The first time I met Kamala Harris, in 2007, I was a reporter profiling her for San Francisco magazine. She was in a basement near City Hall, trying to persuade a roomful of low-level ex–drug dealers to find time in their lives for a little self-care. “I have a job that’s just crazy,” she told the crowd of 100 or so young men and women, sounding more like a motivational speaker than the San Francisco district attorney and possible future president of the United States. “I get calls day and night. That’s a lot of stress.” What helped her stay sane, she explained, was waking up early every morning, jumping on the treadmill, and tuning the TV to something upbeat. “My life is like the news, and I don’t need to watch the news. So I watch MTV and VH1. I know every song!” 

Her audience—participants in a program Harris created for young, nonviolent ex-offenders called Back on Track—was there because, if they fulfilled all the program’s requirements and stayed out of trouble, their criminal records would be wiped clean. Harris knew that for these mostly Black and brown young people, the keys to their eventual success included educational opportunities, decent jobs, stable housing, and affordable childcare. Helping them move toward economic security was Back on Track’s—and Harris’—primary mission. 

But taking care of their bodies and their emotional health was also important. Instead of self-medicating with booze and drugs, she wanted to help them develop the mental habits that could help them persevere when they felt worn down by the world—a mindset for believing they did have the power to determine the course of their futures. Going to the gym wasn’t the point, she told them— though she had wrangled free passes to 24-Hour Fitness for anyone who wanted one. “It’s about being happy and healthy and figuring out ways to cope.” Scanning the room, I could see that many of her listeners seemed … baffled. Since when did the city’s top law enforcement official care about how a bunch of former drug dealers felt?

Scanning the room, I could see that many of her listeners seemed … baffled. Since when did the city’s top law enforcement official care about how a bunch of former drug dealers felt?

Flash forward almost two decades: The Democratic presidential nominee who has spent the past 107 days running an ultramarathon on a tightrope in designer pantsuits and high heels seems light years away from that earnest young DA preaching about the healing power of cardio. Consider Harris’ urgent closing message on the Ellipse a week before the election, flanked by a parade of flags and 75,000 people who were terrified by the prospects of a second Trump presidency. Donald Trump is a “petty tyrant,” the vice president declared—“unstable, obsessed with revenge, consumed with grievance and out for unchecked power.” America is better than he is, she insisted, “America is the greatest idea humanity ever devised, a nation big enough to encompass all our dreams, strong enough to withstand any fracture or fissure between us, and fearless enough to imagine a future of possibilities.”

The 2024 election feels like a second chance, if not the last chance, for the nation, a back-on-track moment. In much the same way that she was encouraging young offenders to seize control of their lives decades ago, Harris spent a good chunk of her speech trying to convince her listeners that they can control the fate of a democracy threatened by bullies, demagogues, and oligarchs. “Each of you has the power,” she told the cheering but jittery crowd, “to turn the page and start writing the next chapter in the most extraordinary story ever told.” 

For me, the most striking moment in her speech came when Harris talked about her adored mother, Shyamala Gopalan Harris, who died from colon cancer in 2009 at the age of 70. “I took care of my mother when she got sick, cooking foods that she had a taste for, finding clothes that would not irritate her skin,” Harris told her audience, describing intimate acts of love and kindness that public figures, much less politicians, rarely discuss. Harris the candidate was touting her plan to expand Medicare coverage to include home health care for seniors: “Currently, if you need home care and you don’t have some money to hire someone, you and your family need to deplete your savings to qualify for help. That’s just not right.” Harris the daughter was speaking from a personal place that she has often tried to guard. “Caregiving is about dignity,” she said. “It is about dignity.” 

It was a profoundly empathetic moment. And I wondered if her capacity to communicate empathy might just end up saving democracy.

As Americans reach the finish line of the most stomach-wrenching, soul-sucking, exhausting, consequential presidential campaign in memory, many factors will help determine whether Harris will be able to beat back Trump and pull America from the brink. 

If she wins, pundits will point to the innumerable GOP mistakes. Abortion bans transforming health care for women (and families) across the US, infuriating not just the tens of millions of people capable of getting pregnant but also their mothers and grandmothers old enough to remember the coat-hanger-abortion era before Roe v. Wade. Then there is the far-right’s embrace of Project 2025 and other extreme policies that would catapult the country back to the 19th century. The grotesque, proto-fascist spectacle at Madison Square Garden. Trump’s rapidly degenerating mental capacity, his accelerating physical decline, his unapologetic embrace of corrupt dictators, his incessant lies. His vice presidential pick, Ohio Sen. JD Vance’s repulsive views about women, especially unmarried ones with no children. Elon Musk’s full-on transformation into a Marvel supervillain, one who turns out to be clueless about politics even as he spends hundreds of millions of dollars trying to disrupt a democracy that helped make him the richest person on the planet. 

“Considering they had such little time, some say this is a minor miracle. But it isn’t—it is the result of the right people and the right candidate. It will be a case study for future political scientists.”

Then there’s the Harris campaign, which people who pay close attention to these things are calling one of the best Democrats have ever run. “Considering they had such little time, some say this is a minor miracle,” the Washington Post’s Jennifer Rubin posted on Twitter. “But it isn’t—it is the result of the right people and the right candidate. It will be a case study for future political scientists.” Harris, who spent four years being dismissed as a DEI lightweight, has been a revelation since President Joe Biden bowed out of the race in July, even to her longtime supporters. “It seems to us that something happened to you,” Oprah Winfrey marveled in September, as if “a veil or something dropped… and you just stepped into your power.” Harris responded by (of course) laughing, then added, “You know, we each have those moments in our lives where it’s time to step up.” In the weeks since that virtual rally, despite a schedule that has sometimes seemed to require her to be in 12 places at once, Harris has seemed to gain in strength and clarity of purpose. Through it all, her sunny stamina has been one of her greatest attributes.

But for me, another quality that distinguishes Harris and may even be a determinative superpower in this race is empathy. Obviously, empathy can be a double-edged sword for women politicians, making them seem “soft” and “weak,” their feminine/maternal instincts writ inappropriately large in an arena requiring steely strength. At least that’s what Trump and Vance and Musk and their ilk seem to think—people who at minimum lack any semblance of emotional intelligence and at worst, seem to have learned their social skills on 4chan. It’s not what Democratic strategists have emphasized when they’ve framed her candidacy; she’s the tough-talking prosecutor who recognizes in Trump the type of criminal and predator she spent much of her career trying to put in jail. But scratch the surface of her prosecutorial rigor and consider the policy ideas she’s been talking about on the campaign trail—health care, reproductive care, child care, elder care.

Empathy can be a double-edged sword for women politicians, making them seem “soft” and “weak,” their feminine/maternal instincts writ inappropriately large in an arena requiring steely strength. At least that’s what Trump and Vance and Musk and their ilk seem to think.

Of course, those are perennially Democratic issues, embraced with special fervor by female candidates and their voters. It’s hardly surprising that Harris—who was raised by a single mother and focused on victims of violence and crime for much of her career—would espouse a public policy agenda that is fundamentally about treating people with dignity and kindness.

But you can support empathic policies and still be a terrible person. What’s notable is how many people have a story about her kindness out of the public eye, going back decades. A young woman named Tanene recently went viral on TikTok, talking about how, when she was a homeless teenager in the early 2000s, Harris—not yet a politician—plucked her from the San Francisco streets, deciding “she was going to love me and guide me and cheer me on for literally my entire life.” Twenty years later, she considers Harris her “big sister Auntie mentor friend.”

Lateefah Simon, a MacArthur fellow who ran Harris’s Back on Track program for a few years in the mid-2000s, recalls how, soon after she’d been hired, she showed up to work wearing a hoodie and sweats, like the kids she would be meeting with that day. Harris was not amused. “Why would you ever disrespect your people?” Harris demanded, sending her home to change. “You work for this office. You work for the state, so you represent. Would you go to Pacific Heights”—one of the city’s whitest and wealthiest neighborhoods— “wearing that?” But the next day, Harris presented Simon with a brand-new suit, the very first she ever owned. (Today, Simon is expected to be elected to replace Representative Barbara Lee, representing Berkeley and Oakland in Congress.)

Some of these stories can edge into a kind of Frank Capra sentimentality—except they happen to be true. One of them comes from her former boss, one-time San Francisco city attorney Louise Renne. One day Harris—then a young lawyer heading their division on children and families—arrived in Renne’s office with an armful of stuffed toys for kids whose adoptions were being finalized. “She said, Louise, it’s Adoption Day, we’re going to hand out teddy bears to the children so they can remember this day.” Renne recalled. “So off we went, teddy bears in arms, over to the courthouse. Well, that had never been done before. And I just thought, what an insightful thing to do.” 

Now, 25 years later, what Renne remains struck by is Harris’s unusual alchemy of toughness and kindness. “Nobody should ever mistake her for not being tough enough,” Renne told me recently. But Harris also cares about people and consequences, Renne says: “What’s going on in the real world? What is the impact here? Who’s it hurting most? How do we solve the problem to get around the hurt?”

Imagine JD Vance handing out teddy bears. As Adam Serwer famously wrote about the first Trump presidency, “The cruelty is the point.” Four years later, that cruelty continues to be manifest in hideous, even jaw-dropping ways—were we still able to be shocked—but especially in Trump and Vance’s ugly rhetoric about immigrants and in their callous reactions to stories about women who have died and nearly died because of restrictions on abortion care.

Harris, meanwhile, has reached out to Republicans in part by acknowledging their misgivings about voting for a Democrat. The quality of empathy helps explain why she and her vice presidential running mate Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz—the football coach who helped launch his high school’s Gay/Straight Alliance club, the governor who supported free meals and tampons for school kids, the proud dad of a special-needs son—seem to genuinely connect. Theirs is not the Bill Clinton-esque “I feel your pain” schtick that often seems performative. 

Empathy has likewise been at the heart of Harris’s messaging on abortion. Where she really catches fire is when she talks about how abortion bans have brutalized the lives of women and families.

Empathy has likewise been at the heart of Harris’s messaging on abortion. From the moment that the Dobbs decision was announced and Biden gave her the responsibility to lobby for reproductive rights in ways he never did, she has offered a full-throated defense of reproductive freedom the likes of which we have never before heard from a sitting vice president or a presidential candidate. She’s been exceptional in her attacks on Trump and his allies overturning Roe v. Wade, passing extreme abortion bans, threatening access to birth control and IVF, and stripping away the ability of women and girls to make decisions about their own bodies. Admittedly, on the what-she-plans-to-do-about-it side, Harris is more circumspect. During the debate, for example, when asked if there were any limits to abortion care that she would support, she replied that she wanted to “restore Roe.” She knows how limited her powers are likely to be on that front, especially if she lacks majorities in the House and/or Senate. 

Harris really catches fire when she talks about how abortion bans have brutalized the lives of women and families, like the young Georgia woman, Amber Thurman, whose 2022 death from delayed abortion care left her six-year-old son without a mother. Or what happens to victims of rape or incest or domestic violence: “The idea that a woman who survives a crime of a violation to her body should not have the authority to make a decision about what happens to her body next—that is immoral,” Harris declared in her speech on the Ellipse. “That is immoral.” 

So now it’s Election Day and the polls continue to forecast a tight race, though with some unexpected, late-breaking reasons for optimism for Democrats. If Harris wins, it will be because she has managed to break through the Trump–Musk–Fox News chaos machine and convince millions of people who knew hardly anything about her three months ago to support her and her vision of America’s future. Voters have myriad choices this election, with down-ballot races and ballot measures. But at the top of the ticket, if voters don’t choose empathy, that future will be cruel indeed.

Two years after the US Supreme Court ended the federal right to abortion, tens of millions of Americans will go to the polls this November hoping to protect access to the procedure—whether their lawmakers like it or not. Ten states— some already with robust protections, others with near-total bans—have measures on their ballots to enshrine abortion rights in their constitutions. The expected outpouring of voters, including in key swing states, could help determine control of the White House, Congress, state legislatures, and state supreme courts.

Reproductive freedom has proved to be one of the strongest currents shaping the outcome of American elections since 2022. So far, voters in seven states have reacted to the end of Roe v. Wade by passing ballot measures aimed at restoring, and even expanding, Roe’s protections. In a few of those states, the voter-initiative process empowered the public to bypass GOP-dominated legislatures and supersede decades-old restrictions. Reproductive rights organizers are hoping to continue that winning streak on November 5. 

But faced with the broad appeal of abortion initiatives in GOP-led states such as Ohio, Republican officials have gone to sometimes extreme lengths to undermine the latest measures. In Florida, for example, Gov. Ron DeSantis has waged a multifront war on Amendment 4, threatening television stations that air ads favoring the measure and issuing a 348-page report accusing the Floridians Protecting Freedom campaign of “widespread petition fraud.” 

While most of this year’s measures have a common objective—protecting reproductive access—they take very different approaches to reaching that goal. Here is a rundown of what’s on the November ballot, which we will update as election results become available. 

