknowledged that they were fighting to preserve slavery .
the son of one of the wealthiest slaveholders in the South .
Polk ’ s father amassed 100,000 acres of land ; Polk later built his own estate in Tennessee and owned as many as 400 slaves .
Today , Civil War historians agree that Polk was a terrible general .
Yet the Army honored him by naming a major military base after him : Fort @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Army ’ s premier combat training center .
Fort Polk and the other Army bases named for Confederates are a legacy of the Jim Crow era in the South .
Many of today ’ s largest Army bases were built in rural Southern areas during the periods around World War I and World War II .
Eager for local support while building the bases quickly , the Army placated white Southern community leaders by naming the new bases after Confederates , usually generals with some local connection .
Leonidas Polk took a strange @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He went to West Point , but then became an Episcopal bishop , and was a divisive leader as American faith traditions fragmented over slavery and secession as the Civil War approached .
Polk ’ s splinter group became known as the “ Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America.
” Polk ’ s friend , Confederate President Jefferson Davis , named him a general at the onset of the war , but even as he commanded troops , he was known as “ Bishop Polk.
” As a military leader @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In the early months of the war , he sent troops into Kentucky , which at the time had declared itself neutral .
Polk ’ s invasion led Kentucky to seek aid from Union forces , and Kentucky stayed in the Union as a result .
Polk ’ s ill-considered invasion cost the Confederacy a critical border state , and helped tip the balance of power further in the Union ’ s favor .
By early June of 1864 , the war was going badly for Leonidas Polk .
General William Tecumseh Sherman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the West , was marching on Atlanta and the heartland of the Confederate insurgency .
Since launching his campaign to seize Atlanta and greater Georgia a month earlier , he had brilliantly outmaneuvered the bumbling Confederate generals he faced — including Polk .
As Sherman and his troops continued their march toward Atlanta on June 4 , Sherman spotted a small group of Confederates standing out in the open , in full view of the Union army .
They stood atop a small mountain in Cobb County , Georgia , which is part @ @ @ @ @ @ @ How saucy they are , ” Sherman said , and ordered Union artillery to fire on them .
The group Sherman targeted were the top Confederate commanders , including Polk , who had ignored warnings from their own troops that it was unsafe to stand in the open on the heights .
A shell tore right through Polk , ripping his body to shreds and killing him instantly .
Sherman thought so little of Polk that he gave his killing short shrift in a message back to Union headquarters in Washington the next @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yesterday , and have made good progress today , ” Sherman wrote .
Modern historians don ’ t think much of Polk , either .
The artillery fire that killed him “ was one of the worst shots fired for the Union cause during the entire course of the war , ” wrote historian Steven E. Woodworth , arguing that it would have been better to have left Polk alive to keep leading Confederate troops because he was so bad at it .
“ Polk ’ s incompetence… had consistently hamstrung Confederate operations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ special relationship with [ Jefferson Davis ] made the bishop-general untouchable.
” his most intense , prolonged campaign during the Civil War against another Confederate general who also has an Army base named after him : Gen. Braxton Bragg , for whom North Carolina ’ s Fort Bragg was named .
Polk and Bragg hated each other with equal passion .
Each considered the other totally incompetent , and they spent much of the Civil War trying to destroy each other ’ s military careers .
Perhaps no one from that era would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a major Army base named for Leonidas Polk than Braxton Bragg , and vice versa .
Despite the fact that Trump is taking a stand for the Confederacy and vows to block any base name changes , there seems to be growing momentum in Congress for the action .
While the Army has its own process for naming installations and could change them without authorization from the president or Congress , it seems highly unlikely that the Army will do so on its own , at least as long as Trump is president @ @ @ @ @ @ @ initial step last week , voting to require that the Pentagon remove Confederate names from all bases that bear them .
Surprisingly , the measure was supported by some Republican senators , a small sign that the nationwide protests over George Floyd ’ s murder may be opening a sliver of daylight on racial issues between Congressional Republicans and Trump .

Photo: Alamy
In recent years, as protests raged against Confederate statues and monuments in cities and towns across the South, Army bases named for Confederates were largely ignored. But the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis police has led to nationwide protests against police violence targeting African Americans and sparked a broader debate about systemic racism. For the first time, the Army’s continued use of Confederate names on so many of its bases is coming under intense scrutiny.
When members of Congress and others sought to change the names of the 10 major installations named for Confederates, the Army consistently refused. But amid outrage over Floyd’s murder, Defense Secretary Mark Esper and Secretary of the Army Ryan McCarthy are supposedly “open to a bipartisan discussion of the topic,” the New York Times reported last week.
Of course, Donald Trump immediately got involved to defend the rights of Confederate generals, and said he wouldn’t allow the bases to be renamed. “It has been suggested that we should rename as many as 10 of our Legendary Military Bases, such as Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Fort Hood in Texas, Fort Benning in Georgia, etc. These Monumental and very Powerful Bases have become part of a Great American Heritage, and a history of Winning, Victory, and Freedom,” Trump tweeted. “The United States of America trained and deployed our HEROES on these Hallowed Grounds, and won two World Wars. Therefore, my Administration will not even consider the renaming of these Magnificent and Fabled Military Installations…”
Yet Trump is ignoring the fact that the bases are all named for traitors to the United States — as well as losers and incompetents. The men whose names those bases memorialize were also passionate advocates of a slavocracy who acknowledged that they were fighting to preserve slavery.
Take Leonidas Polk, the son of one of the wealthiest slaveholders in the South. Polk’s father amassed 100,000 acres of land; Polk later built his own estate in Tennessee and owned as many as 400 slaves.
Today, Civil War historians agree that Polk was a terrible general. Yet the Army honored him by naming a major military base after him: Fort Polk in Louisiana, home to the Army’s premier combat training center. Fort Polk and the other Army bases named for Confederates are a legacy of the Jim Crow era in the South. Many of today’s largest Army bases were built in rural Southern areas during the periods around World War I and World War II. Eager for local support while building the bases quickly, the Army placated white Southern community leaders by naming the new bases after Confederates, usually generals with some local connection.
Leonidas Polk took a strange path to becoming a Confederate general. He went to West Point, but then became an Episcopal bishop, and was a divisive leader as American faith traditions fragmented over slavery and secession as the Civil War approached. Polk’s splinter group became known as the “Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America.”
Polk’s friend, Confederate President Jefferson Davis, named him a general at the onset of the war, but even as he commanded troops, he was known as “Bishop Polk.”
As a military leader, Polk blundered from the start. In the early months of the war, he sent troops into Kentucky, which at the time had declared itself neutral. Polk’s invasion led Kentucky to seek aid from Union forces, and Kentucky stayed in the Union as a result. Polk’s ill-considered invasion cost the Confederacy a critical border state, and helped tip the balance of power further in the Union’s favor.
