By 
On the day the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, Mia Raven needed an anthem. The self-proclaimed “Alabama abortion lady” knew the court ruling meant the end of legal abortion in the state, so after hearing the news, she got in her car and rushed to Reproductive Health Services, a local abortion clinic in Montgomery where she’d worked on and off since 2015. She’d only been there for a few hours, and already, five former patients had stopped by looking for information. “They didn’t know where to go except to the people who helped them,” Raven said, remembering others who came by to express their support or condolences. “Just people randomly pulling up to the clinic and telling us they love us and to be strong,” she said. “That broke me.”
But Raven, who’d been a volunteer clinic escort for 10 years, knew to expect more than encouragement. Some of the clinic’s most dedicated protesters were also there, locals who used to arrive at 5 a.m. even though patients didn’t arrive until 8 a.m. Raven was on guard, making sure they didn’t intercept anyone who was coming to the clinic looking for support. One protester stood in front of the building to sing in celebration. Raven rolled down the windows and found her song, blasting Cardi B’s “WAP” from her speakers to drown him out.
It’s now been five months since Roe was overturned, eliminating abortion access in the home states of millions across the country. But even in places where abortion is now banned or severely restricted, former abortion clinics have remained battlegrounds. Anti-abortion organizations are capitalizing on clinic closures, as well as a general climate of fear and confusion, to misdirect abortion seekers. Meanwhile, advocates like Raven are fighting back, trying to ensure that the loss of abortion services in many southern and midwestern states doesn’t mean the total loss of reliable information about abortion.
For Raven and her fellow clinic escorts at RHS, outmaneuvering anti-abortion groups is a familiar struggle. Since 2015, Raven has run the POWER House, a reproductive justice organization located in a small house next door to the clinic. That year, the anti-abortion Christian extremist group Operation Save America was planning a big event in Montgomery to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the famous 1965 Selma to Montgomery civil rights marches. “I found out they were trying to rent that house,” Raven said. “I found out who the landlord is, and luckily he’s a member of the LGBTQ community. So I said, ‘Well, do you want to rent to these people who hate you, or do you want to rent to me?’ Luckily, he chose me.” The little house quickly became the POWER House, a place for clinic escorts to gather, for patients’ companions to wait, and for people to come for all kinds of reproductive and sexual health resources. The volunteers have also organized donation drives for various charitable causes and even gave voters free rides to the polls.
Then, when a local crisis pregnancy center—a deceptive clinic designed to convince people not to have abortions—started parking a bus advertising free ultrasounds along the clinic’s sidewalk a few years later, Raven and the other escorts started blocking off the area by parking their own cars there early in the morning. In turn, a Christian anti-abortion organization purchased three empty lots across the street from the clinic to park the bus and hold events.
So after the Supreme Court decision, Raven fully expected that protesters and the ultrasound bus would keep showing up at the clinic, even though it would be closed. She also knew that former patients, and others who needed abortions, would as well. It made her all the more determined to keep the POWER House open. Raven hoped to make it “the pro-choice answer to a crisis pregnancy center,” providing as much information about abortion as the law would allow.
The fact that Raven uses the phrase “pro-choice”—one that many activists now see as outdated and euphemistic, preferring the more loud-and-proud “pro-abortion”—shows just what a chilling effect the state’s criminal abortion ban has had. In September, Alabama Attorney General Steve Marshall confirmed advocates’ worst fears when he said that the state’s accessory and conspiracy provisions could allow him to prosecute people who assist in out-of-state abortions, leaving many worried that simply talking about abortion could land them in prison.
In late October, I checked in with Raven. Sure enough, the ultrasound bus still parks across the street every day. “They used to keep their signs on their side of the street,” she said. “Now they come and put them over on our side of the street, sometimes in front of the clinic.” Catholic demonstrators also still come to the lot on Mondays and Tuesdays. But without the captive audience of patients walking into the clinic, protesters try to stop people who are walking by or catch drivers at the stop sign on the corner.
The POWER House is also still open, operated entirely by volunteers. There, community members can stop in for free male and female condoms, dental dams, emergency contraception, pregnancy tests, ovulation tests, hand sanitizer, and at-home HIV test kits. “If I could have a wish, I would love to get that ultrasound machine out of the clinic and have someone that was able to do free ultrasounds. That person is not me. An ultrasound looks like the beginning of a Star Wars movie to me,” she laughed. “But I wish I could pay someone to do that.” Sometimes, when a pregnant person can’t afford to go to the doctor, Raven and the other escorts have nowhere to refer them for a free ultrasound except the bus across the street. “It feels like sending people to their demise.” (Though CPCs commonly advertise free ultrasounds, much of the time, those ultrasounds aren’t actually performed by trained providers. However, they’re often the only free ultrasounds in town.)