Arizona

In anticipation of the end of Roe, Arizona Republicans passed a 15-week abortion ban in early 2022. But they also left in place an 1864 statute that outlawed nearly all abortions and threatened providers with jail time—a “zombie” law that was moot as long as Roe was in effect. This past April, the Arizona Supreme Court revived that Civil-War era ban by a 4–2 vote. The GOP-controlled legislature quickly repealed the old law, but many Arizonans were outraged at what the court had done, and the campaign to put Proposition 139 on the November ballot exploded. Prop 139 would enshrine a fundamental right to abortion in the Arizona Constitution and prohibit the state from restricting or banning abortion until the point of fetal viability—about 24 weeks. Abortions would be allowed later in pregnancy to save the mother’s life or to protect her physical or mental health. The amendment would also protect anyone who helps another person obtain an abortion.

A coalition of reproductive rights groups certified more than 575,000 signatures this past summer—the most ever validated for a citizens initiative in the state’s history, supporters said. In a New York Times/Siena College poll in late September, Prop 139 was ahead among likely voters by a resounding 58 percent. If it passes, Prop 139 could be used to challenge almost 40 abortion laws on Arizona’s books, including the existing 15-week ban, a prohibition on telehealth abortions, and a parental consent requirement for teenagers.

Colorado

Long before the Dobbs decision, Colorado legislators passed numerous laws safeguarding access to abortion. But after Dobbs, reproductive health advocates in the state concluded that even the strongest statutes weren’t strong enough—Colorado needed to enshrine those protections in its constitution. The measure they put on the November ballot, Amendment 79, wouldn’t just establish a right to abortion; it would repeal a 40-year-old constitutional provision that prohibited the use of state dollars to fund abortion. Sponsored by a coalition called Coloradans for Protecting Reproductive Freedom, the measure needs 55 percent of votes to pass. 

Surrounded by states with bans or heavily restrictive laws, Colorado is a crucial abortion access point for the West. With no gestational limits, the state is also a haven for anyone seeking an abortion later in pregnancy, as it is home to one of four clinics in the US that offer third-trimester procedures. Repealing the ban on state funding would allow Colorado to use its state Medicaid dollars to pay for abortions, making the procedure more accessible for low-income patients.

Florida

Florida’s Amendment 4 would enshrine in the state’s constitution the freedom to seek an abortion before fetal viability, and after viability if a medical provider determines that the procedure is necessary to preserve a patient’s health.

Gov. DeSantis and his GOP administration have done everything they can to sabotage the amendment—including sending “election police” to the homes of people who signed the petitions.

If the measure passes, it would dramatically improve access to reproductive care in Florida, which since May has banned abortions after six weeks of pregnancy. Before that, the state permitted abortions up to 15 weeks, and before Dobbs, until 24 weeks. The impact of the Florida vote will be felt throughout the Southeast: Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Kentucky all have near-total abortion bans; Georgia and South Carolina have six-week bans, and North Carolina’s 12-week ban is made more burdensome by a 72-hour waiting period. 

The stakes for passage are high, and so are the barriers. Over the last several election cycles, Florida has turned out more conservative voters than liberal ones. While reproductive rights are popular across the political spectrum, the state has a 60 percent threshold to approve constitutional amendments; the other red states that have passed abortion-protective measures since Dobbs—Kansas, Kentucky, Ohio—only required simple majorities. Meanwhile, Gov. DeSantis and his GOP administration have done everything they can to sabotage the amendment—including sending “election police” to the homes of people who signed the petitions, ostensibly to root out fraud. If the measure passes, DeSantis and his allies are widely expected to fight just as hard to overturn the results.

Maryland

Maryland’s Question 1, which was placed on the November ballot by the state legislature, does not mention “abortion”—much to the chagrin of supporters and opponents alike. Instead, the amendment broadly establishes the constitutional right to “reproductive freedom,” including the freedom to decide whether to continue or end a pregnancy. It needs a simple majority to pass.

Maryland already has some of the least restrictive abortion laws in the country: There is no gestational limit, state Medicaid covers the procedure, and a shield law protects patients who travel from states with abortion bans. This has made the state a critical access point for abortion seekers further along in pregnancy, as well as people traveling from the South. Abortion protections are widely popular in the state; in a recent poll by the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, 69 percent of respondents said they plan to vote for Question 1.

Missouri

Missouri’s near-total abortion ban took effect mere minutes after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022—making it the first state in the nation to broadly prohibit abortion. Abortion-rights advocates soon set about crafting a ballot initiative to end the ban, inspired by wins in other states. Now, with Amendment 3, voters will decide whether they want the right to “reproductive freedom”—defined as the ability to make and carry out one’s own decisions about contraception, abortion, and healthcare during pregnancy. If approved by a simple majority, the amendment would set up a legal battle to overturn the current ban and challenge the many other Missouri laws that regulated abortion providers nearly out of existence even when Roe was still in effect.

Amendment 3’s proponents, a coalition known as Missourians for Constitutional Freedom, have traveled a rocky road just to get the measure before voters. They’ve overcome blatant obstruction by top state GOP officials, multiple legal challenges, and deep internal divisions over whether the initiative should allow the state to ban abortions after fetal viability. The final text protects abortion rights until viability, and permits later abortions if needed to protect the life or health of the pregnant person.

Montana

Constitutional Initiative 128 establishes the right to make and carry out decisions about one’s own pregnancy, including abortion. If passed, it would allow the state to regulate abortion after fetal viability, so long as those restrictions don’t prevent abortions that health care providers deem medically necessary. The amendment, which requires more than 50 percent of the vote, would also prevent the government from criminalizing patients and anyone who helps a person exercise her abortion rights.

If top Republican state officials had it their way, the measure would not even be on the ballot. State courts intervened at multiple points; the Montana Supreme Court overruled Attorney General Austin Knudsen’s initial rejection of the proposed amendment, nixed Knudsen’s drafted ballot language saying the amendment “may increase the number of taxpayer-funded abortions,” and threatened Secretary of State Christi Jacobsen with a contempt charge because she refused to hand over the sample ballot petition to the campaign behind the amendment, Montanans Securing Reproductive Rights. After abortion rights supporters submitted nearly double the required 60,000 signatures, Jacobsen even tried changing the rules to throw out the signatures of inactive registered voters, until a district court ordered her to stop.

Thanks to the state supreme court, abortion is currently legal in Montana until fetal viability, despite the best efforts of Republican state legislators to restrict access. Montanans have already brushed off one GOP attempt to stigmatize abortion; in November 2022, 52 percent of voters rejected a legislature-initiated statute that would have made it a felony for doctors to not provide care to infants born alive after induced labor, a cesarean section or an “attempted abortion.” (The law wasn’t necessary since Montana, like every other state, already makes infanticide a crime.)

Nebraska

Nebraska voters will see dueling abortion amendments on their November ballots. Initiative 434 restricts abortion rights, banning the procedure after 12 weeks of pregnancy with limited exceptions. That’s essentially the same law already on the state’s books—but the measure would enshrine it as a constitutional amendment, making it much harder to repeal. And because the amendment doesn’t protect abortion before the 12-week mark, state politicians could always go further and pass a complete ban, as Republican Gov. Jim Pillen has pledged to do.

By contrast, Initiative 439 expands abortion rights, creating a “fundamental right to abortion until fetal viability, or when needed to protect the life or health of the pregnant patient.” In practice, the amendment would roughly double the length of time for pregnant people in Nebraska to get an abortion. Crucially, it would block lawmakers from passing a total ban.

If the double initiatives sound confusing, well, that’s the point. Anti-abortion activists have repeatedly tried to muddy the waters about which ballot initiative is which, as Rachel Cohen at Vox has reported. They’ve also tried to get the pro-abortion initiative thrown off the ballot on a technicality, but the Nebraska Supreme Court shot them down.

Given the confusion, it is possible that both measures could pass. In that case, the one with the most votes wins.

Nevada

Nevada, one of the swingiest states in the 2024 election, has its own version of the Equal Rights Amendment, passed by voters in 2022. But it didn’t explicitly mention protections for abortion. Question 6 constitutionally enshrines the right to abortion until fetal viability or for the health or life of the mother, as determined on a case-by-case basis by health care providers. Any pre-viability restrictions must be directly related to promoting the health of the pregnant person and “consistent with accepted clinical standards of practice.” This year’s vote is just the first step in a multiyear process; assuming a simple majority of voters approve it, the measure must be passed again in 2026 to become part of the constitution.

Thanks to a law passed in 1973, abortion has been legal in Nevada until 24 weeks. Because voters passed a referendum on that law in 1990, it can only be changed by a direct ballot measure. Protections for abortion are very popular in Nevada; a University of Maryland poll conducted over the summer found that about 70 percent of state voters oppose criminalizing abortion at any stage of pregnancy. The campaign behind the amendment, Nevadans for Reproductive Freedom, has raised nearly $10 million since January, according to campaign finance reports; the Coalition for Parents and Children PAC, which successfully sued to block an initial version of the amendment that covered reproductive healthcare more broadly, hasn’t raised or spent any money.

New York

New York’s Proposal 1 may not include the word “abortion,” but it would create first-in-the-nation protections for the rights of pregnant people.

The proposal is a broad version of the Equal Rights Amendment, the long-running feminist effort to guarantee women’s rights in state and federal constitutions. Right now, New York’s constitution only forbids government discrimination on the basis of race and religion. Prop 1 adds more protected categories to that list: disability, age, ethnicity, national origin, and sex, including sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression. Those types of discrimination are already banned under state law, but by enshrining protections in the constitution, Prop 1 would make them harder for legislators to attack in the future—for example, if New York politics keep trending rightward.

Here’s where abortion comes in: The amendment also bans discrimination based on “pregnancy status, pregnancy outcomes, and reproductive health care and autonomy.” Not only does that definition go farther than any other state, it leaves little room for judges to interpret in ways that might limit abortion access, according to Katharine Bodde, of the New York Civil Liberties Union.

Yet while New York Democrats initially viewed Prop 1 as a surefire way to boost voter turnout, their right-wing opponents have seized on transphobic messaging to great effect—making this blue-state fight unexpectedly close.

South Dakota

South Dakota’s current abortion ban is one of the most extreme in the country, with all abortions banned except when needed to save a pregnant person’s life. Amendment G, backed by a group called Dakotans for Health, would replace that law with a trimester-based system allowing increasing restrictions on abortion as a pregnancy progresses.  

In the first trimester, the state would be banned from interfering with “a woman’s abortion decision and its effectuation.” In the second trimester, the state could restrict abortion in ways “reasonably related to the physical health of the pregnant woman.” Third-trimester abortions could be banned, except when necessary to preserve a pregnant person’s life or health. The amendment needs a simple majority to pass.

Planned Parenthood and other abortion-rights groups aren’t supporting Amendment G, which they’ve said doesn’t go far enough. But the conservative Republicans who dominate state politics are still so terrified of the measure that they passed an emergency law to let voters revoke their petition signatures—then opponents of the measure led a phone banking effort to dupe signers into pulling their support. Why are state Republicans spooked? “If you can do it in South Dakota, it will strike fear into the hearts of every red-state legislature in the country,” Dakotans for Health co-founder Adam Weiland told the American Prospect.

Madison Pauly, Abby Vesoulis, Julianne McShane, and Nina Martin contributed reporting. This is a developing story. Check back for updates.

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Top image photo credits: Octavio Jones/AFP/Getty; RJ Sangosti/The Denver Post/Getty; William Campbell/Getty; Rachel Aston/Las Vegas Review-Journal/Getty; Getty(3)

After Joe Biden’s debate debacle and Donald Trump’s near-assassination, the 2024 election looked like it could be a GOP blowout. Then Biden dropped out, Kamala Harris stepped up, the Democrats raised $1 billion-plus, the Republicans went full fascist … And here we are, a week before what feels like (another) Most Momentous Election of Our Lifetimes, and—if you believe the polls—no one has a clue who will win. 

Much depends on the outcome of the vote in seven states—the same ones that mattered in 2016 and 2020. This week on Reveal, my Mother Jones colleagues turn their attention to two of the swingest states of this election cycle, while I dig through my reporting archives to unearth a never-before-broadcast interview from 2013 that provides an intriguing glimpse into what makes Harris tick. 

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First, national correspondent Tim Murphy goes to Arizona, where flag-waving, gun-toting protesters swarmed outside the Maricopa County election center in 2020, insisting the election had been stolen from Trump. Since then, dozens of court cases across the US have found those claims to be a big fat lie. Yet threats and harassment against Arizona election workers continue to be so common, Stephen Richer, the Maricopa County recorder, told Tim, that top election officials in the state “have been turning over at the rate of a lunch shift at Taco Bell.”

Richer, a Republican who voted for Trump in 2020, has spent much of the past four years trying to dispel the election lies Trump helped create. To see how it’s going, Murphy visits the recently fortified Maricopa County election center, where Richer’s staff are on a mission to demonstrate to voters that the election process is free and fair and deserving of their trust. 

Meanwhile, in Georgia, where Trump and his minions have been indicted for their attempts to find enough votes (11,780, to be exact) to undo Biden’s victory in 2020, new MAGA-friendly members of the State Election Board have been trying to rewrite the rules to favor the former president this time around. Mother Jones national voting rights correspondent Ari Berman explains the fight to control election results in this crucial 2024 battleground and how it mirrors similar efforts in other swing states.