By early June of 1864, the war was going badly for Leonidas Polk. Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, the commander of Union forces in the West, was marching on Atlanta and the heartland of the Confederate insurgency. Since launching his campaign to seize Atlanta and greater Georgia a month earlier, he had brilliantly outmaneuvered the bumbling Confederate generals he faced — including Polk.
As Sherman and his troops continued their march toward Atlanta on June 4, Sherman spotted a small group of Confederates standing out in the open, in full view of the Union army. They stood atop a small mountain in Cobb County, Georgia, which is part of the Atlanta suburbs today.
“How saucy they are,” Sherman said, and ordered Union artillery to fire on them.
The group Sherman targeted were the top Confederate commanders, including Polk, who had ignored warnings from their own troops that it was unsafe to stand in the open on the heights. A shell tore right through Polk, ripping his body to shreds and killing him instantly.
Sherman thought so little of Polk that he gave his killing short shrift in a message back to Union headquarters in Washington the next day. “We killed Bishop Polk yesterday, and have made good progress today,” Sherman wrote.
Modern historians don’t think much of Polk, either. The artillery fire that killed him “was one of the worst shots fired for the Union cause during the entire course of the war,” wrote historian Steven E. Woodworth, arguing that it would have been better to have left Polk alive to keep leading Confederate troops because he was so bad at it. “Polk’s incompetence … had consistently hamstrung Confederate operations west of the Appalachians, while his special relationship with [Jefferson Davis] made the bishop-general untouchable.”
Ironically, Polk waged his most intense, prolonged campaign during the Civil War against another Confederate general who also has an Army base named after him: Gen. Braxton Bragg, for whom North Carolina’s Fort Bragg was named.
Polk and Bragg hated each other with equal passion. Each considered the other totally incompetent, and they spent much of the Civil War trying to destroy each other’s military careers.
Perhaps no one from that era would be more surprised that there is now a major Army base named for Leonidas Polk than Braxton Bragg, and vice versa.
Despite the fact that Trump is taking a stand for the Confederacy and vows to block any base name changes, there seems to be growing momentum in Congress for the action.
While the Army has its own process for naming installations and could change them without authorization from the president or Congress, it seems highly unlikely that the Army will do so on its own, at least as long as Trump is president. But a Senate committee took an initial step last week, voting to require that the Pentagon remove Confederate names from all bases that bear them. Surprisingly, the measure was supported by some Republican senators, a small sign that the nationwide protests over George Floyd’s murder may be opening a sliver of daylight on racial issues between congressional Republicans and Trump.


theintercept--2020-06-14--I Saw My Friends Beaten by Police. This Is What Happens When Cities Prioritize Property Over Black L

I Saw My Friends Beaten by Police. This Is What Happens When Cities Prioritize Property Over Black Lives.

city began to rise up demanding an end to racist police brutality particularly towards Black people , I knew — as everyone with eyes and ears knew — that it was only a short matter of time before Chicago had its own explosion in response to the horrific murder of George Floyd .
The Chicago Police Department is no stranger to police murder of Black people , racism , or corruption ; it is the model for corruption and racist policing in the U.S. , making national and international headlines for its historic crimes against humanity , racist murders of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sites , and its ability to garner government oversight .
On May 31 , the third day of protests , I woke up to a city entering what felt like full lockdown .
The news was reporting that the bridges connecting downtown Chicago with the northside of the city had been raised , cutting off the city from scenes of destroyed property .
By the end of the day , the mayor would announce via tweets that the city ’ s downtown would be under restricted access to “ free up resources and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that morning the “ resources ” and “ supplemental support ” came in the form of hundreds of police on foot and in SUVs and helicopters circling above .
The National Guard would be called in next to set up checkpoints .
After listening to nonstop sirens and helicopters from the window of my Southside apartment for 30 minutes , I decided to take a walk .
As I headed up 47th — a street that is littered with local businesses — I saw two storefronts had been broken into .
Police @ @ @ @ @ @ @ off of their own block .
It was not at all like what I had seen in news reports : police roaming the city ’ s wealthier and whiter downtown loop rounding up “ vandals ” and “ looters.
” Later that day , I attended an organizing meeting with other activists and organizers from surrounding neighborhoods , the vast majority of whom had been involved in grassroots organizing for the Black Lives Matter Movement .
We heard about a march nearby .
As it approached , a few of us decided to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its way east , through Hyde Park and toward the lake .
It ended peacefully , just shy of Lake Shore Drive — the major artery that runs along the lakefront .
As the protesters attempted to head back west , to their cars and to public transit , the police formed a line preventing us from dispersing .
When protesters insisted , still nonviolently , the police began to push us back with their batons .
As I turned , I saw police beating and tossing one of my friends around as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ calm down .
As protesters were being attacked by police , others attempted to pull them out of harm ’ s way .
This would not be the last time this group of police would attack us .
After about a 90-minute stand off with the CPD , they finally let down their line .
But as we approached a corridor of storefronts on 53rd Street , the police , who had themselves been dispersing , began to turn one by one and run toward us .
As I approached the intersection I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ officer .
Within seconds , he was being beaten relentlessly by a group of five or six officers .
More police showed up , as bystanders and protesters shouted at the police to stop .
Two others from our group jumped on top of our friend , using their bodies to shield him from the melee of baton hits and receiving their fair share of the beating in the process .
Another member of our group jumped on top of her fiancé in an attempt to shield him from the baton blows .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ beaten into hospitalization by the Chicago Police Department officers .
The four who were arrested all suffered concussions , broken bones , cuts and bruises .
One person needed immediate medical attention for his head wounds and was released to the custody of the street medics who attended the march .
A protester was pepper sprayed for filming the attack by police .
A friend was pushed in front of a moving police cruiser by a CPD officer , and I was also pushed to the ground as I ran to pull her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This is only a fraction of the thousands of protesters who have no doubt been assaulted , beaten , made to endure sexist , homophobic , and/or transphobic slurs , had their rights to legal aid denied all for simply being willing to defend Black life from the ongoing violence from the police .
That night , into the following day , news began to spread quickly that protesters in Chicago were being disappeared into the jails , unheard from for many hours , their right to a lawyer and phone calls withheld @ @ @ @ @ @ @ despite the fact that many jails are Covid-19 hotspots .
Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot lauded the protesters ’ anger as righteous on social media and has said the restrictions and National Guard checkpoints were there to protect Chicagoans .
In actuality , the municipal restrictions went hand in hand with police violence and impunity .
The restrictions , which included the mayor ’ s decision to end the grab and go lunch program provided to public school students amid the Covid-19 lockdown , coupled with overwhelming presence of police resembled a form of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protection of protesters — and an effort to protect the property of the rich downtown .
The surge of police in Black neighborhoods and debilitating restrictions evoked disturbing memories of the scarcity that existed in Black communities around the time of the 2008 recession and some many times before that .
Lightfoot ’ s derision of so-called rioters illustrates a repugnance of the equation of property — of buildings , of brick and mortar — to Black life .
