Anti-choice zealots bomb an IVF clinic
How a 2024 Florida road trip taught me about abortion clinic bombings and pro-choice resilience
Over the weekend, anti-choice zealots bombed an IVF clinic in California, which authorities say has left one person dead. Reading this made me think of a road trip I took last spring, throughout Florida, when I was working on a story on abortion access in the state. The original piece was written in the spring of 2024 and never published, but I thought I would share it with those who want a glimpse into what it means for me to make sense of the rightward shift in my home state from the perspective of pro-choice Floridians.
A balmy gust of wind aggressively slapped my face when I visited Miami, welcoming me back home. After I settled into my motel, which sat on the bustling strip of Biscayne Boulevard, just two miles from where I grew up, and unpacked, I slowly removed the layers of clothing. I headed to the Atlantic Ocean, hoping that a cool breeze or rose-colored clouds would remind me of what I love about this place. My trip coincided with spring break in late March, one of the worst times to visit, as this is when streams of early twenty-something students descend on the region for uninhibited partying and mayhem. I was determined not to be distracted by their presence, as I had a higher purpose: to understand how progressives in the state are coming to terms with the extreme shifts to the right that Florida has taken in recent years. While some people like me have left, many have remained, and somehow, their willingness to do so feels like an act of resistance against all I find revolting about the state: the Stand Your Ground law, the “Don’t Say Gay” law, and the rejection of AP Black history courses.
Florida is not part of the South, but it is a southern state. It is a complex state, often likened to a Caribbean island rather than Mississippi or Louisiana, yet it has become just as politically conservative in recent years. When I visit, I know a state that is constantly in flux; it is both a tourist destination and a sanctuary for people who find political asylum here from authoritarian regimes or are themselves evading political accountability. But contrary to other southern states, Florida has provided greater abortion access than its neighbors. Even in 2023, the New York Times reported that it had seen an “18 percent rise in abortions last year, including nearly 10,000 out-of-state patients.” Since May 1, an extreme anti-abortion law has taken effect, outlawing most procedures in the state and cutting off access to the majority of those out-of-state patients. However, what brought me to Florida wasn’t the anti-abortion legislation but the decades-long violence targeting abortion clinics, which has shaped access to care more than legislation ever will.
The Ladies Center and two physicians' offices in Pensacola, Florida, were bombed in the early morning of Christmas Day in 1984 by several callow religious militants, Matt Goldsby and Jimmy Simmons, both 21, and Kathy Simmons and Kaye Wiggins, both 18. When asked about the motivation for the actions, they proclaimed that it was "a gift to Jesus on his birthday.” The bombing in Florida came years after the 1977 arson attacks against abortion clinics in Minnesota, Vermont, Nebraska, and Ohio. Two years later, about six anti-abortion activists, most of whom were associated with the anti-abortion group Rescue America, invaded the Ladies Center and injured two women. One of the perpetrators was John Burt, a former member of the Ku Klux Klan.
Even though the Florida State Constitution protected abortion rights and court rulings over the years have bolstered the right to privacy law, anti-abortion extremists— often self-described devout Christians—continued to incite deadly violence. On March 10, 1993, abortion provider Dr. David Gunn was fatally shot by Michael F. Griffin, an anti-choice zealot, outside the Pensacola Women's Medical Services clinic. A year later, abortion provider Dr. John Britton was fatally shot by Paul J. Hill, along with his bodyguard, James Barrett, outside the Ladies Center. Mr. Hill was a minister who believed his Christianity was to use any means necessary to prevent abortions.
These events happened during my childhood, so I was unaware of how abortion care providers were doing the brave work of treating patients under the threat of violence or real acts of domestic terrorism after Roe. But as Johanna Schoen documents in Abortion After Roe, induced pro-life grassroots movements were pushed inside and outside of the legislative halls. For example, the National Right to Life Committee, along with lobbyists, played a vital role in the passage of the Hyde Amendment, which was initially passed by the House of Representatives in 1976 and prevented federal funds from being used for abortions. Even when conservatives have gained territory in their efforts, some of their ideologues have resorted to thuggery. Between 1977 and 2023, the National Abortion Federation has documented “11 murders, 42 bombings, 200 arsons, 531 assaults, 492 clinic invasions, 375 burglaries, and thousands of other incidents of criminal activities directed at patients, providers, and volunteers.” Whether they relied on the bullet or the ballot, Schoen argues that “the New Right and Religious Right offered powerful strategic incentives for abortion opponents to join a more significant conservative movement. In effect, abortion became a single issue that eventually was policy-driven, even when violence tapered off in the late 1990s. Anti-abortion violence has not gone away; instead, it has taken on new forms in recent years.