For the show’s final segment, I travel back almost 12 years, to when Harris was California’s attorney general—the first woman and first African American ever elected to that job—and I was an editor and reporter covering San Francisco. By then, Harris was a rising star in national Democratic politics, and editors at New York-based DuJour magazine wanted their readers to understand why. I jumped at the assignment.

I’d written about Harris a couple of times before; I’d even interviewed her mother. So when we reconnected in 2013, Harris was comfortable in my presence—far more so than with some of the journalists who’ve interviewed her in recent years. We spent about an hour together—an unimaginably generous amount of time in the current political climate—talking about many of the same substantive issues (the housing crisis, gun control, prosecuting sex crimes, and tech privacy and regulation) at the center of her campaign today. After my profile was published, I stored the audio on my laptop’s hard drive and forgot about it—until Harris replaced Biden at the top of the Democratic ticket and reporters started complaining about how few interviews she was granting.

Listening back to our conversation, I’m struck by the similarities between Harris then and now—and not just when it comes to policy priorities. When she ran for AG in 2010, very few people—even in her own circle—thought she could win. Her Republican opponent Steve Cooley, the district attorney of Los Angeles County, was extremely popular with the tough-on-crime types who had long dominated California criminal justice circles, not to mention he was older and white. “A lot of people thought it couldn’t happen,” Harris told me then. “What motivated me was I really wanted the job. I felt that I could do it well.” She campaigned hard in communities that were not her obvious constituencies. “I never foreclosed any group or constituency as being off limits,” she explained. “Everything and everybody is on the table, and I’m not going to accept that that door is not open to me.” On Election Night, Cooley declared victory—and many Harris supporters assumed she would concede. But she didn’t.

Three weeks later, in one of the closest elections in California history, Cooley was the one to finally concede, and Harris became the new attorney general.

The big unknown, of course, is whether she can do it again—this time against a Republican opponent who refuses to believe that he will lose and a disinformation machine intent on making sure he doesn’t. Here’s what Harris told me then: “I’m an eternal optimist. I really am. I’m a realist and an optimist. I think that those two can coexist, and they do in me.”

Two weeks after the deaths of two Georgia women highlighted the very real risks to maternal health posed by the state’s six-week abortion ban, a judge has thrown out that draconian law, declaring it unconstitutional in a remarkable ruling that drips with sarcasm and rage. It’s a resounding legal victory in a key swing state that is likely to reverberate throughout the South—at least temporarily.

“A review of our higher courts’ interpretations of ‘liberty’ demonstrates that liberty in Georgia includes…the power of a woman to control her own body, to decide what happens to it and in it, and to reject state interference with her health care choices,” Fulton County Superior Court Judge Robert McBurney wrote in a 26-page order issued Monday. “When a fetus growing inside a woman reaches viability, when society can assume care and responsibility for that separate life, then—and only then—may society intervene,” he added.

“Women are not some piece of collectively owned community property the disposition of which is decided by majority vote,” McBurney writes. “Forcing a woman to carry an unwanted, not-yet-viable fetus to term violates her constitutional rights to liberty and privacy, even taking into consideration whatever bundle of rights the not-yet-viable fetus may have.”

“Forcing a woman to carry an unwanted, not-yet-viable fetus to term violates her constitutional rights.”

Before Roe v. Wade was overturned, abortion was legal in Georgia until the fetus was viable—around 22 weeks. Lawmakers first passed the six-week ban, known as the LIFE Act, in 2019, but courts blocked it until the Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision in 2022. The six-week ban has been the subject of litigation ever since, even as the Georgia Supreme Court upheld it in 2023. Now, according to McBurney’s ruling, “the law of Georgia reverts to what was (and remains) constitutional in this State” before 2019.

McBurney called the ban’s exception for rape and incest, which requires victims to file a police report, “a peculiarly cynical proviso.”

He was just as scornful of the ban’s insistence that medical exceptions should only be granted for life-threatening physical health issues. “There is no basis—rational, compelling, or sensical—to distinguish between diagnosed medical emergencies involving the brain (an essential human organ if ever there was one) versus the heart or the lungs or the liver,” McBurney wrote. “A law that saves a mother from a potentially fatal pregnancy when the risk is purely physical but which fates her to death or serious injury or disability if the risk is ‘mental or emotional’ is patently unconstitutional.”

And he threw in a few more zingers, just for good measure.

[Women] alone should choose whether they serve as human incubators for the five months leading up to viability. It is not for a legislator, a judge, or a Commander from The Handmaid’s Tale to tell these women what to do with their bodies during this period when the fetus cannot survive outside the womb any more so than society could—or should—force them to serve as a human tissue bank or to give up a kidney for the benefit of another.

The ruling comes as the deaths of Amber Thurman and Candi Miller, first reported in ProPublica, has thrust Georgia to the center of the national conversation about the impact of abortion restrictions and bans in the post–Roe era. Days after the ProPublica stories, Vice President Kamala Harris visited Atlanta to highlight the threat that Donald Trump poses to reproductive freedom, and Thurman’s mother and sisters appeared with Harris in an emotional town hall hosted by Oprah Winfrey. 

Nearly three-quarters of Georgians—including 62 percent of Republicans and 83 percent of Democrats—want abortion to be legal before the point of fetal viability, according to a University of Maryland poll in early September. But Georgia, like many of its neighbors in the South, does not allow residents to weigh in on the issue via the type of voter initiatives that are on the ballot in 10 states this November, including Nevada and Arizona.

“This afternoon’s court ruling marks a critical milestone for Georgians and supporters of reproductive justice who have remained steadfast in their vision of a Georgia free from abortion bans,” said Shanté Wolfe, Southeastern field director for the advocacy group URGE. “The court’s move is a testament to the power of collective action, driven by activists, organizers, legislators, and most importantly, everyday people.” 

“We have known that Georgians overwhelmingly support abortion, and today we see that it is indeed possible for our state’s laws to reflect the majority,” Wolfe said.

Even so, no one expects McBurney—who was first appointed to the bench by former GOP governor Nathan Deal in 2012—to have the last say. “We believe Georgia’s LIFE Act is fully constitutional,” Kara Murray, communications director for Republican Georgia Attorney General Chris Carr, said in a statement Monday that promised an immediate appeal.

“Once again, the will of Georgians and their representatives has been overruled by the personal beliefs of one judge,” Governor Brian Kemp echoed in his own press release. “Georgia will continue to be a place where we fight for the lives of the unborn.” 

Two weeks after the deaths of two Georgia women highlighted the very real risks to maternal health posed by the state’s six-week abortion ban, a judge has thrown out that draconian law, declaring it unconstitutional in a remarkable ruling that drips with sarcasm and rage. It’s a resounding legal victory in a key swing state that is likely to reverberate throughout the South—at least temporarily.

“A review of our higher courts’ interpretations of ‘liberty’ demonstrates that liberty in Georgia includes…the power of a woman to control her own body, to decide what happens to it and in it, and to reject state interference with her health care choices,” Fulton County Superior Court Judge Robert McBurney wrote in a 26-page order issued Monday. “When a fetus growing inside a woman reaches viability, when society can assume care and responsibility for that separate life, then—and only then—may society intervene,” he added.

“Women are not some piece of collectively owned community property the disposition of which is decided by majority vote,” McBurney writes. “Forcing a woman to carry an unwanted, not-yet-viable fetus to term violates her constitutional rights to liberty and privacy, even taking into consideration whatever bundle of rights the not-yet-viable fetus may have.”

“Forcing a woman to carry an unwanted, not-yet-viable fetus to term violates her constitutional rights.”

Before Roe v. Wade was overturned, abortion was legal in Georgia until the fetus was viable—around 22 weeks. Lawmakers first passed the six-week ban, known as the LIFE Act, in 2019, but courts blocked it until the Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision in 2022. The six-week ban has been the subject of litigation ever since, even as the Georgia Supreme Court upheld it in 2023. Now, according to McBurney’s ruling, “the law of Georgia reverts to what was (and remains) constitutional in this State” before 2019.

McBurney called the ban’s exception for rape and incest, which requires victims to file a police report, “a peculiarly cynical proviso.”

He was just as scornful of the ban’s insistence that medical exceptions should only be granted for life-threatening physical health issues. “There is no basis—rational, compelling, or sensical—to distinguish between diagnosed medical emergencies involving the brain (an essential human organ if ever there was one) versus the heart or the lungs or the liver,” McBurney wrote. “A law that saves a mother from a potentially fatal pregnancy when the risk is purely physical but which fates her to death or serious injury or disability if the risk is ‘mental or emotional’ is patently unconstitutional.”

And he threw in a few more zingers, just for good measure.

[Women] alone should choose whether they serve as human incubators for the five months leading up to viability. It is not for a legislator, a judge, or a Commander from The Handmaid’s Tale to tell these women what to do with their bodies during this period when the fetus cannot survive outside the womb any more so than society could—or should—force them to serve as a human tissue bank or to give up a kidney for the benefit of another.

The ruling comes as the deaths of Amber Thurman and Candi Miller, first reported in ProPublica, has thrust Georgia to the center of the national conversation about the impact of abortion restrictions and bans in the post–Roe era. Days after the ProPublica stories, Vice President Kamala Harris visited Atlanta to highlight the threat that Donald Trump poses to reproductive freedom, and Thurman’s mother and sisters appeared with Harris in an emotional town hall hosted by Oprah Winfrey. 

Nearly three-quarters of Georgians—including 62 percent of Republicans and 83 percent of Democrats—want abortion to be legal before the point of fetal viability, according to a University of Maryland poll in early September. But Georgia, like many of its neighbors in the South, does not allow residents to weigh in on the issue via the type of voter initiatives that are on the ballot in 10 states this November, including Nevada and Arizona.

“This afternoon’s court ruling marks a critical milestone for Georgians and supporters of reproductive justice who have remained steadfast in their vision of a Georgia free from abortion bans,” said Shanté Wolfe, Southeastern field director for the advocacy group URGE. “The court’s move is a testament to the power of collective action, driven by activists, organizers, legislators, and most importantly, everyday people.” 

“We have known that Georgians overwhelmingly support abortion, and today we see that it is indeed possible for our state’s laws to reflect the majority,” Wolfe said.

Even so, no one expects McBurney—who was first appointed to the bench by former GOP governor Nathan Deal in 2012—to have the last say. “We believe Georgia’s LIFE Act is fully constitutional,” Kara Murray, communications director for Republican Georgia Attorney General Chris Carr, said in a statement Monday that promised an immediate appeal.

“Once again, the will of Georgians and their representatives has been overruled by the personal beliefs of one judge,” Governor Brian Kemp echoed in his own press release. “Georgia will continue to be a place where we fight for the lives of the unborn.” 

Many Californians are proud of their state’s strong protections for abortion and reproductive rights—safeguards that have become even more important in the post–Roe v. Wade era. But a new lawsuit filed Monday by Attorney General Rob Bonta’s office highlights the risks that blue states face from a vital sector of the health care system that has long considered itself exempt from laws protecting abortion access: Catholic hospitals.

Bonta’s office announced that it was suing the owners of Providence St. Joseph Hospital in Eureka, a small coastal city in the north of the state, for violating various state laws in its treatment of Anna Nusslock, a 36-year-old chiropractor pregnant with twins. This past February, Nusslock’s water broke at 15 weeks—far too early for the fetuses to survive—leaving her in excruciating pain and at high risk of developing a severe infection if treatment was delayed. According to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the standard of care in such cases is to remove the fetuses in a procedure akin to an emergency abortion. One of the twins had already died. But medical staff at the Catholic hospital allegedly told Nusslock that because the other twin still had a detectable heartbeat, Catholic ethical rules prevented them from ending the pregnancy until Nusslock’s life was in danger. 

After several hours of waiting, Nusslock’s husband drove her 20 minutes away to the nearest hospital in the even smaller city of Arcata, “where she arrived hemorrhaging and passing a blood clot the size of an apple,” according to an account in the New York Times. “She expelled one fetus and was rushed into the operating room so the other fetus could be removed.” The Arcata doctor who treated Nusslock wrote that she had treated other patients denied abortions by Providence St. Joseph in similar circumstances, the Times reported.

Nusslock told the Times that, six months later, she has recovered physically but still feels the emotional toll. “This experience deeply traumatized me,” she said, “and I have been dealing with tremendous anxiety, grief, and depression ever since.”

“The next person in Anna’s situation will face an agonizing choice of risking a multi-hour drive to another hospital or waiting until they are close enough to death for Providence to intervene.” 

This is exactly the kind of scenario that many pregnant patients with life-threatening complications have been facing in states that imposed onerous abortion restrictions and bans in the aftermath of the US Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision in 2022. Despite the federal Emergency Medical Treatment and Labor Act (EMTALA), which requires hospitals to provide stabilizing emergency care to anyone who needs it for any reason, doctors and hospitals in abortion-ban states have been unwilling to provide abortion care for fear of losing their licenses, facing punishing fines, or even being prosecuted and thrown in jail.