To us , it only reinforced what is at the root of the anti-Blackness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protest against : racial capitalism .
After all , one can not amass the wealth of a billionaire without engaging in and upholding racism .
As the demand to defund police departments spreads across the country , the contradictory response from liberal and centrist mayors professing progressive politics is becoming more and more visible .
Lightfoot deployed hyper-aggressive police in riot gear , particularly in Black neighborhoods , to violently clamp down antiracist protesters of police violence even as she praised them .
Protest and uprisings — like the vote , like the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the people .
They are just as important to a democracy as any other political tool at the disposal of the people , and for Black people uprisings and protest have been powerful tools in the fight for Black liberation .
In lock step with proposals from Democratic Party leadership , Mayor Lightfoot ’ s proposals for police reform are an evasion of the demands for defunding of the Chicago Police Department , offering a “ wellness ” program and more funding for police as opposed to relief for Black communities and communities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ generations and who most recently bore the brunt of the U.S. government ’ s failure to contain the Covid-19 outbreak .
What the mayor fails to realize is that the calls for defunding the police are not only about reining in their overwhelming authority , power , and resources .
The demands to defund the police flow from a now undeniable fact that Black people continue to be abused and exploited by a system that uses policing to violently contain , control , and concentrate that brutality on Black communities and other communities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to defund and even disband police departments are a call to divest from institutions that harm Black people , chief among them police and prisons .
The demand to defund the police is also a call to invest in the resources , institutions , and practices — new , more effective practices — that actually rebuild historically neglected communities and people .
To reallocate the exorbitant amount of money and resources given to law enforcement to the communities that have been directly impacted by racist and violent policing for generations .
Right now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to dictate to the masses of people fed up with this country ’ s inability to address its racist history with any lasting or meaningful intent .
Their role — if any — is to listen and act in defense of Black lives .

Photo: Jim Vondruska/NurPhoto via Getty Images
As city after city began to rise up demanding an end to racist police brutality particularly toward Black people, I knew — as everyone with eyes and ears knew — that it was only a short matter of time before Chicago had its own explosion in response to the horrific murder of George Floyd. The Chicago Police Department is no stranger to police murder of Black people, racism, or corruption; it is the model for corruption and racist policing in the U.S., making national and international headlines for its historic crimes against humanity, racist murders of unarmed Black youth, use of black sites, and its ability to garner government oversight.
On May 31, the third day of protests, I woke up to a city entering what felt like full lockdown. The news was reporting that the bridges connecting downtown Chicago with the north side of the city had been raised, cutting off the city from scenes of destroyed property. By the end of the day, the mayor would announce via tweets that the city’s downtown would be under restricted access to “free up resources and allow supplemental support into neighborhoods.” However, that morning the “resources” and “supplemental support” came in the form of hundreds of police on foot and in SUVs and helicopters circling above. The National Guard would be called in next to set up checkpoints.
After listening to nonstop sirens and helicopters from the window of my Southside apartment for 30 minutes, I decided to take a walk. As I headed up 47th — a street that is littered with local businesses — I saw two storefronts had been broken into. Police were everywhere, aggressively moving neighborhood residents off of their own block. It was not at all like what I had seen in news reports: police roaming the city’s wealthier and whiter downtown loop rounding up “vandals” and “looters.”
Later that day, I attended an organizing meeting with other activists and organizers from surrounding neighborhoods, the vast majority of whom had been involved in grassroots organizing for the Black Lives Matter Movement. We heard about a march nearby. As it approached, a few of us decided to join the peaceful protest as it made its way east, through Hyde Park and toward the lake. It ended peacefully, just shy of Lake Shore Drive: the major artery that runs along the lakefront. As the protesters attempted to head back west, to their cars and to public transit, the police formed a line preventing us from dispersing. When protesters insisted, still nonviolently, the police began to push us back with their batons. As I turned, I saw police beating and tossing one of my friends around as my friend was pleading with him to calm down. As protesters were being attacked by police, others attempted to pull them out of harm’s way. This would not be the last time this group of police would attack us.
After about a 90-minute standoff with the CPD, they finally let down their line. But as we approached a corridor of storefronts on 53rd Street, the police, who had themselves been dispersing, began to turn one by one and run toward us. As I approached the intersection I saw our friend tripped by a police officer. Within seconds, he was being beaten relentlessly by a group of five or six officers. More police showed up, as bystanders and protesters shouted at the police to stop.
As we approached a corridor of storefronts on 53rd Street, the police, who had themselves been dispersing, began to turn one by one and run toward us.
Two others from our group jumped on top of our friend, using their bodies to shield him from the melee of baton hits and receiving their fair share of the beating in the process. Another member of our group jumped on top of her fiancé in an attempt to shield him from the baton blows.
In total, five Black people were beaten into hospitalization by the Chicago Police Department officers. The four who were arrested all suffered concussions, broken bones, cuts and bruises. One person needed immediate medical attention for his head wounds and was released to the custody of the street medics who attended the march. A protester was pepper-sprayed for filming the attack by police. A friend was pushed in front of a moving police cruiser by a CPD officer, and I was also pushed to the ground as I ran to pull her from in front of the SUV. This is only a fraction of the thousands of protesters who have no doubt been assaulted; beaten; made to endure sexist, homophobic, and/or transphobic slurs; and had their rights to legal aid denied all for simply being willing to defend Black life from the ongoing violence from the police.
That night, into the following day, news began to spread quickly that protesters in Chicago were being disappeared into the jails, unheard from for many hours, their right to a lawyer and phone calls withheld and their requests for masks denied — despite the fact that many jails are Covid-19 hotspots. Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot lauded the protesters’ anger as righteous on social media and has said the restrictions and National Guard checkpoints were there to protect Chicagoans. In actuality, the municipal restrictions went hand in hand with police violence and impunity. The restrictions, which included the mayor’s decision to end the grab-and-go lunch program provided to public school students amid the Covid-19 lockdown, coupled with overwhelming presence of police resembled a form of collective punishment more than a strategy for protection of protesters — and an effort to protect the property of the rich downtown. The surge of police in Black neighborhoods and debilitating restrictions evoked disturbing memories of the scarcity that existed in Black communities around the time of the 2008 recession and some many times before that. Lightfoot’s derision of so-called rioters illustrates a repugnance of the equation of property — of buildings, of brick and mortar — to Black life. To us, it only reinforced what is at the root of the anti-Blackness that the country has risen up to protest against: racial capitalism. After all, one cannot amass the wealth of a billionaire without engaging in and upholding racism.
The demand to defund the police is also a call to invest in the resources, institutions, and practices that rebuild historically neglected communities and people.