According to the National Abortion Federation, stalking and obstruction by anti-abortion extremists have increased by 913% and 538% in states with access to abortion between 2021 and 2022. In 2022, the year that Roe v. Wade was overturned, numerous anti-abortion extremists participated in blocking an abortion clinic, even as the state Senate and governor were crafting anti-choice legislation. And yet, the far right in Florida has realized that arson and bullets are no longer practical tools for their cause. Now, rather than solely using violence—in the form of arson, bombings, and assassinations—they resort to legislation that poses restrictions on when, how, and who could seek an abortion, which began in 2007, started with a Florida provision that mandated that medical providers show an ultrasound of the fetus before providing an abortion. In 2015, the Republican-majority Florida state legislature passed HB 633, which required pregnant people to make two visits to a medical facility 24 hours apart to be able to obtain an abortion. To will their beliefs into action, it’s been a long game for the right to slowly chipping away at abortion access—an indication of the misogyny and patriarchal violence that has permeated the state for several decades.
Nearly 22% of Florida residents were born outside of the United States, making a home in a state that can feel hostile on some days but a refuge on others. For the most part, I had always been familiar with the migrants in my childhood home. I witnessed my parents' initial disdain for the United States and the possibility of a Caribbean return, but they eventually grew to accept that Florida is their home. Their migration is distinct from those of recent Latino migrants who settled in Central Florida and the ones who inherited a political landscape that made abortion access nearly obsolete. When I spoke with Elena (a pseudonym), a social service manager based in Gainesville, I wanted to understand how immigration advocacy groups—even those that do not provide abortion care—address the clients who seek this care. I asked her what the most significant barriers were for immigrants who wanted to seek out an abortion. “The biggest barrier is the cost,” said Elena.
Depending on where a person goes, an abortion can cost between $250 and $900 during the first trimester, whether it is the abortion pill or a surgical procedure, while second-trimester abortions can cost up to $2100, which, for low-wage immigrant workers and the uninsured, is a burden that can be a deterrent. As Elena put it: “I have noticed that because of what other people think because a lot of the immigrant community that I work with comes from countries with strong religious ideas; when they need to ask for help, then they end up asking for help to a total stranger like me because they are terrified that they are going to be judged.” They sought her confidence because they wanted guidance, reassurance, or both, with someone who spoke Spanish and English and could direct them to what they needed. However, affinity did not permanently erase the reality that, legally and financially, it was difficult to access an abortion in Florida.
One of the most trivial aspects of my trip is deciding what to listen to. Do I go for a literary podcast, which delves into the art of craft, or do I succumb to an upbeat pop tune? I often choose the latter when I have no one else to impress. When I left Gainesville and headed north to Tallahassee, I moved from a flat region surrounded by orange groves towards a steeper climate, which felt more akin to Georgia than Miami. I placidly retreated to a sonic experience that would help me transition; I chose Beyoncé’s then-newly released album, Cowboy Carter, to affirm my extrasensory signals, knowing that as I roamed through Tallahassee, I finally sensed I was in the American South. The trees were fertile and lush; the air felt colder and wetter. The hills pricked up against the horizon. When I arrived at my friend’s house near Old Town, I was struck by her garden and the birds ' songs. Robins, cardinals, and woodpeckers would visit the carefully constructed bird feeder and freely feast.
Sitting in Ali’s garden, we discussed the birds that had chosen her backyard as a refuge, her weed-pruning technique, her barbecue, and abortion politics in Florida and the rest of the country. As a professor at one of the universities in Tallahassee, she has worked through historic attacks by the state governor against public education institutions, especially when it comes to queer and Black studies. She described the climate of fear at the university, where some professors are concerned that listing terms such as “queer” or “LGBT” in their course descriptions might signal an assault by rightwing bigots. Ali reminded me that higher education is another battleground where Florida’s culture wars are playing out, and the leading actors waging these battles are also attacking reproductive rights. Ali is witnessing how the attack by the right on these issues has a lot to do with their strategy to control every aspect of our lives. It’s all deeply connected.
Like in other Southern states, Florida has a robust movement of grassroots activists fighting to expand abortion access. Groups such as Floridians for Freedom are working at the local and state levels to advance a ballot initiative campaign aimed at protecting reproductive rights in the state constitution. When I spoke with Damien Flier from Floridians for Freedom in November 2023, he mentioned that various coalitions collaborated on the ballot initiative. At the time, he believed they would quickly get the minimum number of signatures to put the abortion ballot on the 2024 election. At the time, I was dubious. But several months later, his prediction was correct. And yet, the ballot initiative reflects one of the many measures that pro-choice activists take.