After lawsuits in Idaho and Texas, the Supreme Court essentially punted on the EMTALA issue last June, although litigation continues. Meanwhile, the death of Georgia mother Amber Thurman from a catastrophic infection in 2022 shows just how dangerous the medical landscape has become as doctors and hospitals have delayed treating emergencies that require abortion care.

But as I wrote for Mother Jones earlier this year, the same kinds of scenarios have long been common in Catholic healthcare systems. And this reality presents an especially thorny challenge in the post-Roe era, even in blue states that have tried to strengthen their abortion protections.

[Catholic] hospitals—as well as their clinics, pharmacies, and physician practices—follow the Ethical and Religious Directives for Catholic Health Care Services, issued by the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, which ban or limit abortion, contraception, sterilization, fertility treatments, trans care, and physician-assisted suicide. Under the ERDs, Catholic hospitals—even in liberal parts of the country—have long treated pregnancy emergencies in ways that have become chillingly familiar in abortion-ban states. For decades, Catholic hospitals have been “doing as a norm what has now become the post-Dobbs landscape,” Georgetown Law professor and reproductive justice scholar Michele Bratcher Goodwin told my Mother Jones colleague Pema Levy. […]

Under the ERDs, Catholic providers are not allowed to terminate the pregnancy as long as the fetus is alive—even if it has no possibility of surviving—until the woman’s life is in danger, says Lori Freedman, a professor and researcher at the University of California, San Francisco, whose 2023 book, Bishops and Bodies: Reproductive Care in American Catholic Hospitals, is based on interviews with dozens of medical practitioners and patients. “They cannot treat her [with medications or procedures that will terminate the pregnancy], but watch her and wait for signs of infection to develop,” she says. “They have this requirement—if there is a fetal heartbeat, wait till there’s a threat to the mother’s life. Then they have to save her life. That is a low standard of care.”

Making the picture even more complex, Catholic hospitals comprise a huge part of the American healthcare infrastructure—they’re the largest group of nonprofit providers in the country. According to the watchdog group Community Catalyst, about 16 percent of acute-care hospitals around the US are Catholic, caring for one in seven hospital patients every day and accounting for 17.5 million emergency room visits a year. In California, they have about the same percentage of the market. But in some states, Catholic providers account for a much bigger share, including in such reproductive safe havens as Washington (almost 50 percent), Colorado (around 40 percent), and Oregon and Illinois (about 30 percent each). As I wrote, those hospitals have been able to skirt reproductive protections:

Religious providers are protected by what are known as “conscience” clauses sprinkled throughout numerous state and federal laws. The ACLU has sued Catholic hospitals at least three times in the past decade over their treatment of pregnant patients under the ERDs—and lost.

Bonta—whose job is the one Kamala Harris held before she became a senator in 2016, then vice president—told the Times he was filing the case partly because of uncertainty about the fate of EMTALA after the Supreme Court’s landmark (not in a good way) 2023–2024 session. “There were some written opinions by the conservative wing of the court that were very disturbing about whether abortion care, which is health care, will be provided under EMTALA in emergency situations,” Bonta said, “so unfortunately, EMTALA is not reliable right now, in our view, because of the limbo that [it] is in.” As a result, he said, “states are on their own and need to rely on our own laws.” 

The Nusslock suit alleges that the Eureka hospital, owned by St. Joseph Health Northern California, which also operates a second hospital in the area, violated three state statutes: the Emergency Services Law, the Unruh Civil Rights Act, and the Unfair Competition Law. According to the Times, the case is believed to be the first filed by California officials against a hospital under the Emergency Services Law, which says hospitals have to provide care “necessary to relieve or eliminate the emergency medical condition.”

In addition to filing the complaint, the attorney general’s office is moving immediately for a preliminary injunction to force Providence to provide timely emergency care, including abortions. “California is the beacon of hope for so many Americans across this country trying to access abortion services since the Dobbs decision,” Bonta’s office said in a statement. “It is damning that here in California, where abortion care is a constitutional right, we have a hospital implementing a policy that’s reminiscent of heartbeat laws in extremist red states.” 

Bonta’s office said the suit was especially urgent because Mad River Community Hospital, where Nusslock eventually received treatment, is scheduled to close its labor and delivery unit in October due to a steep decline in the number of pregnant patients in recent years. “In a month, Providence will be left as the only hospital with an L&D unit in all of Humboldt County,” the AG’s press release said. “The next person in Anna’s situation will face an agonizing choice of risking a multi-hour drive to another hospital or waiting until they are close enough to death for Providence to intervene.”   

Many Californians are proud of their state’s strong protections for abortion and reproductive rights—safeguards that have become even more important in the post–Roe v. Wade era. But a new lawsuit filed Monday by Attorney General Rob Bonta’s office highlights the risks that blue states face from a vital sector of the healthcare system, one that has long considered itself exempt from many laws safeguarding abortion access: Catholic hospitals.

Bonta’s office announced that it was suing the owners of Providence St. Joseph Hospital in Eureka, a small coastal city in the north of the state, for violating various state laws in its treatment of Anna Nusslock, a 36-year-old chiropractor pregnant with twins. This past February, Nusslock’s water broke at 15 weeks—far too early for the fetuses to survive—leaving her in excruciating pain and at high risk of developing a severe infection if treatment was delayed. According to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the standard of care in such cases is to remove the fetuses in a procedure akin to an emergency abortion. One of the twins had already died. But medical staff at the Catholic hospital allegedly told Nusslock that because the other twin still had a detectable heartbeat, Catholic ethical rules prevented them from ending the pregnancy until Nusslock’s life was in danger. 

After several hours of waiting, Nusslock’s husband drove her 20 minutes away to the nearest hospital in the even smaller city of Arcata, “where she arrived hemorrhaging and passing a blood clot the size of an apple,” according to an account in the New York Times. “She expelled one fetus and was rushed into the operating room so the other fetus could be removed.” The Arcata doctor who treated Nusslock wrote that she had treated other patients denied abortions by Providence St. Joseph in similar circumstances, the Times reported.

Nusslock told the Times that, six months later, she has recovered physically but still feels the emotional toll. “This experience deeply traumatized me,” she said, “and I have been dealing with tremendous anxiety, grief, and depression ever since.”

“The next person in Anna’s situation will face an agonizing choice of risking a multi-hour drive to another hospital or waiting until they are close enough to death for Providence to intervene.” 

This is exactly the kind of scenario that many pregnant patients with life-threatening complications have been facing in states that imposed onerous abortion restrictions and bans in the aftermath of the US Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision in 2022. Despite the federal Emergency Medical Treatment and Labor Act (EMTALA), which requires hospitals to provide stabilizing emergency care to anyone who needs it for any reason, doctors and hospitals in abortion-ban states have been unwilling to provide abortion care for fear of losing their licenses, facing punishing fines, or even being prosecuted and thrown in jail.

After lawsuits in Idaho and Texas, the Supreme Court essentially punted on the EMTALA issue last June, although litigation continues. Meanwhile, the death of Georgia mother Amber Thurman from a catastrophic infection in 2022 shows just how dangerous the medical landscape has become as doctors and hospitals have delayed treating emergencies that require abortion care.

But as I wrote for Mother Jones earlier this year, the same kinds of scenarios have long been common in Catholic healthcare systems. And this reality presents an especially thorny challenge in the post-Roe era, even in blue states that have tried to strengthen their abortion protections.

[Catholic] hospitals—as well as their clinics, pharmacies, and physician practices—follow the Ethical and Religious Directives for Catholic Health Care Services, issued by the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, which ban or limit abortion, contraception, sterilization, fertility treatments, trans care, and physician-assisted suicide. Under the ERDs, Catholic hospitals—even in liberal parts of the country—have long treated pregnancy emergencies in ways that have become chillingly familiar in abortion-ban states. For decades, Catholic hospitals have been “doing as a norm what has now become the post-Dobbs landscape,” Georgetown Law professor and reproductive justice scholar Michele Bratcher Goodwin told my Mother Jones colleague Pema Levy. […]

Under the ERDs, Catholic providers are not allowed to terminate the pregnancy as long as the fetus is alive—even if it has no possibility of surviving—until the woman’s life is in danger, says Lori Freedman, a professor and researcher at the University of California, San Francisco, whose 2023 book, Bishops and Bodies: Reproductive Care in American Catholic Hospitals, is based on interviews with dozens of medical practitioners and patients. “They cannot treat her [with medications or procedures that will terminate the pregnancy], but watch her and wait for signs of infection to develop,” she says. “They have this requirement—if there is a fetal heartbeat, wait till there’s a threat to the mother’s life. Then they have to save her life. That is a low standard of care.”

Making the picture even more complex, Catholic hospitals comprise a huge part of the American healthcare infrastructure—they’re the largest group of nonprofit providers in the country. According to the watchdog group Community Catalyst, about 16 percent of acute-care hospitals around the US are Catholic, caring for one in seven hospital patients every day and accounting for 17.5 million emergency room visits a year. In California, they have about the same percentage of the market. But in some states, Catholic providers account for a much bigger share, including in such reproductive safe havens as Washington (almost 50 percent), Colorado (around 40 percent), and Oregon and Illinois (about 30 percent each). As I wrote, those hospitals have been able to skirt reproductive protections:

Religious providers are protected by what are known as “conscience” clauses sprinkled throughout numerous state and federal laws. The ACLU has sued Catholic hospitals at least three times in the past decade over their treatment of pregnant patients under the ERDs—and lost.

Bonta—whose job is the one Kamala Harris held before she became a senator in 2016, then vice president—told the Times he was filing the case partly because of uncertainty about the fate of EMTALA after the Supreme Court’s landmark (not in a good way) 2023-24 session. “There were some written opinions by the conservative wing of the court that were very disturbing about whether abortion care, which is health care, will be provided under EMTALA in emergency situations,” Bonta said, “so unfortunately, EMTALA is not reliable right now, in our view, because of the limbo that [it] is in.” As a result, he said, “states are on their own and need to rely on our own laws.” 

The Nusslock suit alleges that the Eureka hospital, owned by St. Joseph Health Northern California, which also operates a second hospital in the area, violated three state statutes: the Emergency Services Law, the Unruh Civil Rights Act, and the Unfair Competition Law. According to the Times, the case is believed to be the first filed by California officials against a hospital under the Emergency Services Law, which says hospitals have to provide care “necessary to relieve or eliminate the emergency medical condition.”

In addition to filing the complaint, the Attorney General’s office is moving immediately for a preliminary injunction to force Providence to provide timely emergency care, including abortions. “California is the beacon of hope for so many Americans across this country trying to access abortion services since the Dobbs decision,” Bonta’s office said in a statement. “It is damning that here in California, where abortion care is a constitutional right, we have a hospital implementing a policy that’s reminiscent of heartbeat laws in extremist red states.” 

Bonta’s office said the suit was especially urgent because Mad River Community Hospital, where Nusslock eventually received treatment, is scheduled to close its labor and delivery unit in October due to a steep decline in the number of pregnant patients in recent years. “In a month, Providence will be left as the only hospital with an L&D unit in all of Humboldt County,” the AG’s press release said. “The next person in Anna’s situation will face an agonizing choice of risking a multi-hour drive to another hospital or waiting until they are close enough to death for Providence to intervene.”   

One night in March of 2023, Amari Marsh went to the bathroom and suffered a miscarriage. “I screamed because I was scared, because I didn’t know what was going on,” she recently recalled. An at-home pregnancy test in late 2022 had come back positive. But the South Carolina college student said she continued to have her period—at least that’s how she interpreted the bleeding—so didn’t seek out prenatal care, figuring the test result must have been wrong.

Then, a few months later, Marsh told a reporter from KFF Health News, she began to experience severe cramping, “way worse” than regular menstrual pain. Two emergency room visits later, the 22-year-old biology major learned she was pregnant after all. Back at home that night, the contractions returned. Marsh woke up, rushed to the toilet, “and when I did, the child came.” 

Miscarriages are extremely common in the US; among confirmed pregnancies, 10 to 20 percent will end in a loss. What happened to Marsh next is also becoming horrifically frequent in the post-Roe v. Wade era, according to a new report by the legal advocacy group Pregnancy Justice. Instead of treating her miscarriage as the health crisis and personal tragedy it was, prosecutors eventually charged her with murder/homicide by child abuse—punishable by 20 years to life in prison. Marsh spent three weeks behind bars, followed by another 13 months on house arrest, tracked by an ankle bracelet. She was finally cleared by a grand jury this past August, KFF said. 

The Supreme Court’s landmark 2022 ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization  “open[ed] the door to government intrusion into pregnancy in unprecedented ways,” Pregnancy Justice says, “throwing suspicion on pregnancy loss, particularly outside medical settings.” In the first year after Dobbs, at least 22 women around the US faced criminal prosecution after suffering miscarriages, stillbirths, or the death of babies born prematurely, the organization reports.

The Dobbs decision didn’t just unleash a raft of laws restricting and banning abortion—it also seems to have made authorities more skeptical of women whose pregnancies end prematurely for reasons that have nothing to do with abortion. “Most of the time, we don’t know why a pregnancy or infant demise happened,” says Wendy Bach, a law professor at the University of Tennessee Knoxville, who co-authored the report. “But in this post-Dobbs era, pregnancy loss is extremely suspicious. It can lead to criminal investigation, criminal charges, incarceration, and family separation.”