As the demand to defund police departments spreads across the country, the contradictory response from liberal and centrist mayors professing progressive politics is becoming more and more visible. Lightfoot deployed hyperaggressive police in riot gear, particularly in Black neighborhoods, to violently clamp down anti-racist protesters of police violence even as she praised them. Protest and uprisings — like the vote, like the strike — are tools that belong to the people. They are just as important to a democracy as any other political tool at the disposal of the people, and for Black people uprisings and protest have been powerful tools in the fight for Black liberation.
In lock step with proposals from Democratic Party leadership, Mayor Lightfoot’s proposals for police reform are an evasion of the demands for defunding of the Chicago Police Department, offering a “wellness” program and more funding for police as opposed to relief for Black communities and communities of color terrorized by law enforcement for generations and who most recently bore the brunt of the U.S. government’s failure to contain the Covid-19 outbreak.
What the mayor fails to realize is that the calls for defunding the police are not only about reining in their overwhelming authority, power, and resources. The demands to defund the police flow from a now undeniable fact that Black people continue to be abused and exploited by a system that uses policing to violently contain, control, and concentrate that brutality on Black communities and other communities of color. Moreover, the demands to defund and even disband police departments are a call to divest from institutions that harm Black people, chief among them police and prisons. The demand to defund the police is also a call to invest in the resources, institutions, and practices — new, more effective practices — that actually rebuild historically neglected communities and people. To reallocate the exorbitant amount of money and resources given to law enforcement to the communities that have been directly impacted by racist and violent policing for generations. Right now, it is not up to politicians to dictate to the masses of people fed up with this country’s inability to address its racist history with any lasting or meaningful intent. Their role — if any — is to listen and act in defense of Black lives.


theintercept--2020-06-15--The Fight to Protect Abortion Access Amid the Pandemic

much past 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning in late April , and anti-choice protesters outside the Jackson Women ’ s Health Organization , the only abortion clinic in Mississippi , were already cantankerous : There were three men with bullhorns , including one on top of a ladder ; a 1,200-watt speaker pointing toward the clinic ’ s front door ; and another protester blowing a shofar .
“ Welcome to the circus , ” said Kim Gibson , a clinic escort who works to keep the mayhem away from patients .
Even as the coronavirus pandemic has gripped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the rise in Mississippi ) , protesters disregarded Jackson ’ s stay-at-home order and have consistently failed to wear masks or keep appropriate social distance — not only from one another , but also from patients , whose cars they readily approach in an effort to “ counsel ” them and hand out anti-abortion propaganda .
In the best of times , the scene outside the Jackson clinic is chaotic .
Protesters regularly crowd the fence line of the Pink House , as it is known because of its vibrant pink façade @ @ @ @ @ @ @ activity has amped up .
On a single day in late March , nearly 100 protesters descended on the clinic .
A majority of the protesters don ’ t live in Jackson , and some have even traveled from out of state , including a family with eight kids who drove from North Carolina .
“ Abortion tourism , ” Gibson calls it .
On May 1 , two weeks before Jackson ’ s stay-at-home order expired and just before Gov .
Tate Reeves officially announced the state would reopen restaurants and parks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ regularly protest at the Pink House — rallied at the Capitol in support of their right to assemble without face masks or social distancing .
They ’ ve brought that same stridency , albeit without the firearms , to the Pink House .
Protesters have deliberately tried to bump into people outside the clinic and have refused to move from the sidewalk to allow escorts and patients to pass by .
The cops have been called , but even when the city ’ s lockdown was in full effect , they did nothing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s not unusual in Jackson , where the police routinely fail to enforce city ordinances that should constrain the protesters ’ activities .
In April , while responding to Gibson ’ s call about a protester chasing the escorts and shoving his Bible in their faces , one officer told her that at the clinic , “ we ’ re an island on our own , ” she said .
“ I mean , literally , he said it.
” Gibson and Derenda Hancock , both veteran clinic escorts with a group known @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protesters have been buoyed by hope that the outbreak would close the clinic .
“ Since this has started , they are more aggressive because they think they have their teeth in something that will get it closed down , ” Gibson said .
“ They ’ re just railing on the fact that it ’ s still open.
” Anti-abortion politicians across a large swath of the country seized on the public health crisis in order to push for clinic closures , while simultaneously backing less stringent restrictions on things like religious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both politicians and activists have cheered the protesters , decrying the rare instances in which they ’ ve been arrested for defying crisis-related health orders .
After one such incident in Charlotte , North Carolina , Sen. Ted Cruz took to Twitter , writing , “ NC Dem Gov has wrongly deemed elective abortion ‘ essential , ’ allowing abortion drs & staff to gather in larger groups .
IF providing abortions is essential , then peacefully giving pregnant women counseling on alternatives to abortion is ALSO ‘ essential.
’ ” The ongoing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ emboldened protesters , created whiplash for patients and providers , and again highlighted the sensitive nature of a reproductive health care system operating under burdensome , and unnecessary , regulations .
It has also drawn into stark relief the hypocrisy of protesters who would defy health and safety measures in an effort to chastise women seeking health care .
As the writer Danielle Campoamor posted on social media in mid-April , “ The Venn diagram of people protesting shelter in place orders because they don ’ t like ‘ the government telling them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ think the government should tell pregnant people who want abortions what to do with their bodies is one giant fucking circle.
” In addition to dealing with protesters , Gibson and Hancock have also helped the clinic manage strict new protocols designed to keep staff and patients safe .
They ’ ve devised a whiteboard and number-card system to control the flow of traffic in and out of the parking lot and the clinic .
People wait in their cars for their number to be called , and only patients are allowed inside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who are really having to balance how many people are in the clinic at a time , ” said Hancock .
“ We ’ re spacing everything.
” This is the way abortion services have been managed in clinics across the country , which adopted Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidance in the earliest days of the pandemic .
Routine gynecological exams were postponed while other appointments were pushed to telemedicine .
Scheduling for abortion patients was retooled to maximize social distancing .
“ It is essential health care , ” Julie @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Women , which operates clinics in Kansas and Oklahoma , told me back in late March .
“ They need it immediately ; they need it as soon as they can get in for an appointment .
Pregnancy does not stop in the time of a disaster or this pandemic that we ’ re moving through.
” That view has not been accepted by elected officials in a number of states , some of whom were urged early on by anti-choice advocates to deem abortion nonessential .
Nowhere was that message more warmly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ General Ken Paxton threatened providers with jail time if they did not heed an executive order to curtail nonessential medical procedures .
While the order made clear that whether a procedure was essential should be determined by medical professionals , Paxton mounted an aggressive legal crusade to close clinics , arguing to the federal courts that the state ’ s police powers were vast amid a pandemic and that everyone had to make sacrifices and fall in line .
But that was a ruse .
Gov .
Greg Abbott said his pandemic order @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encouraged religious congregations to gather and labeled gun shops “ essential ” businesses .
And Paxton , while chest-thumping about the state ’ s broad police powers , wrote a letter to officials in Gunnison County , Colorado , saying that their order barring nonresidents during the pandemic would deprive Texans of access to their vacation homes .