People also still stop by asking if the clinic is really closed. “Because we’ve been a presence in Montgomery for so long, people still think that I have a secret answer to getting their abortion, which I do, but I can’t tell them out of fear of being charged by the attorney general,” Raven said. “And it’s incredibly frustrating. I don’t think people realize that this is impacting a First Amendment protection.” Instead of being able to provide all the information about abortion that she’d like to, Raven has a flyer that was approved by a criminal attorney—a type of guidance she never sought before. It has contact information for local doctors who she knows to be pro-choice; an adoption agency that is also pro-choice; a list of the closest states where abortion is still legal and their gestational age limits; a link to the National Abortion Federation, the professional organization for abortion providers; and a note about privacy and digital security.
As for Reproductive Health Services, fortunately the building is owned outright by the daughter of the clinic’s original owner. It will remain closed, but crucially, it won’t transform into anything else. This way, should abortion become legal in Alabama again, the clinic could reopen. The same can’t be said for many closed clinics that have been sold or rented to new occupants. The RHS building won’t become a CPC, either—a fate that is likely to befall some former clinic spaces in ban states.
CPCs have a long history of setting up next door to—or across the street from—real abortion clinics, even converting former clinics into CPCs. Utilizing these spaces is another deceptive tactic to lure in abortion seekers. And groups that operate CPCs are already moving to take over clinics that have closed since the fall of Roe. This November, it was reported that the building that housed the Rio Grande Valley’s last abortion clinic—which advocates had hoped to hold onto to use as an organizing hub—was bought by a CPC. As a result, a former bastion of abortion access in a relative, and literal, desert will now be a symbol of the anti-abortion movement’s win, and one that will spread misinformation and stigmatize abortion to boot.
Of course, most people are now turning to the internet for information about where and how to get abortions, and advocates are hard at work to fight misinformation there, too. The online directory I Need an A has even introduced a tool that checks to see whether a clinic near you is legitimate or if it’s a known anti-abortion facility.
Rebecca, the co-founder, executive director, and designer of I Need an A (who asked to be identified by her first name only), said she was inspired to create the site after her own abortion experience 10 years ago. At the time, there were quite a few abortion providers in Austin, where Rebecca lived, but it was hard for her to find one. Instead, she was sifting through misinformation on anti-abortion websites and out-of-date information on others. She didn’t even learn about the existence of abortion funds until her second appointment at a clinic.
As an engineer and product designer, Rebecca realized she could aggregate all the information she had needed in one place. In 2016, she built a proof-of-concept for Texas only and later expanded to cover the entire country. I Need an A helps people find telemedicine providers or their closest clinic, and it includes helpful information about abortion funds, what to expect during the procedure, legal restrictions, and more. The site stays up to date through several mechanisms: automatic scans of abortion providers’ websites, a team of human data managers who personally review information, and user form submissions.
“We’ve been really focusing on trying to add more information to help people understand what are the actual, most practical options for them,” Rebecca said. “We have a new sorting algorithm that doesn’t just consider the distance to brick-and-mortar clinics, but also, what are the laws for that clinic and the state that they’re in and the appointment wait time?” Next, they’re working to incorporate data about travel time, cost, and legal risks for people who choose to self-manage abortions. They’re also working on search engine optimization and advertising to be as discoverable as possible, since crisis pregnancy center websites have often dominated internet searches for abortion.
The outsized influence of crisis pregnancy centers comes down to one thing: money. According to the Guttmacher Institute, as of October, at least 66 clinics across 15 states had stopped providing abortion services in the months since the Supreme Court’s ruling. Of these clinics, 26 closed entirely while 40 remain open to provide other services. However, many of them are barely hanging on. Crisis pregnancy centers, on the other hand, have a 5-to-1 funding advantage over legitimate clinics and receive millions of dollars in federal and state funds.
Reproductive justice advocates aren’t lacking in willpower; they’re lacking in resources. “I would be out there every fucking day if it meant that clinic would be open,” Raven said. “I’d be out there from six in the morning until six at night if I had to.” But for now, she’s doing what she can—giving her community a safe place to drown out the noise.
Garnet Henderson is a Wyoming-born, New York-based freelance journalist reporting on health and abortion access. Her work has appeared in publications including Marie Claire, VICE, WIRED, Glamour, Scientific American, Elemental, the Guardian, and others. She is also the host and producer of ACCESS: A Podcast About Abortion.