“In this post-Dobbs era, pregnancy loss is extremely suspicious. It can lead to criminal investigation, criminal charges, incarceration, and family separation.”

Pregnancy-loss cases represented just a fraction of the prosecutions tallied by Pregnancy Justice over 12 months. In total, Bach and her team found at least 210 cases in which authorities initiated charges against pregnant people for crimes related to pregnancy or birth. That’s a record number of pregnancy-related prosecutions in a single year—and, the researchers say, it’s almost certainly an undercount.

More than 200 of the prosecutions involved allegations of substance use during pregnancy. In almost every case, authorities—driven by the idea that the fetus can be the victim of a crime perpetrated by its pregnant mother—charged women using statutes that criminalize child endangerment, neglect, or abuse. By contrast, despite widespread fears that women and medical providers might be criminally charged for obtaining or performing abortions in states with draconian abortion bans, Pregnancy Justice found only a handful of cases that specifically mentioned alleged abortions, attempted abortions, or “researching or exploring the possibility of an abortion.” Only one of those defendants was charged under a law making abortion a crime.

“If we focus only on abortion laws, we miss a crucial part of the picture,” Lourdes Rivera, president of Pregnancy Justice, said at a media briefing. “Prosecutors don’t need to rely on specific criminal abortion laws to prosecute pregnant women. By states and courts granting legal rights to fetuses, embryos, and fertilized eggs, prosecutors are able to use other laws, such as [child] neglect or endangerment” to bring charges.

More than half of the post-Dobbs prosecutions occurred in Alabama, where the state supreme court has enshrined fetal personhood into the law in multiple ways and recently ruled that embryos are “extrauterine children.” The other states with the most cases—Oklahoma and South Carolina—also have high court precedents protecting fetal rights. “Without fetal personhood, pregnancy criminalization could not exist,” the report says.

The study contains numerous other ominous findings. For example, more than 90 percent of cases involved statutes that don’t require authorities to prove that any harm was done to a fetus or baby. Rather, prosecutors only have to show that a woman’s conduct supposedly posed some risk to her pregnancy. In 15 cases, the “evidence” included a failure to obtain prenatal care; in other cases, women allegedly failed to seek help during or after birth or gave birth in a supposedly dangerous setting—for example, at home. “To accuse women of not having prenatal care when we’re in the midst of a maternal health care crisis, and to weaponize it as evidence of a crime–that’s disturbing,” Bach says.

And almost 60 percent of cases involved what Bach calls the “hospital-to-prison pipeline”—women prosecuted based on evidence collected by their medical providers. “Pregnant people are often drug tested without their knowledge or consent during pregnancy and or during labor and delivery,” Bach told reporters. “Infants are drug tested without parental knowledge or consent. And the results of these tests are then shared, often first with family policing agencies which then share that information with law enforcement.” 

“To accuse women of not having prenatal care when we’re in the midst of a maternal health care crisis, and to weaponize it as evidence of a crime–that’s disturbing.”

Pregnancy criminalization is not a new issue. From 1973 to June 2022, when Dobbs was decided, at least 1,800 people across the US already had faced prosecution and punishment for conduct and circumstances surrounding their pregnancies and pregnancy outcomes, according to previous Pregnancy Justice reports. As my colleagues at Reveal, Mother Jones, and elsewhere have reported, pregnant people have been prosecuted after they took prescription medications on the advice of their doctors, when they underwent treatment for a substance use disorder, when mental health crises led to suicide attempts, even when they fell down the stairs or were shot in the stomach by someone else. Untold numbers of other women have had their children removed to foster care for false positive drug tests and for using marijuana in states where it’s legal. 

The new report—the first in a three-year project examining pregnancy criminalization post-Roe—sees the one-year total of 210 cases as “an escalation” by law enforcement targeting women. Quite apart from abortion bans, the Dobbs ruling “emboldened state legislatures, judges, anti-abortion activists, and prosecutors to develop ever more aggressive strategies to protect fetal ‘victims,’” the report says.

Nonetheless, Pregnancy Justice cautions that it’s impossible to say whether the larger number of cases was due to shifts in the political and legal landscape surrounding pregnancy after Dobbs, or to improved methods for counting them by researchers. “The team suspects,” the report adds, “it may be both.” 

One night in March of 2023, Amari Marsh went to the bathroom and suffered a miscarriage. “I screamed because I was scared, because I didn’t know what was going on,” she recently recalled. An at-home pregnancy test in late 2022 had come back positive. But the South Carolina college student said she continued to have her period—at least that’s how she interpreted the bleeding—so didn’t seek out prenatal care, figuring the test result must have been wrong.

Then, a few months later, Marsh told a reporter from KFF Health News, she began to experience severe cramping, “way worse” than regular menstrual pain. Two emergency room visits later, the 22-year-old biology major learned she was pregnant after all. Back at home that night, the contractions returned. Marsh woke up, rushed to the toilet, “and when I did, the child came.” 

Miscarriages are extremely common in the US; among confirmed pregnancies, 10 to 20 percent will end in a loss. What happened to Marsh next is also becoming horrifically frequent in the post-Roe v. Wade era, according to a new report by the legal advocacy group Pregnancy Justice. Instead of treating her miscarriage as the health crisis and personal tragedy it was, prosecutors eventually charged her with murder/homicide by child abuse—punishable by 20 years to life in prison. Marsh spent three weeks behind bars, followed by another 13 months on house arrest, tracked by an ankle bracelet. She was finally cleared by a grand jury this past August, KFF said. 

The Supreme Court’s landmark 2022 ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization  “open[ed] the door to government intrusion into pregnancy in unprecedented ways,” Pregnancy Justice says, “throwing suspicion on pregnancy loss, particularly outside medical settings.” In the first year after Dobbs, at least 22 women around the US faced criminal prosecution after suffering miscarriages, stillbirths, or the death of babies born prematurely, the organization reports.

The Dobbs decision didn’t just unleash a raft of laws restricting and banning abortion—it also seems to have made authorities more skeptical of women whose pregnancies end prematurely for reasons that have nothing to do with abortion. “Most of the time, we don’t know why a pregnancy or infant demise happened,” says Wendy Bach, a law professor at the University of Tennessee Knoxville, who co-authored the report. “But in this post-Dobbs era, pregnancy loss is extremely suspicious. It can lead to criminal investigation, criminal charges, incarceration, and family separation.”

“In this post-Dobbs era, pregnancy loss is extremely suspicious. It can lead to criminal investigation, criminal charges, incarceration, and family separation.”

Pregnancy-loss cases represented just a fraction of the prosecutions tallied by Pregnancy Justice over 12 months. In total, Bach and her team found at least 210 cases in which authorities initiated charges against pregnant people for crimes related to pregnancy or birth. That’s a record number of pregnancy-related prosecutions in a single year—and, the researchers say, it’s almost certainly an undercount.

More than 200 of the prosecutions involved allegations of substance use during pregnancy. In almost every case, authorities—driven by the idea that the fetus can be the victim of a crime perpetrated by its pregnant mother—charged women using statutes that criminalize child endangerment, neglect, or abuse. By contrast, despite widespread fears that women and medical providers might be criminally charged for obtaining or performing abortions in states with draconian abortion bans, Pregnancy Justice found only a handful of cases that specifically mentioned alleged abortions, attempted abortions, or “researching or exploring the possibility of an abortion.” Only one of those defendants was charged under a law making abortion a crime.

“If we focus only on abortion laws, we miss a crucial part of the picture,” Lourdes Rivera, president of Pregnancy Justice, said at a media briefing. “Prosecutors don’t need to rely on specific criminal abortion laws to prosecute pregnant women. By states and courts granting legal rights to fetuses, embryos, and fertilized eggs, prosecutors are able to use other laws, such as [child] neglect or endangerment” to bring charges.

More than half of the post-Dobbs prosecutions occurred in Alabama, where the state supreme court has enshrined fetal personhood into the law in multiple ways and recently ruled that embryos are “extrauterine children.” The other states with the most cases—Oklahoma and South Carolina—also have high court precedents protecting fetal rights. “Without fetal personhood, pregnancy criminalization could not exist,” the report says.

The study contains numerous other ominous findings. For example, more than 90 percent of cases involved statutes that don’t require authorities to prove that any harm was done to a fetus or baby. Rather, prosecutors only have to show that a woman’s conduct supposedly posed some risk to her pregnancy. In 15 cases, the “evidence” included a failure to obtain prenatal care; in other cases, women allegedly failed to seek help during or after birth or gave birth in a supposedly dangerous setting—for example, at home. “To accuse women of not having prenatal care when we’re in the midst of a maternal health care crisis, and to weaponize it as evidence of a crime–that’s disturbing,” Bach says.

And almost 60 percent of cases involved what Bach calls the “hospital-to-prison pipeline”—women prosecuted based on evidence collected by their medical providers. “Pregnant people are often drug tested without their knowledge or consent during pregnancy and or during labor and delivery,” Bach told reporters. “Infants are drug tested without parental knowledge or consent. And the results of these tests are then shared, often first with family policing agencies which then share that information with law enforcement.” 

“To accuse women of not having prenatal care when we’re in the midst of a maternal health care crisis, and to weaponize it as evidence of a crime–that’s disturbing.”

Pregnancy criminalization is not a new issue. From 1973 to June 2022, when Dobbs was decided, at least 1,800 people across the US already had faced prosecution and punishment for conduct and circumstances surrounding their pregnancies and pregnancy outcomes, according to previous Pregnancy Justice reports. As my colleagues at Reveal, Mother Jones, and elsewhere have reported, pregnant people have been prosecuted after they took prescription medications on the advice of their doctors, when they underwent treatment for a substance use disorder, when mental health crises led to suicide attempts, even when they fell down the stairs or were shot in the stomach by someone else. Untold numbers of other women have had their children removed to foster care for false positive drug tests and for using marijuana in states where it’s legal. 

The new report—the first in a three-year project examining pregnancy criminalization post-Roe—sees the one-year total of 210 cases as “an escalation” by law enforcement targeting women. Quite apart from abortion bans, the Dobbs ruling “emboldened state legislatures, judges, anti-abortion activists, and prosecutors to develop ever more aggressive strategies to protect fetal ‘victims,’” the report says.

Nonetheless, Pregnancy Justice cautions that it’s impossible to say whether the larger number of cases was due to shifts in the political and legal landscape surrounding pregnancy after Dobbs, or to improved methods for counting them by researchers. “The team suspects,” the report adds, “it may be both.” 

In the years before the Supreme Court ended the federal right to abortion, Florida’s 55 reproductive health care clinics were a critical part of the national abortion infrastructure, caring for tens of thousands of women annually from across the state and the South. Now, with Florida’s six-week abortion ban, the number of clinician-provided abortions in the state has plunged, while the need for supportive services for pregnant people is rising. Enter maternity homes—group facilities, often operated by churches and faith-based charities, that provide shelter, food, and other assistance to pregnant women, new mothers, and babies. 

According to the anti-abortion behemoth Heartbeat International, the number of maternity homes has jumped nearly 40 percent in the past two years. Today there are more than 450 throughout the United States, at least 27 in Florida alone. The homes provide much-needed help to women and teens in desperate straits, including victims of abuse, people struggling with substance use problems, and kids aging out of the foster care system. But as Reveal’s Laura Morel reports in a blockbuster story with the New York Times, Florida allows most of those maternity homes to operate “without state standards or state oversight,” even as many of them impose “strict conditions that limit [women’s] communications, their financial decisions, and even their movements.”

Florida allows most of those maternity homes to operate “without state standards or state oversight,” even as many of them impose “strict conditions that limit [women’s]  communications, their financial decisions, and even their movements.”

The result, one woman told Morel, can be “dehumanizing, almost like we were criminals, not single mothers.”

Among the restrictions Morel found at various homes? Requiring residents to attend morning prayer and to obtain permission before leaving the premises, confiscating their phones at night, compelling them to obtain a pastor’s approval to have romantic relationships, and ordering them to hand over their food stamps to pay for communal groceries.

Morel has spent the past six months examining maternity homes as part of a Local Investigations Fellowship with the Times—interviewing almost 50 current and former residents, employees, and volunteers; reviewing homes’ written policies; and poring through more than 500 pages of police records. Her story focuses on 17 maternity homes across Florida, where she is based. Eight of the homes Morel scrutinized “routinely called the police when residents defied rules or employees,” she wrote. One home required women to install a tracking app on their phones. 

As Morel notes, maternity homes—“institutions where unmarried pregnant women could give birth in secret and put their babies up for adoption”—were common for decades. Most shut down in the 1970s, but the concept is undergoing a revival in the post–Roe v. Wade era:

Homes today typically focus on keeping mothers and babies together. Many let expectant mothers, and occasionally women with children, stay for free so they can save money and find a permanent place to live. Women often learn about them through social services providers or anti-abortion pregnancy centers, and move in voluntarily.