“ The banishment of nonresident Texas homeowners is entirely unconstitutional and unacceptable , ” he said .
As it turns out , Paxton ’ s protestation would benefit a contingent of nine political supporters who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ contributed nearly $ 2 million in campaign donations to Paxton and his wife , Angela , who is a state senator .
Still , Paxton ’ s pronouncement in late March sent Texas ’ s reproductive health care system into chaos .
Hundreds of appointments had to be canceled as thousands of calls flooded the state ’ s clinics .
Over a three-day period , Planned Parenthood of Greater Texas , which has clinics in Austin , Dallas , and Fort Worth , had to cancel 261 appointments and fielded nearly 600 calls @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Patients were scared and frantic for options , ” Sarah Wheat , the organization ’ s chief external affairs officer , wrote in an email .
“ Some patients traveled out of state , which put them in jeopardy during the ‘ shelter in place ’ orders .
Others didn ’ t have this option due to financial , child care , transportation , time off work , documentation status , and other barriers .
The governor and attorney general ’ s ban put Texas patients in heart-breaking situations — it was politics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ played out in states across a large section of the country : Ohio , Oklahoma , Iowa , Arkansas , Alabama , Tennessee , Louisiana , West Virginia , and Mississippi all took a shot at shutting down abortion clinics amid the pandemic .
In nine states , including Texas , those efforts ended in legal action , with providers suing in state or federal court to stop the closures .
( Although Mississippi Gov .
Tate Reeves said the Pink House should close , state officials ultimately did not force the issue @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , those legal challenges ultimately kept clinics open , though not without a significant amount of whiplash , which has resonated across the country ’ s beleaguered reproductive health care system .
In Texas , each time Paxton lost his case in district court , he ran to the notoriously conservative 5th U.S .
Circuit Court of Appeals for immediate ( and unprecedented ) intervention .
As a result , the ban was repeatedly lifted and then enforced until the governor ’ s executive order on nonessential medical care was eased .
Arkansas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ procedural abortion care — even for those women who would be past the state ’ s 20-week gestational limit by the time the order was lifted — thanks to a favorable ruling by the 8th Circuit .
Shuttering operations in a number of states , even if only briefly , sent women scrambling in search of care .
Although Paxton and other public officials claimed that shutting down clinics was an effort to contain the spread of the virus , their actions forced many women to travel long distances , often across state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” one woman from Tennessee told the American Civil Liberties Union after finding out that she was 14 weeks pregnant and Gov .
Bill Lee was shuttering abortion services .
She ’ s a single mother of three kids under two .
She ’ d had her tubes tied last year precisely because she didn ’ t want to have another child , but she got pregnant anyway .
The woman was faced with having to drive to Atlanta for care — which would be nearly impossible with three kids in tow .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ virus ?
Who would watch them during the procedure ?
“ All the plans I had to get back to work , my hopes for my kids ’ lives , I felt like it was all about to go down the drain , ” she said .
“ I am a strong woman who has overcome a lot of adversity in my life , but this was too much.
” In late March , Hancock and Gibson started seeing more out-of-state tags at the Pink House in Mississippi ; in Oklahoma , Burkhart @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , was struggling to accommodate as many people as possible amid the new protocols .
Then , on March 27 , Oklahoma Gov .
Kevin Stitt announced that abortion services there would be banned .
Burkhart said the state didn ’ t bother to tell her ; she found out from the media .
Women were waiting at the clinic , and Burkhart had to break the news that they would not be seen .
Outside , a protester was using a microphone to yell at them .
In all , 164 appointments @ @ @ @ @ @ @ followed , Burkhart ’ s staff came in to work the phones in an attempt to reschedule patients elsewhere : to Arkansas ( which hadn ’ t yet banned care ) and Wichita , Kansas , where Burkhart ’ s other clinic is located .
“ We were already seeing like a threefold or so increase of our patient load ” in Oklahoma City , Burkhart told me on April 1 , because of the “ fiasco ” in Texas .
“ So now everybody has been pushed up to Kansas.
” As @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Wichita clinic became something of a beacon .
In 2019 the Kansas Supreme Court concluded that the state ’ s constitution guaranteed the right to abortion , and Gov .
Laura Kelly signaled early on in the crisis that she would not tolerate any attempts to ban reproductive care .
Pressure on the clinic increased exponentially ; in a single week , Burkhart said , the clinic saw more than 250 patients .
That pressure continued even after the original restrictions on “ nonessential ” medical procedures eased , because officials in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seeking a procedural abortion to first test negative for Covid-19 , which created a new logistical wrinkle for providers like Burkhart .
First , there was the matter of actually procuring testing kits — no small feat , considering widespread testing for asymptomatic individuals has remained largely unavailable .
And then there was the matter of getting test results turned around quickly .
Testing was required before all “ elective ” procedures in both Oklahoma and Arkansas , so in a way , the mandate was just another attempt to deem abortion nonessential @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in with , like , plastic surgery , ” Burkhart said .
But the advantage many other providers had was their affiliation with hospitals and other facilities with lab access .
“ So , they have access to the type of testing that we don ’ t have access to as a standalone clinic.
” In addition to a 20-week gestational ban , both Arkansas and Oklahoma have waiting times connected to abortion access ; Oklahoma requires a 72-hour “ reflection ” period between a woman ’ s first appointment and the second @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Burkhart was already testing her employees amid the crisis , so she knew it would take roughly three to five days to get the results .
Working with that lag time made scheduling abortion appointments even trickier .
“ This mandate places another obstacle in front of women trying to access abortion care ” and punishes patients , Burkhart wrote in a May email .
After the testing requirement took effect , she had to reschedule patients whose test results didn ’ t come back in time ; some who were earlier @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abortion , which is available up through 10 weeks of pregnancy ; others had to make the journey over state lines — including to Burkhart ’ s Kansas clinic — to avoid additional obstacles to service .
Burkhart and her staff were exhausted , she told me .
“ It just feels unrelenting.
” On June 12 , the testing requirement for Oklahoma was lifted .
How quickly things will level out , Burkhart said , remains to be seen .
As the public health crisis dominated headlines , lawmakers in some states @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to erode reproductive rights .
In Kansas , conservative lawmakers dismayed by their high court ’ s 2019 abortion ruling held hostage a bipartisan proposal to expand Medicaid coverage to roughly 130,000 uninsured residents unless their colleagues would agree to a constitutional amendment denying women abortion rights .
In Oklahoma , lawmakers pushed through a bill that allows “ parents or grandparents ” to sue an abortion provider for “ wrongful death.
” And in Kentucky , Gov .
Andy Beshear vetoed a bill that would have extended to the state ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and safety codes , including the power to inspect abortion clinics — a brazen attempt to give law enforcement officials the power to directly oversee and meddle in clinic operations , which have long been monitored solely by public health authorities .