Indeed, there are several legal contradictions in the state. In the past, pro-choice advocates have succeeded at using Article One, section 23 of the Florida Constitution to block abortion restrictions. However, like the US Supreme Court, there is now a conservative majority in the Florida State Supreme Court. Legal advocacy and feminist groups understand these challenges and are working to address them head-on. Robin Blyn, a professor at the University of West Florida in Pensacola, reminded me of how the fight for abortion in Florida is intergenerational. When she moved from New York to Florida in 1999, the American Family Planning Clinic and Planned Parenthood provided abortion services. Now, there isn’t a single clinic left in the city. “They went too far, and that’s what drives us.” When I asked her why she chose to organize, she said she “felt very strongly when the Dobbs decision came down that my generation of feminists had failed the new generation. And while there were many issues I could have concentrated on, you can't do all of them. I chose this one.” Before the American Family Planning Clinic shut down in 2022, pregnant people came from Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi to terminate a pregnancy. Since the facility closed its doors, people seeking an abortion have to go elsewhere. With her brows furrowed, Robin told me, “People are going to Tampa; people are going to Tallahassee and Gainesville as well.”
Kara Gross, a Legislative Director and Senior Policy Council for the American Civil Liberties Union of Florida, echoed this sentiment that the fight is rooted in Florida citizens’ desire to be unshackled. “The vast majority of Floridians … do not want these abortion bans,” she told me. “Floridians, you know, are by and large people who want to live freely, and they want their freedom to make medical decisions. They want their freedom to work, live, and exist. And to be able to read the books they want to read and discuss the topics they want to talk about. They want to learn and educate themselves.
Perhaps this was what I was still searching for as I drove up and down the peninsula: the Floridians who lived freely without causing harm. It is one thing to visit Florida and critique its flaws, but it is another thing to witness the people creating an oasis for themselves and their families. In the middle of the road trip, I visited a farm in Central Florida. I met with Veronica, a friend of a friend who lived on an organic farm with her family. Although she worked full-time for a nonprofit, the farm clarified their family dream. In this magical enclave, they cultivated fresh produce, including kale and broccoli, for a community-supported agriculture program. They even had a treehouse, which evoked the spirit of the Lost Boys. Here, they built themselves a house in a hollow; the foliage glittered against the late spring sun.
On a warm day in April, we sat in her living room, drinking tea. I asked her about the political situation. The world her family constructed felt so different from the Florida I had been reading about since I moved away. Veronica and her family were almost quarantined from the far-right insurgents of Florida’s state capitol. Still, as we spoke about the impact abortion bans would have on the people she knew, I became aware that you can never fully isolate yourself from the state’s grasp.
Throughout my trip last year, I came to see that Florida is more than what feels familiar; it is, in a sense, a mirror to the rest of the United States and the rise of the far right in America and abroad. As of May 2024, abortion in Florida is severely restricted, that is to say, a six-week ban that activists say is a near-total ban. As anyone pregnant knows, most people are unaware of their pregnancy before six weeks. However, traveling through the state has made me realize that the fight for bodily autonomy is more profound. Still, to experience the home firsthand, as others see it, also means absorbing these moments of shock, distance, and grief.
Some News
I reviewed Health Communism (published by Verso) for The New York Review of Books. In the review, I discuss pain, healthcare, and the history of psychiatry in Germany. This essay will be especially insightful for individuals who wish to understand the importance of adopting patient-centered and anti-capitalist approaches to healthcare. Though I point out how SPK, a German patient-led group collective, became cultish, fringe, and anti-science. Please read and share the review with others.
You can read my recent interview with Salon, where I discussed A History of the World in Six Plagues. Carlyn Zwarenstein is an excellent science journalist, so if you haven’t followed her work, I highly recommend it.
Some Recommendations
Andrea Long Chu reflects on Ocean Vuong’s latest novel, The Emperor of Gladness, but also considers his track record in writing prose and poetry.
Joshua Edwards discusses a poet’s grave in Paris.
Lauren Michele Jackson discusses muscles, diet culture, and more.
Check out Merve Emre’s podcast series, The Critic and Her Publics.
If you like this post, please consider buying my latest book, A History of the World in Six Plagues, which examines the history of epidemics and the rise of public health in the modern era.
Please consider giving a positive review of my book on Amazon, Bookshop, and Goodreads. I would be grateful if you could recommend the book to people in your life, such as relatives, coworkers, pen pals, editors, or loved ones. You can post about the book on social media, in newsletters, or nominate me for a prize, etc.
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