In response to Morel’s findings, some maternity home directors said the strict rules were necessary to maintain order and keep residents away from drug users or people who might be abusive. The Florida Association of Christian Child Caring Agencies, a nonprofit to which many of the homes belong, said the restrictions were meant to “help each client break the cycles of poverty and addiction to find hope and healing in Christ.”

Social services experts in Florida told Morel that maternity homes offer vital aid to women and babies in crisis. But the inconsistencies in care and oversight are troubling, said Mike Carroll, a former secretary of the Florida Department of Children and Families who now oversees a network of social services programs, including a licensed, faith-based maternity home. “It can lead to some pretty abusive situations,” Carroll told Morel.

Morel’s story appears in the New York Times and Reveal.

In the years before the Supreme Court ended the federal right to abortion, Florida’s 55 reproductive health care clinics were a critical part of the national abortion infrastructure, caring for tens of thousands of women annually from across the state and the South. Now, with Florida’s six-week abortion ban, the number of clinician-provided abortions in the state has plunged, while the need for supportive services for pregnant people is rising. Enter maternity homes—group facilities, often operated by churches and faith-based charities, that provide shelter, food, and other assistance to pregnant women, new mothers, and babies. 

According to the anti-abortion behemoth Heartbeat International, the number of maternity homes has jumped nearly 40 percent in the past two years. Today there are more than 450 throughout the United States, at least 27 in Florida alone. The homes provide much-needed help to women and teens in desperate straits, including victims of abuse, people struggling with substance use problems, and kids aging out of the foster care system. But as Reveal’s Laura Morel reports in a blockbuster story with the New York Times, Florida allows most of those maternity homes to operate “without state standards or state oversight,” even as many of them impose “strict conditions that limit [women’s] communications, their financial decisions, and even their movements.”

Florida allows most of those maternity homes to operate “without state standards or state oversight,” even as many of them impose “strict conditions that limit [women’s]  communications, their financial decisions, and even their movements.”

The result, one woman told Morel, can be “dehumanizing, almost like we were criminals, not single mothers.”

Among the restrictions Morel found at various homes? Requiring residents to attend morning prayer and to obtain permission before leaving the premises, confiscating their phones at night, compelling them to obtain a pastor’s approval to have romantic relationships, and ordering them to hand over their food stamps to pay for communal groceries.

Morel has spent the past six months examining maternity homes as part of a Local Investigations Fellowship with the Times—interviewing almost 50 current and former residents, employees, and volunteers; reviewing homes’ written policies; and poring through more than 500 pages of police records. Her story focuses on 17 maternity homes across Florida, where she is based. Eight of the homes Morel scrutinized “routinely called the police when residents defied rules or employees,” she wrote. One home required women to install a tracking app on their phones. 

As Morel notes, maternity homes—“institutions where unmarried pregnant women could give birth in secret and put their babies up for adoption”—were common for decades. Most shut down in the 1970s, but the concept is undergoing a revival in the post–Roe v. Wade era:

Homes today typically focus on keeping mothers and babies together. Many let expectant mothers, and occasionally women with children, stay for free so they can save money and find a permanent place to live. Women often learn about them through social services providers or anti-abortion pregnancy centers, and move in voluntarily.

In response to Morel’s findings, some maternity home directors said the strict rules were necessary to maintain order and keep residents away from drug users or people who might be abusive. The Florida Association of Christian Child Caring Agencies, a nonprofit to which many of the homes belong, said the restrictions were meant to “help each client break the cycles of poverty and addiction to find hope and healing in Christ.”

Social services experts in Florida told Morel that maternity homes offer vital aid to women and babies in crisis. But the inconsistencies in care and oversight are troubling, said Mike Carroll, a former secretary of the Florida Department of Children and Families who now oversees a network of social services programs, including a licensed, faith-based maternity home. “It can lead to some pretty abusive situations,” Carroll told Morel.

Morel’s story appears in the New York Times and Reveal.

Before Roe v. Wade was overturned in June 2022, abortions in Florida were available until 24 weeks of pregnancy; soon afterward, a 15-week ban became law. Still, Florida remained an essential abortion haven for the Southeast. Then, on May 1, a six-week ban took effect, and the impact was immediate and drastic—and not just in the state, new data from the Guttmacher Institute shows. Clinician-provided abortions plunged in Florida by more than 30 percent in May and June, to an average of about 5,400 abortions per month. In contrast, during the first three months of the year, the state averaged about 8,000 abortions every month. 

“Our data paint a vivid picture of the chaos and confusion caused by Florida’s six-week abortion ban,” Isaac Maddow-Zimet, a Guttmacher data scientist, said in a statement.

Nationally, the average number of abortions in May and June fell by more than 7 percent from the first three months of the year, according to Guttmacher’s Monthly Abortion Provision Study. More than a third of that drop is the direct consequence of the Florida ban, highlighting how important a role the state has played in abortion access throughout the South. In 2023, an estimated 9,000 out-of-state patients traveled to Florida to obtain an abortion, with the largest number of them coming from Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia—all states where draconian abortion laws have been put in place since the Dobbs decision. Before Florida imposed its own six-week ban, more than 1 in 10 abortions in the US happened there.  

The drop off in Florida abortions in May and June likely reflects reductions in access to abortion for patients from neighboring states with total or near-total bans of their own, as well as for state residents, Guttmacher says.

“Our data paint a vivid picture of the chaos and confusion caused by Florida’s six-week ban.”

The new report comes as reproductive rights advocates are pushing hard to pass an abortion rights ballot measure that would override Florida’s six-week ban. If approved in November, Amendment 4 would guarantee the right to abortion up to fetal viability—around 24 weeks gestation—or when necessary to protect the patient’s health. Supporters collected almost 1 million signatures to get the amendment on the ballot, making Florida one of 10 states with abortion measures in the fall. But to pass in the Sunshine State, the amendment must receive at least 60 percent of the vote, unlike in states such as Ohio, where a similar ballot initiative in 2023 only required a simple majority.  

As my colleague Julianne McShane has reported, the administration of Gov. Ron DeSantis seems to be doing everything it can to undermine the amendment, including launching a new website that attacks the initiative with “a litany of false claims.” These include that the measure “threatens women’s safety,” would “eliminate parental consent” for minors seeking abortions, and could “lead to unregulated and unsafe abortions” by allowing people without healthcare expertise to perform the procedure. Abortion rights groups have sued to block the misinformation campaign.

DeSantis officials have also been scrutinizing tens of thousands of petition signatures for evidence of fraud, even sending election police to the homes of some voters to verify their signatures. State officials certified the signatures in February, and the deadline for challenging them has passed. The ACLU of Florida has threatened to sue on behalf of the group leading the Yes on Amendment 4 effort, Floridians Protecting Freedom. Meanwhile, seven Florida congressional Democrats have written a letter asking US Attorney General Merrick Garland to investigate the DeSantis administration’s “brazen attempts at voter intimidation and election interference on Amendment 4,” the Florida Phoenix reported.

DeSantis signed the six-week ban in the spring of 2023, giving reproductive rights advocates in the state more than a year to prepare for the worst. The Florida Supreme Court upheld the ban this past April 1—the same day it also approved Amendment 4 to be on the November ballot. In April, abortions surged by 21 percent in the state. “Providers and patients went to great lengths to provide and access care, respectively, before the law went into effect,” on May 1, Guttmacher says. 

The Florida ban’s impact likely was also mitigated by the availability of medication abortion via telehealth from providers in states with abortion shield laws, Guttmacher notes. Telehealth abortions now account for nearly 1 in 5 abortions in the US.

But travel distances are adding additional burdens for abortion patients. If a Florida resident needs to have an abortion after six weeks of pregnancy, the closest clinic would be in North Carolina—which would require traveling an average distance of about 590 miles, Guttmacher says. Add to that, patients have to jump through numerous unnecessary hurdles to access care there—including in-person counseling 72 hours before obtaining an abortion. Since abortion is now banned in North Carolina after 12 weeks, many Florida residents are being forced to travel farther distances to states with fewer restrictions, including Virginia and Illinois, or to Puerto Rico. “Raising money for the cost of
the abortion, travel and lodging, missed wages, child-care costs, and more means that the difficulties of receiving needed abortion care are substantially increased and for some, insurmountable,” the Guttmacher report says.

According to new polling by The Hill and Emerson College, 55 percent of likely Florida voters support Amendment 4—a solid majority of the electorate but shy of the threshold needed to pass the measure. Another 20 percent of voters said they were “unsure.” Among the wafflers has been former President Donald Trump, who appeared to support the amendment in an interview with NBC News last month, triggering a ferocious backlash among the conservatives whose support he needs if he has any chance of beating Vice President Kamala Harris in November. The next day, Trump said he would vote against it, even as he told Fox News that he still thinks the six-week ban is too strict. 

Back in 2003, when Kamala Harris was first running for office in San Francisco, she wasn’t just battling Terence Hallinan, the erratic, older white guy who’d served as district attorney for eight years (and been her boss for 18 or so miserable months). She was running against the city’s powerful Democratic machine.

To win, Harris had to pull together her own support system—a network of accomplished and well-connected friends who were passionate, and practical, about helping women get elected. One of those early boosters was Andrea Dew Steele, a Hillary Clinton ally and former Capitol Hill staffer who had recently moved to San Francisco. Her dismay at how few women held local office in the early 2000s led her to co-found a training program for women candidates called Emerge California, and a few years later, a national version, Emerge America.

“The minute I met Kamala I thought she should run for office,” Steele told me back in 2007 when I was interviewing her for a profile of Harris. “She is extremely smart and very good on the policy side, but also, such a charismatic person.” But Harris needed convincing. “Men wake up in the morning and they think, ‘Well, I think I’ll run for president,’” Steele said. “Women need to be cajoled and encouraged. And they need training.” Once she was in, Harris proved to be an extraordinarily quick study, honing a clear message, raising lots of money, and winning over some influential pols (including US Senator Dianne Feinstein but not House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, a machine stalwart and Hallinan loyalist). After starting the race with just 6 percent name recognition, Harris went on to trounce her old boss with 56 percent of the vote.

“Men wake up in the morning and they think, ‘Well, I think I’ll run for president.’ Women need to be cajoled and encouraged. And they need training.”

That 2003 race was a proof of concept. Twenty years later, Emerge (as it’s known today) and its state affiliates have helped elect more than 1,200 Democratic women currently in office, including two governors, two lieutenant governors, and eight members of Congress. For 2023 races, Emerge claims a 74 percent win rate—nearly 250 alums elected; this November, more than 600 alums are on the ballot. Steele, a social entrepreneur and philanthropic advisor, is now an Emerge emeritus; the organization’s current leadership reflects what it calls the New American Majority—an increasingly diverse and youthful electorate that Harris herself embodies. “I don’t think we’re surprised to see the original Emerge woman at the top of the Democratic presidential ticket,” says A’shanti Gholar, Emerge’s president since 2020. “It is such an exciting moment.” 

But mixed with the exhilaration is also frustration with the racism and sexism that permeate politics and the media. Plus a serious concern with escalating and seemingly pervasive disinformation, which Gholar says, “really spikes when it comes to women candidates,” from the nation’s highest office to down-ballot races. Now, with Harris enjoying a historic candidacy, I was curious to learn more about how Emerge has evolved over these last two decades and what it is doing to make good on its mission of “creating a world where there are no more firsts”—where Black, brown and Indigenous women, young women, unmarried women, and LGBTQ women routinely run for office and win. I spoke with Gholar from her Washington, DC, base. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Both Nancy Pelosi and Dianne Feinstein—two of the most iconic women politicians of their era—came from San Francisco. But, the city’s Democratic power structure was dominated by men. What kind of hurdles did Harris face in taking that on?

People think, “Oh, San Francisco, it’s a Democratic city. There’s going to be lots of women in politics and expertise to tap into.” But that wasn’t the case when the vice president was starting out, and there was no place for them to go to get those basics of what it takes to run for office. It’s why our co-founders created Emerge. They were learning, right along with Kamala Harris: how to write a good bio. You have to put your contacts in order. You have to do the canvassing. You have to hustle.

Twenty years later, in most parts of this country, women candidates still seem to be outsiders.

Even in blue states, there are still so many offices where a woman has never been elected, a woman of color has never been elected, an LGBTQ person has never been elected. I say our work at Emerge has no end date because there are still a lot of good women that we need to get in office. 

Thinking back to that first Harris campaign, and then fast forwarding to today, what are the most important things you’re trying to give women candidates? Where do you start?

One of the reasons the vice president was able to be so successful was that she had that network of support with her throughout the campaign. From day one, a huge part of Emerge’s training program is making sure that women are not alone when they’re doing this. From the minute you join the program, we are with you throughout your whole journey. From being in the classroom where we’re demystifying what it takes to run for office, to when you put your name on the ballot, to when you are elected and wanting to run for higher office, we continue to give you those tools, those skills, that support that you need to be a great candidate and a great elected official.  

The core Emerge programs include a six-month training for newcomers and “boot camps” for women who are actually running. What do they consist of? I’ve heard they’re really intense.