The visit came amid the clinic ’ s struggle to accommodate patients from a growing list of states where public officials were using the pandemic as a pretext to close clinics .
The AG ’ s office in Louisiana was unsuccessful in its bid to do the same .
“ We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from women who are trying desperately to get in , ” Pittman said .
And then there was the harassment from anti-abortion activists .
They were calling the clinic too .
“ One moment we ’ re trying to comfort a woman over the phone .
The next moment we ’ re trying to get away from a phone call or to record the phone number of a harasser , ” she said .
“ It has really begun to take its toll.
” Those in the reproductive rights movement know that threats @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that at times , often related to the amplification of anti-abortion rhetoric by politicians , have ended in waves of deadly violence .
“ Anybody who has been in this field for very long knows someone who has been killed , ” the Very Rev .
Katherine Ragsdale , president and CEO of the National Abortion Federation , told me .
Indeed , Burkhart ’ s Wichita clinic is in the same building that housed a clinic run by her friend and mentor Dr. George Tiller , who was assassinated in 2009 by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the subject of sustained harassment , including by protesters who have picketed outside her home and put her face on “ Wanted ” -style flyers .
The NAF tracks violence and threats against abortion providers , which have ticked alarmingly upward since the 2016 election of Donald Trump .
Amid the pandemic , Ragsdale says , the “ deceptive , demonizing , dehumanizing rhetoric is on steroids , ” with people like Texas AG Paxton twisting the purpose of public health orders into political rallying cries .
By claiming abortion is nonessential — @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make — Paxton has essentially dog-whistled anti-abortion activists into action .
“ They ’ re emboldened , ” Ragsdale says .
“ Saying that abortion isn ’ t essential health care , and at the same time , saying that these folks are exempt from social distancing and stay-at-home orders that everyone else is subject to because they ’ re expressing religious opinion.
” Back in late April , a regular protester at the Pink House , Coleman Boyd , started ginning up support for Saturday morning “ church ” outside the clinic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protesters .
When Coleman posted plans for a second protest on Facebook , Gibson had had enough .
She penned an email on May 4 to local officials in the police department and mayor ’ s office , as well as the city council president and city attorney .
She sent a link to a nearly hourlong video of Boyd ’ s first rally outside the clinic — where protesters screamed at patients and blocked the roadway — and asked why the city wasn ’ t enforcing its buffer-zone ordinance meant to tame @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a dangerous situation outside of a medical facility , ” Gibson wrote .
“ Patients and their companions are terrorized by these people .
The neighborhood suffers their noise and harassment as well .
As a volunteer and a concerned citizen of Jackson , I would appreciate your assistance .
These people are congregating outside of a medical facility during a pandemic , endangering others.
” None of the city officials responded to her email , but a cop did show up outside the clinic that Saturday .
He just sat in his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them gather 50 strong , no masks , no nothing , ” Gibson told me .
“ He watched them put up a ladder to look through the front door.
” As exhausting as it has been , Gibson and Hancock remain determined to help women navigate the pandemic and the protesters .
With everything that has been going on , the Pink House ’ s patients have “ taken it totally in stride , ” Hancock said .
While there ’ s “ nothing really good ” about the current situation , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that has happened : Patients have also been emboldened .
Gibson agrees .
“ It ’ s kind of galvanized them , ” she said .
“ It ’ s not taken for granted so much , because it ’ s been made plain to them how tenuous it all is , ” she added .
“ How meaningful it all is … and how it can all be gone real damn quick .
”

It wasn’t much past 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning in late April, and anti-choice protesters outside the Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the only abortion clinic in Mississippi, were already cantankerous: There were three men with bullhorns, including one on top of a ladder; a 1,200-watt speaker pointing toward the clinic’s front door; and another protester blowing a shofar. “Welcome to the circus,” said Kim Gibson, a clinic escort who works to keep the mayhem away from patients.
Even as the coronavirus pandemic has gripped the nation (new cases are still on the rise in Mississippi), protesters disregarded Jackson’s stay-at-home order and have consistently failed to wear masks or keep appropriate social distance — not only from one another, but also from patients, whose cars they readily approach in an effort to “counsel” them and hand out anti-abortion propaganda.
In the best of times, the scene outside the Jackson clinic is chaotic. Protesters regularly crowd the fence line of the Pink House, as it is known because of its vibrant pink façade. During the Covid-19 crisis, the activity has amped up. On a single day in late March, nearly 100 protesters descended on the clinic. A majority of the protesters don’t live in Jackson, and some have even traveled from out of state, including a family with eight kids who drove from North Carolina. “Abortion tourism,” Gibson calls it.
On May 1, two weeks before Jackson’s stay-at-home order expired and just before Gov. Tate Reeves officially announced the state would reopen restaurants and parks, armed protesters — including many who regularly protest at the Pink House — rallied at the Capitol in support of their right to assemble without face masks or social distancing. They’ve brought that same stridency, albeit without the firearms, to the Pink House.
Protesters have deliberately tried to bump into people outside the clinic and have refused to move from the sidewalk to allow escorts and patients to pass by. The cops have been called, but even when the city’s lockdown was in full effect, they did nothing to abate the madness. That’s not unusual in Jackson, where the police routinely fail to enforce city ordinances that should constrain the protesters’ activities. In April, while responding to Gibson’s call about a protester chasing the escorts and shoving his Bible in their faces, one officer told her that at the clinic, “we’re an island on our own,” she said. “I mean, literally, he said it.”
Gibson and Derenda Hancock, both veteran clinic escorts with a group known as the Pinkhouse Defenders, say the protesters have been buoyed by hope that the outbreak would close the clinic. “Since this has started, they are more aggressive because they think they have their teeth in something that will get it closed down,” Gibson said. “They’re just railing on the fact that it’s still open.”
Anti-abortion politicians across a large swath of the country seized on the public health crisis in order to push for clinic closures, while simultaneously backing less stringent restrictions on things like religious gatherings and gun shop operations. And both politicians and activists have cheered the protesters, decrying the rare instances in which they’ve been arrested for defying crisis-related health orders. After one such incident in Charlotte, North Carolina, Sen. Ted Cruz took to Twitter, writing, “NC Dem Gov has wrongly deemed elective abortion ‘essential,’ allowing abortion drs & staff to gather in larger groups. IF providing abortions is essential, then peacefully giving pregnant women counseling on alternatives to abortion is ALSO ‘essential.’”
The ongoing politicization of abortion amid the outbreak has emboldened protesters, created whiplash for patients and providers, and again highlighted the sensitive nature of a reproductive health care system operating under burdensome, and unnecessary, regulations.
It has also drawn into stark relief the hypocrisy of protesters who would defy health and safety measures in an effort to chastise women seeking health care. As the writer Danielle Campoamor posted on social media in mid-April, “The Venn diagram of people protesting shelter in place orders because they don’t like ‘the government telling them what to do’ and people who think the government should tell pregnant people who want abortions what to do with their bodies is one giant fucking circle.”
A anti-abortion activist and a clinic escort wait for patients to arrive at the Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the only abortion clinic in Mississippi, on April 5, 2018. Photo: Brendan Smialowski/AFP via Getty Images
Thrown Into Chaos
In addition to dealing with protesters, Gibson and Hancock have also helped the clinic manage strict new protocols designed to keep staff and patients safe. They’ve devised a whiteboard and number-card system to control the flow of traffic in and out of the parking lot and the clinic. People wait in their cars for their number to be called, and only patients are allowed inside. “We’re the ones who are really having to balance how many people are in the clinic at a time,” said Hancock. “We’re spacing everything.”
This is the way abortion services have been managed in clinics across the country, which adopted Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidance in the earliest days of the pandemic. Routine gynecological exams were postponed while other appointments were pushed to telemedicine. Scheduling for abortion patients was retooled to maximize social distancing. “It is essential health care,” Julie Burkhart, president and CEO of Trust Women, which operates clinics in Kansas and Oklahoma, told me back in late March. “They need it immediately; they need it as soon as they can get in for an appointment. Pregnancy does not stop in the time of a disaster or this pandemic that we’re moving through.”
“The governor and attorney general’s ban put Texas patients in heart-breaking situations — it was politics at its worst.”
That view has not been accepted by elected officials in a number of states, some of whom were urged early on by anti-choice advocates to deem abortion nonessential. Nowhere was that message more warmly received than in Texas, where Attorney General Ken Paxton threatened providers with jail time if they did not heed an executive order to curtail nonessential medical procedures. While the order made clear that whether a procedure was essential should be determined by medical professionals, Paxton mounted an aggressive legal crusade to close clinics, arguing to the federal courts that the state’s police powers were vast amid a pandemic and that everyone had to make sacrifices and fall in line.
But that was a ruse. Gov. Greg Abbott said his pandemic order meant clinics must close, but he encouraged religious congregations to gather and labeled gun shops “essential” businesses. And Paxton, while chest-thumping about the state’s broad police powers, wrote a letter to officials in Gunnison County, Colorado, saying that their order barring nonresidents during the pandemic would deprive Texans of access to their vacation homes. “The banishment of nonresident Texas homeowners is entirely unconstitutional and unacceptable,” he said. As it turns out, Paxton’s protestation would benefit a contingent of nine political supporters who own property in Colorado and together have contributed nearly $2 million in campaign donations to Paxton and his wife, Angela, who is a state senator.
Still, Paxton’s pronouncement in late March sent Texas’s reproductive health care system into chaos. Hundreds of appointments had to be canceled as thousands of calls flooded the state’s clinics. Over a three-day period, Planned Parenthood of Greater Texas, which has clinics in Austin, Dallas, and Fort Worth, had to cancel 261 appointments and fielded nearly 600 calls from patients looking for services. “Patients were scared and frantic for options,” Sarah Wheat, the organization’s chief external affairs officer, wrote in an email. “Some patients traveled out of state, which put them in jeopardy during the ‘shelter in place’ orders. Others didn’t have this option due to financial, child care, transportation, time off work, documentation status, and other barriers. The governor and attorney general’s ban put Texas patients in heart-breaking situations — it was politics at its worst.”
A similar scene played out in states across a large section of the country: Ohio, Oklahoma, Iowa, Arkansas, Alabama, Tennessee, Louisiana, West Virginia, and Mississippi all took a shot at shutting down abortion clinics amid the pandemic. In nine states, including Texas, those efforts ended in legal action, with providers suing in state or federal court to stop the closures. (Although Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves said the Pink House should close, state officials ultimately did not force the issue.)
“All the plans I had to get back to work, my hopes for my kids’ lives, I felt like it was all about to go down the drain.”
In all but two states, those legal challenges ultimately kept clinics open, though not without a significant amount of whiplash, which has resonated across the country’s beleaguered reproductive health care system. In Texas, each time Paxton lost his case in district court, he ran to the notoriously conservative 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals for immediate (and unprecedented) intervention. As a result, the ban was repeatedly lifted and then enforced until the governor’s executive order on nonessential medical care was eased. Arkansas was also successful in shutting down all procedural abortion care — even for those women who would be past the state’s 20-week gestational limit by the time the order was lifted — thanks to a favorable ruling by the 8th Circuit.
Shuttering operations in a number of states, even if only briefly, sent women scrambling in search of care. Although Paxton and other public officials claimed that shutting down clinics was an effort to contain the spread of the virus, their actions forced many women to travel long distances, often across state lines. “I completely panicked,” one woman from Tennessee told the American Civil Liberties Union after finding out that she was 14 weeks pregnant and Gov. Bill Lee was shuttering abortion services. She’s a single mother of three kids under two. She’d had her tubes tied last year precisely because she didn’t want to have another child, but she got pregnant anyway. The woman was faced with having to drive to Atlanta for care — which would be nearly impossible with three kids in tow. What if they were exposed to the virus? Who would watch them during the procedure? “All the plans I had to get back to work, my hopes for my kids’ lives, I felt like it was all about to go down the drain,” she said. “I am a strong woman who has overcome a lot of adversity in my life, but this was too much.”
Julie Burkhart, president and CEO of Trust Women, is pictured during an interview at the Oklahoma state Capitol on April 10, 2017. Photo: Sue Ogrocki/AP
“It Just Feels Unrelenting”
In late March, Hancock and Gibson started seeing more out-of-state tags at the Pink House in Mississippi; in Oklahoma, Burkhart, who operates the Trust Women clinic, was struggling to accommodate as many people as possible amid the new protocols. Then, on March 27, Oklahoma Gov. Kevin Stitt announced that abortion services there would be banned. Burkhart said the state didn’t bother to tell her; she found out from the media. Women were waiting at the clinic, and Burkhart had to break the news that they would not be seen. Outside, a protester was using a microphone to yell at them. In all, 164 appointments were canceled.
In the days that followed, Burkhart’s staff came in to work the phones in an attempt to reschedule patients elsewhere: to Arkansas (which hadn’t yet banned care) and Wichita, Kansas, where Burkhart’s other clinic is located. “We were already seeing like a threefold or so increase of our patient load” in Oklahoma City, Burkhart told me on April 1, because of the “fiasco” in Texas. “So now everybody has been pushed up to Kansas.”
As multiple states tried to ban abortion, the Wichita clinic became something of a beacon. In 2019 the Kansas Supreme Court concluded that the state’s constitution guaranteed the right to abortion, and Gov. Laura Kelly signaled early on in the crisis that she would not tolerate any attempts to ban reproductive care.
Pressure on the clinic increased exponentially; in a single week, Burkhart said, the clinic saw more than 250 patients. That pressure continued even after the original restrictions on “nonessential” medical procedures eased, because officials in Arkansas and Oklahoma began requiring every woman seeking a procedural abortion to first test negative for Covid-19, which created a new logistical wrinkle for providers like Burkhart.