A key part of our training is that participants are in a room with like-minded women who want to run for office, who have the same goals, the same values. It creates that sisterhood that is so important. 

We also want to get them into the immediate mindset of, “Yes, you.” We start the first day by saying, your candidacy begins today, and really getting the women to start to see themselves as candidates, as future elected officials, and honing in on their “why.” For most women who run for office, there’s a singular “why” that drives them.

We then get down to, OK, how do you put your name on the ballot? How do you hire campaign staff? How do you fundraise? How do you do public speaking, debates, canvassing, phone banking— everything that you need to know, going through that very intensively. It’s not “OK, Phone banking 101.” It’s, “How do you run an effective phone bank? What are the different scripts that you need based upon the voters in your community?” A big piece is, calculating your win rate—what are the number of votes that you need to win? And helping build that campaign and their overall operation to be a great candidate.

So many of our alums say, “There’s no way I would have won if I didn’t do Emerge.” We’ve had alums who said, “I literally thought campaigning was going to be me canvassing in my heels, in a suit, because I still had to look professional.” And we’re like, “Please don’t do that!”  

Campaigning in heels sounds extremely painful!

One of the most important things we impart to our alums is to be authentic. You don’t have to change who you are in order to get people to vote for you and to get elected. We see that with Vice President Harris. She has an authenticity that is showing through. Be true to you, because if you’re not comfortable in your skin, that’s going to show. Especially in this day and age, people feel like so many of their elected officials have failed them. Candidates who are from the community, who have the same shared experiences, who want to do good work—those are the candidates that people are looking for. 

“Be true to you, because if you’re not comfortable in your skin, that’s going to show. Especially in this day and age, people feel like so many of their elected officials have failed them.”

You also mentioned hustle. In some quarters, it could have a bit of a negative connotation— “Oh, Harris is just hustling us.”

There’s a story the vice president told at our annual meeting this year that I love. She talked about putting her ironing board in her car and then setting up the ironing board at the grocery store—during that first campaign, that was her table. She was very grassroots; she had good hustle. I think that is something that we will continue to see from her.

You gotta be scrappy. I’ll take this from the fundraising point of view. We know that women candidates, especially first-time candidates, will almost always get heavily outspent. And we say, what you don’t have in money, you make up with in shoe leather and a good message. It’s putting your ironing board in the backseat of the car. Contacting that friend who is a great cook and asking them to do the catering for your event. It’s throwing house parties in the backyard to create an intimate environment. Just you DM-ing that local reporter saying, “Hey, do you want to come to my home, sit on my couch, and talk about my race?” Because that can lead to good press. Our alums regularly beat those smooth, “I-got-tons-of-consultants” type of candidates with their scrappiness and their hustle.

A lot of people are really surprised by how well Harris has been doing since The Big Switch. You hear all the time, “She doesn’t seem like the same candidate she was in 2019, or 2020.” And, “Where did she learn to give speeches like this?”

The person we see now is who the vice president has always been. I think that some people don’t want to recognize it, they don’t want to see it, and that’s something that we’re also very honest about. We tell our alums, “You’re not going to be for everyone.” 

We also have to look at the role that the media plays in shaping the narrative about women candidates. I mean, there can be a race full of women, and they will somehow find ways to make the article about what they wore and not their policies. We see it all the time. We’ll hear, “Those men are running for the same seat.” But the women, “They’re running against each other.” We can have multiple men, but, why do there need to be multiple women? Why do there need to be two Latino women?

I’m very honest in telling our alums: We can teach them how to be confident on the campaign trail. We can make it a lot less lonely when they’re running for office. But we can’t take away racism and misogyny. At the same time, every time a woman puts her name on the ballot, every time a woman is elected, we are changing that narrative. When you see multiple women running for the same position, we’re normalizing that. 

Another frequent complaint from journalists: Why hasn’t Harris done any press conferences? Why won’t she sit down for more interviews? 

The reality is, we know that the vice president has done interviews before. There have been lengthy articles about her. It goes back to the whole media narrative: “Where’s Kamala? What’s Kamala doing?” My response is, “Everything and everywhere!” I get the e-mails from her team, and reading her daily schedule makes me exhausted. 

They’re not avoiding the press, they’re being thoughtful about it. Frankly, they should be thoughtful because it’s a coveted interview—she is the prize. I say, take your time and do it right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. 

When she did finally sit down with CNN, how do you think it went?

It was more about asking her to respond to a lot of the things that we have been hearing on the right from Donald Trump, and not a lot about her vision, how she’s going to govern. I felt it could have been a lot more forward-looking. That question about her ethnicity—“They’re saying you aren’t Black enough, you’re not Indian enough”—was that really something they needed to ask her? She gave the perfect response. But why are we constantly asking women to defend who we are?

As you see the candidate Harris has become, is there something she does that you wish you could bottle and hand out to all your Emerge candidates? 

I actually will take this back to the vice presidential debate in 2020. It was her being there in her power. She let Mike Pence be Mike Pence, just like I expect she’s going to let Donald Trump be Donald Trump when they debate. And she’s going to focus on answering the questions about the real issues and talking about why she is the perfect candidate for this moment.

It’s what I love about her, something that women are seeing on the campaign trail and that little girls are seeing as they grow up. People are trying to diminish her, but she is not letting that happen. She is keeping that energy going and not letting the negativity seep in. Because the negativity, the racism, the sexism are all a part of wanting to scare us into not wanting to run for office and not making change. When she says, “You do not let people tell you who you are—you show them who you are,” it is such a masterclass in leadership and women owning their power.

Shyamala Gopalan Harris did not believe in coddling. Pay her daughters, Kamala and Maya, an allowance for doing chores? “For what? I give you food. I give you rent,” scoffed the woman who would someday launch a million coconut memes. “If you do the dishes, you should get two dollars? You ate from the damn dishes!” Reward the future vice president of the United States—and possible future president—for getting decent grades? Ridiculous. “What does that tell you?” her mother chided as if I had disagreed. (I didn’t.) “It says, ‘You know, I really thought you were stupid. Oh, you surprised Mommy!’ No.”

When the breast cancer researcher and single mother had to work in her lab on the weekends, her daughters went with her, like it or not. “I’m not going to get a babysitter,” Dr. Harris laughed between bites of an utterly unmemorable salad at a downtown San Francisco bistro. 

It’s been 17 years since I interviewed Kamala Harris’ mother, and 15 years since she died from colon cancer at the age of 70. I met her back in 2007, when I was an editor and writer at San Francisco magazine profiling her daughter—the city’s popular district attorney, who was running for reelection. Kamala was also helping her still-largely-unknown friend, the first-term Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, in his race for president. In a city that churned out political superstars—Pelosi, Feinstein, Newsom, Jerry and Willie Brown—Kamala Harris stood out for all the reasons she has energized previously dispirited Democrats as she hit the campaign trail this summer. She was sharp, empathetic, self-assured, funny. Highly polished but not too slick. The child of immigrants, she looked like the future. Her policies sounded like the future, too, progressive enough for her most liberal constituents but commonsense enough to appeal to the moderates who also wanted to feel safe. 

Everyone told me, if you truly want to understand who Kamala Harris is and how she got that way, you need to talk to her mother. I wrangled a meeting with Dr. Harris, then a researcher at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. She arrived at the restaurant off Union Square freshly manicured and coiffed, a ferocious bundle of energy and opinions in a tiny frame. If I wanted to know what made Kamala Harris tick, I could see it in this formidable woman—the same piercing intelligence, the same easy laughter, the same withering side-eye.

During that long-ago lunch, Harris’ mother explained why she hauled her two daughters, then still in elementary school, to her lab. “I had to go, we had to go,” she said. “And when they got there, I would make them do something”—maybe label test tubes or help with one of her experiments involving sex hormones and tumors. None of this did much to encourage artsy Kamala’s interest in science, though thanks to her mother she can knit, embroider, and crochet. “She painted, she drew, she did all kinds of stuff,” her mother recalled. “They couldn’t watch TV unless they did something with their hands—even though I controlled the shows as well.” 

The contradictions of the 2007 Kamala Harris intrigued me: A 42-year-old Black and brown woman from the scruffy Berkeley-Oakland flats whose political rise was largely financed by rich white Pacific Heights socialites. A die-hard career prosecutor who often sounded like a social justice warrior. A wannabe thought leader whose brand was “smart on crime,” yet who squandered much of her early political capital by opposing the death penalty for a cop-killer. Harris was also maddeningly elusive, friendly and open even as she firmly latched the door and pulled down the shades on anything remotely private. All of which left me wondering: Who was this person? How could I distinguish the appealing packaging from the authentic self? 

I could ask her mother.

Since our conversation, Shyamala’s daughter has been California’s attorney general, a US Senator, a failed presidential candidate, the vice president, and now the first woman of color to be nominated by a major political party for president. Throughout, she has often referred to her mother as her greatest influence and her True North. Shyamala and her aphorisms have become part of the Harris mystique—consider the famous coconut story that’s all over TikTok. Harris was delivering remarks at a White House swearing-in ceremony for Hispanic leaders in May 2023 when she veered into one of those earnest tangents that I remember from her San Francisco days, reaching into her trove of goofy-momisms and pulling out zinger. “My mother used to—she would give us a hard time sometimes, and she would say to us, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people,” Harris recounted with a laugh. “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?’”

I’m not sure what the vice president was talking about, though it had something to do with communities and context. I do know that it sounded exactly like something her mother would say. What I heard was love and yearning, a daughter honoring the person who, perhaps more than anyone else, helped shape her into what she has become, but who wasn’t there to see how it had all turned out. After Harris secured the presidential nomination, I started going through my computer files and came upon a transcript of my conversation with her mother. In rereading it, I realized that now, when millions of Americans may have the same questions I had all those years ago, revisiting my visit with Shyamala might provide some meaningful clues. 

Shyamala Gopalan was raised in a progressive Brahmin family in southeast India in which everyone was expected to earn an advanced degree and have a high-achieving career in public service. Her father, once part of the Indian movement to gain independence, was a civil servant and diplomat. Her mother, betrothed at age 12, became a fierce feminist, sometimes taking to the streets with a bullhorn to talk to poor women about accessing birth control, Kamala later wrote. Having children whose professional lives were not focused on making money was a point of pride for Shyamala’s father. “Teachers, doctors, lawyers—these are supposed to be service professions,” Dr. Harris told me. “When you make money on people who require legal and medical help, you are taking advantage of the very vulnerable. That’s tacky.” 

Coddling was out of the question. In 1958, after graduating from college in Delhi at 19, Shyamala headed to the University of California at Berkeley to earn her doctorate in nutrition and endocrinology. “My father just put me on a plane. There was not a soul I knew in the entire place. My family has done that with everybody—my sister, my brother, It was all normal.” After she completed her studies, the assumption was that she’d return to an arranged marriage in India. 

But as Berkeley became the center of the Free Speech and anti–Vietnam War movements, that changed. Shyamala fell in love with a fellow grad student and activist, Jamaican-born Donald Harris, who eventually became an economics professor at Stanford. The birth of their daughters—Kamala in 1964, Maya in 1967—did not hinder Shyamala’s studies. She earned her PhD the same year Kamala was born and was working in her lab when her water broke. Should a political rally demand their attention, she and Harris strapped the girls into their strollers and took them along. In her 2018 book The Truths We Hold, Kamala tells the story of when she was a fussy toddler and her mother tried to soothe her. “What do you want?” Shyamala pleaded. “Fweedom!!!” Kamala supposedly replied. 

After the couple’s 1971 divorce, Shyamala and the girls could have settled into one of the area’s vibrant South Asian enclaves. Instead, they gravitated to predominantly Black neighborhoods in Berkeley and Oakland. “I raised them in an African-American community, for a very special reason,” Shyamala told me: racism. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference if your color comes from India or African Americans, because this country is racist based on color.” Her children’s Indian identity was secure. Rooting them in the Bay Area’s Black community was an act of pride and protection, connecting them to the civil rights movement’s rich history but also schooling them in “what they need to know…to maneuver [in this country].” She added, “I’m the one who told them to do all that.”

“One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Shyamala would not have been at all surprised by Donald Trump’s attacks on her daughter’s racial identity—he was exactly the kind of person she was teaching her children to stand up to—or by Harris’ deft dismissals of someone she considered beneath contempt. “If you don’t define yourself, people will try to define you,” Shyamala told me. “One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Thanks to their far-flung extended family, her girls had many opportunities to escape the stultifying American attitudes towards race and gender. “When Kamala was in first grade,” Shyamala recalled, “one of her teachers said to me, ‘You know, your child has a great imagination. Every time we talk about someplace in the world she says, Oh, I’ve been there.’” Shyamala quickly set the teacher straight: “‘Well, she has been there!’ India, England, the Caribbean, Africa—she had been there.” In their travels, and in the examples of the matriarchs in their own family, Kamala and her sister saw something that, in America of the 1960s and ’70s, was relatively rare: women wielding power. 