“We’re being lumped in with, like, plastic surgery.”
First, there was the matter of actually procuring testing kits — no small feat, considering widespread testing for asymptomatic individuals has remained largely unavailable. And then there was the matter of getting test results turned around quickly.
Testing was required before all “elective” procedures in both Oklahoma and Arkansas, so in a way, the mandate was just another attempt to deem abortion nonessential. “We’re being lumped in with, like, plastic surgery,” Burkhart said. But the advantage many other providers had was their affiliation with hospitals and other facilities with lab access. “So, they have access to the type of testing that we don’t have access to as a standalone clinic.”
In addition to a 20-week gestational ban, both Arkansas and Oklahoma have waiting times connected to abortion access; Oklahoma requires a 72-hour “reflection” period between a woman’s first appointment and the second, when she can actually receive care. Burkhart was already testing her employees amid the crisis, so she knew it would take roughly three to five days to get the results. Working with that lag time made scheduling abortion appointments even trickier.
“This mandate places another obstacle in front of women trying to access abortion care” and punishes patients, Burkhart wrote in a May email. After the testing requirement took effect, she had to reschedule patients whose test results didn’t come back in time; some who were earlier along in their pregnancies opted for medication abortion, which is available up through 10 weeks of pregnancy; others had to make the journey over state lines — including to Burkhart’s Kansas clinic — to avoid additional obstacles to service.
Burkhart and her staff were exhausted, she told me. “It just feels unrelenting.”
On June 12, the testing requirement for Oklahoma was lifted. How quickly things will level out, Burkhart said, remains to be seen.
Rhetoric and Threats
As the public health crisis dominated headlines, lawmakers in some states nonetheless continued apace in their broader efforts to erode reproductive rights. In Kansas, conservative lawmakers dismayed by their high court’s 2019 abortion ruling held hostage a bipartisan proposal to expand Medicaid coverage to roughly 130,000 uninsured residents unless their colleagues would agree to a constitutional amendment denying women abortion rights. In Oklahoma, lawmakers pushed through a bill that allows “parents or grandparents” to sue an abortion provider for “wrongful death.”
And in Kentucky, Gov. Andy Beshear vetoed a bill that would have extended to the state’s attorney general the ability to enforce health and safety codes, including the power to inspect abortion clinics — a brazen attempt to give law enforcement officials the power to directly oversee and meddle in clinic operations, which have long been monitored solely by public health authorities.
Kathaleen Pittman, administrator of the Hope Medical Group for Women in Shreveport, La., poses for a portrait in the clinic’s recovery room on Feb. 20, 2020. Photo: Rebecca Santana/AP
Indeed, in early April, it was two members of the Louisiana attorney general’s office — and not the Louisiana Department of Health — who descended on the Hope Medical Group for Women in Shreveport for an unannounced inspection, Kathaleen Pittman, the clinic’s longtime administrator, told reporters during a press call. They wanted to see how the clinic was managing social distancing, check its stock of PPE, and review various other Covid-19 protocols. They also demanded to see confidential patient records. “It was very disconcerting. We’re accustomed to unannounced visits from LDH, but never the attorney general’s office,” Pittman said, which “normally has no bearing as far as the inspection and the running of the clinics.”
“We are constantly, constantly bombarded with calls from women who are trying desperately to get in.”
The visit came amid the clinic’s struggle to accommodate patients from a growing list of states where public officials were using the pandemic as a pretext to close clinics. The AG’s office in Louisiana was unsuccessful in its bid to do the same. “We are constantly, constantly bombarded with calls from women who are trying desperately to get in,” Pittman said.
And then there was the harassment from anti-abortion activists. They were calling the clinic too. “One moment we’re trying to comfort a woman over the phone. The next moment we’re trying to get away from a phone call or to record the phone number of a harasser,” she said. “It has really begun to take its toll.”
Those in the reproductive rights movement know that threats are an unfortunate part of the landscape that at times, often related to the amplification of anti-abortion rhetoric by politicians, have ended in waves of deadly violence. “Anybody who has been in this field for very long knows someone who has been killed,” the Very Rev. Katherine Ragsdale, president and CEO of the National Abortion Federation, told me. Indeed, Burkhart’s Wichita clinic is in the same building that housed a clinic run by her friend and mentor Dr. George Tiller, who was assassinated in 2009 by an anti-abortion zealot. Burkhart has been the subject of sustained harassment, including by protesters who have picketed outside her home and put her face on “Wanted”-style flyers.
The NAF tracks violence and threats against abortion providers, which have ticked alarmingly upward since the 2016 election of Donald Trump. Amid the pandemic, Ragsdale says, the “deceptive, demonizing, dehumanizing rhetoric is on steroids,” with people like Texas AG Paxton twisting the purpose of public health orders into political rallying cries. By claiming abortion is nonessential — a medical determination he is unqualified to make — Paxton has essentially dog-whistled anti-abortion activists into action. “They’re emboldened,” Ragsdale says. “Saying that abortion isn’t essential health care, and at the same time, saying that these folks are exempt from social distancing and stay-at-home orders that everyone else is subject to because they’re expressing religious opinion.”
“He watched them gather 50 strong, no masks, no nothing. He watched them put up a ladder to look through the front door.”
Back in late April, a regular protester at the Pink House, Coleman Boyd, started ginning up support for Saturday morning “church” outside the clinic. The first gathering drew some 80 protesters. When Coleman posted plans for a second protest on Facebook, Gibson had had enough. She penned an email on May 4 to local officials in the police department and mayor’s office, as well as the city council president and city attorney. She sent a link to a nearly hourlong video of Boyd’s first rally outside the clinic — where protesters screamed at patients and blocked the roadway — and asked why the city wasn’t enforcing its buffer-zone ordinance meant to tame the aggressive actions.
“It is a dangerous situation outside of a medical facility,” Gibson wrote. “Patients and their companions are terrorized by these people. The neighborhood suffers their noise and harassment as well. As a volunteer and a concerned citizen of Jackson, I would appreciate your assistance. These people are congregating outside of a medical facility during a pandemic, endangering others.”
None of the city officials responded to her email, but a cop did show up outside the clinic that Saturday. He just sat in his car, watching. “He watched them gather 50 strong, no masks, no nothing,” Gibson told me. “He watched them put up a ladder to look through the front door.”
As exhausting as it has been, Gibson and Hancock remain determined to help women navigate the pandemic and the protesters. With everything that has been going on, the Pink House’s patients have “taken it totally in stride,” Hancock said. While there’s “nothing really good” about the current situation, there is something “pretty cool” that has happened: Patients have also been emboldened. Gibson agrees. “It’s kind of galvanized them,” she said. “It’s not taken for granted so much, because it’s been made plain to them how tenuous it all is,” she added. “How meaningful it all is … and how it can all be gone real damn quick.”