Another Shyamala life lesson: Don’t just sit on the sidelines and complain, and definitely don’t expect anyone to come to your rescue. In a 2007 interview for my profile, Harris told me that from the time she was little, “I’d come home with a problem, ‘Oh, Mommy, this happened, that happened.’” Instead of consoling her, “my mother’s first response was always, ‘What did you do?’” The young Kamala hated this. “You’re not coming to my defense! I want a mother to come to my defense!” Later she felt empowered. “If you can see where you fit into a problem, you can figure out where you could fit into a solution,” Harris told me. Perhaps as a result, she said, “I love problems, because they’re an opportunity to fix something— there’s nothing more gratifying.”

When I shared what her daughter had said, Dr. Harris offered a slightly different spin. “I wanted to know the situation. Always,” she confirmed. “But I’m not going to put on a Band-Aid when I don’t even know what the problem is. Because it could be a problem for a Band-Aid or it could be a problem for a [bigger] treatment.” And lest I missed her deeper motivation, she added, “I also think that it is patronizing from a mother’s point of view to underestimate the intelligence and the resilience of children.”

Dr. Harris brought the same tough love to the many students she mentored over the years. “It’s a very simple rule: You would not be in my lab unless I thought you were good,” she said. “Because I don’t believe in charity.” She believed they could succeed at whatever she threw at them, so they usually did. But not always. “My bottom line is just do it, and if you fall, I’ll pick you up. Because when else are you going to have this opportunity?” She could not abide young people being ruled by their laziness, or insecurity. “I’m not doing this because I’m being given millions of dollars to do this. It’s my time. And because my time is worth a lot of money, and I’m putting that time into you, you got to understand how good I think you are!” This, by the way, is the same hard-ass attitude her daughter has displayed as a boss and mentor—one of the reasons she’s sometimes been called “difficult” to work with. (Her mother’s description was “really strict.”) When it came to their expectations of the people around them, Shyamala said, they both wanted “the good stuff.”

Around 1976, Dr. Harris got a job at a research hospital at McGill University and moved the girls, then 12 and nine, to Montreal. Kamala hated being uprooted, but eventually she made some good friends. One of the recurring stories she tells is about what happened when she discovered that one of them was being molested by her father. “I said, ‘You have to come live with us.’ My mother said, ‘Absolutely.’”

Kamala had long known she wanted to be a lawyer like her idol, Thurgood Marshall, attending Howard University like he had. Given her family’s progressive world view, the assumption was that her focus would be civil rights, perhaps as a defense attorney. (Years later, her sister and close adviser Maya Harris headed the Northern California office of the ACLU.) But after returning to the Bay Area for law school, Kamala surprised her mother by announcing she wanted to become a prosecutor and champion victims like her high school friend. “She told me, ‘If you’ve not been unjustly prosecuted, you don’t need a very hot-shot defense lawyer, do you? That is only necessary when the prosecutor doesn’t do their job.’” Kamala insisted she would be a different kind of prosecutor—one who understood that “a criminal is much more than the crime he or she commits,” Dr. Harris said. “Crime in a society doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Therefore you have to integrate law enforcement in the context of the society.” When you lose sight of the context, she said, “you lose sight of humanity.”  

Then she launched into a story—another entry in the Kamala canon—about her daughter’s first job in the Alameda County DA’s office, which includes Oakland. An innocent bystander, a woman with kids, had been rounded up during a drug bust. If the woman didn’t get out that day, she’d be stuck in jail all weekend. Harris spent the afternoon looking for someone to approve the woman’s release, finally plunking herself down in a courtroom until the judge relented and signed the necessary paperwork. As Shyamala recalled it, Kamala was particularly distraught by the potential impact on the woman’s kids. “Because they are the future,” Shyamala said. “You don’t destroy them.” 

“And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.”

In 2007, campaign season was already in full swing and the Democratic frontrunner was Hillary Clinton. Shyamala didn’t have much to say about the presidential race, other than to grumble that the idea of a woman leading the ticket was hardly worth the hoopla. India’s Indira Gandhi had served as prime minister for almost 15 years. What about Margaret Thatcher? “And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?” Dr. Harris said dismissively. “Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.” As for Obama, who’d visited the Bay Area to fundraise with Kamala, “I didn’t spend that much time with him,” Shyamala told me. “He’s a great guy, but I don’t know him enough. But on my limited exposure to him, there is nothing about him that offends me.” If that seemed like faint praise—well, that’s who she was. “Anybody will tell you, I am not that easily impressed about anything.”

And now, former Secretary of State Clinton, and former President Obama, have given soaring speeches at the Democratic National Convention in praise of Kamala Harris, the Democratic presidential standard bearer. In November, Shyamala Harris’s oldest daughter could become this country’s first woman president.

In our long-ago conversation, it didn’t occur to me to ask Dr. Harris about the very American myth that anyone can grow up to be president. But it doesn’t sound like something she would have believed. Certainly she never pushed her daughters in any particular direction, with any particular goal. “To some extent, I believe that life takes you,” she told me, waxing philosophical. “You let life take you without putting up enormous resistance.” 

All Shyamala Harris wanted to do was to give her girls the emotional tools—toughness and discipline and a deep-down belief in themselves that came from knowing they were truly loved—to take on whatever life threw at them. In that, she seems to have succeeded. “What my children tend to do, I have noticed, is when they see a challenge in front of them and they feel they can take it, they will go for it,” she said proudly. “Because [if] you’re affirmed in that manner, you think, ‘I’m not going to be afraid…. I can do this.’”

Shyamala Gopalan Harris did not believe in coddling. Pay her daughters, Kamala and Maya, an allowance for doing chores? “For what? I give you food. I give you rent,” scoffed the woman who would someday launch a million coconut memes. “If you do the dishes, you should get two dollars? You ate from the damn dishes!” Reward the future vice president of the United States—and possible future president—for getting decent grades? Ridiculous. “What does that tell you?” her mother chided as if I had disagreed. (I didn’t.) “It says, ‘You know, I really thought you were stupid. Oh, you surprised Mommy!’ No.”

When the breast cancer researcher and single mother had to work in her lab on the weekends, her daughters went with her, like it or not. “I’m not going to get a babysitter,” Dr. Harris laughed between bites of an utterly unmemorable salad at a downtown San Francisco bistro. 

It’s been 17 years since I interviewed Kamala Harris’ mother, and 15 years since she died from colon cancer at the age of 70. I met her back in 2007, when I was an editor and writer at San Francisco magazine profiling her daughter—the city’s popular district attorney, who was running for reelection. Kamala was also helping her still-largely-unknown friend, the first-term Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, in his race for president. In a city that churned out political superstars—Pelosi, Feinstein, Newsom, Jerry and Willie Brown—Kamala Harris stood out for all the reasons she has energized previously dispirited Democrats as she hit the campaign trail this summer. She was sharp, empathetic, self-assured, funny. Highly polished but not too slick. The child of immigrants, she looked like the future. Her policies sounded like the future, too, progressive enough for her most liberal constituents but commonsense enough to appeal to the moderates who also wanted to feel safe. 

Everyone told me, if you truly want to understand who Kamala Harris is and how she got that way, you need to talk to her mother. I wrangled a meeting with Dr. Harris, then a researcher at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. She arrived at the restaurant off Union Square freshly manicured and coiffed, a ferocious bundle of energy and opinions in a tiny frame. If I wanted to know what made Kamala Harris tick, I could see it in this formidable woman—the same piercing intelligence, the same easy laughter, the same withering side-eye.

During that long-ago lunch, Harris’ mother explained why she hauled her two daughters, then still in elementary school, to her lab. “I had to go, we had to go,” she said. “And when they got there, I would make them do something”—maybe label test tubes or help with one of her experiments involving sex hormones and tumors. None of this did much to encourage artsy Kamala’s interest in science, though thanks to her mother she can knit, embroider, and crochet. “She painted, she drew, she did all kinds of stuff,” her mother recalled. “They couldn’t watch TV unless they did something with their hands—even though I controlled the shows as well.” 

The contradictions of the 2007 Kamala Harris intrigued me: A 42-year-old Black and brown woman from the scruffy Berkeley-Oakland flats whose political rise was largely financed by rich white Pacific Heights socialites. A die-hard career prosecutor who often sounded like a social justice warrior. A wannabe thought leader whose brand was “smart on crime,” yet who squandered much of her early political capital by opposing the death penalty for a cop-killer. Harris was also maddeningly elusive, friendly and open even as she firmly latched the door and pulled down the shades on anything remotely private. All of which left me wondering: Who was this person? How could I distinguish the appealing packaging from the authentic self? 

I could ask her mother.

Since our conversation, Shyamala’s daughter has been California’s attorney general, a US Senator, a failed presidential candidate, the vice president, and now the first woman of color to be nominated by a major political party for president. Throughout, she has often referred to her mother as her greatest influence and her True North. Shyamala and her aphorisms have become part of the Harris mystique—consider the famous coconut story that’s all over TikTok. Harris was delivering remarks at a White House swearing-in ceremony for Hispanic leaders in May 2023 when she veered into one of those earnest tangents that I remember from her San Francisco days, reaching into her trove of goofy-momisms and pulling out zinger. “My mother used to—she would give us a hard time sometimes, and she would say to us, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people,” Harris recounted with a laugh. “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?’”

I’m not sure what the vice president was talking about, though it had something to do with communities and context. I do know that it sounded exactly like something her mother would say. What I heard was love and yearning, a daughter honoring the person who, perhaps more than anyone else, helped shape her into what she has become, but who wasn’t there to see how it had all turned out. After Harris secured the presidential nomination, I started going through my computer files and came upon a transcript of my conversation with her mother. In rereading it, I realized that now, when millions of Americans may have the same questions I had all those years ago, revisiting my visit with Shyamala might provide some meaningful clues. 

Shyamala Gopalan was raised in a progressive Brahmin family in southeast India in which everyone was expected to earn an advanced degree and have a high-achieving career in public service. Her father, once part of the Indian movement to gain independence, was a civil servant and diplomat. Her mother, betrothed at age 12, became a fierce feminist, sometimes taking to the streets with a bullhorn to talk to poor women about accessing birth control, Kamala later wrote. Having children whose professional lives were not focused on making money was a point of pride for Shyamala’s father. “Teachers, doctors, lawyers—these are supposed to be service professions,” Dr. Harris told me. “When you make money on people who require legal and medical help, you are taking advantage of the very vulnerable. That’s tacky.” 

Coddling was out of the question. In 1958, after graduating from college in Delhi at 19, Shyamala headed to the University of California at Berkeley to earn her doctorate in nutrition and endocrinology. “My father just put me on a plane. There was not a soul I knew in the entire place. My family has done that with everybody—my sister, my brother, It was all normal.” After she completed her studies, the assumption was that she’d return to an arranged marriage in India. 

But as Berkeley became the center of the Free Speech and anti–Vietnam War movements, that changed. Shyamala fell in love with a fellow grad student and activist, Jamaican-born Donald Harris, who eventually became an economics professor at Stanford. The birth of their daughters—Kamala in 1964, Maya in 1967—did not hinder Shyamala’s studies. She earned her PhD the same year Kamala was born and was working in her lab when her water broke. Should a political rally demand their attention, she and Harris strapped the girls into their strollers and took them along. In her 2018 book The Truths We Hold, Kamala tells the story of when she was a fussy toddler and her mother tried to soothe her. “What do you want?” Shyamala pleaded. “Fweedom!!!” Kamala supposedly replied. 

After the couple’s 1971 divorce, Shyamala and the girls could have settled into one of the area’s vibrant South Asian enclaves. Instead, they gravitated to predominantly Black neighborhoods in Berkeley and Oakland. “I raised them in an African-American community, for a very special reason,” Shyamala told me: racism. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference if your color comes from India or African Americans, because this country is racist based on color.” Her children’s Indian identity was secure. Rooting them in the Bay Area’s Black community was an act of pride and protection, connecting them to the civil rights movement’s rich history but also schooling them in “what they need to know…to maneuver [in this country].” She added, “I’m the one who told them to do all that.”

“One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Shyamala would not have been at all surprised by Donald Trump’s attacks on her daughter’s racial identity—he was exactly the kind of person she was teaching her children to stand up to—or by Harris’ deft dismissals of someone she considered beneath contempt. “If you don’t define yourself, people will try to define you,” Shyamala told me. “One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Thanks to their far-flung extended family, her girls had many opportunities to escape the stultifying American attitudes towards race and gender. “When Kamala was in first grade,” Shyamala recalled, “one of her teachers said to me, ‘You know, your child has a great imagination. Every time we talk about someplace in the world she says, Oh, I’ve been there.’” Shyamala quickly set the teacher straight: “‘Well, she has been there!’ India, England, the Caribbean, Africa—she had been there.” In their travels, and in the examples of the matriarchs in their own family, Kamala and her sister saw something that, in America of the 1960s and ’70s, was relatively rare: women wielding power. 

Another Shyamala life lesson: Don’t just sit on the sidelines and complain, and definitely don’t expect anyone to come to your rescue. In a 2007 interview for my profile, Harris told me that from the time she was little, “I’d come home with a problem, ‘Oh, Mommy, this happened, that happened.’” Instead of consoling her, “my mother’s first response was always, ‘What did you do?’” The young Kamala hated this. “You’re not coming to my defense! I want a mother to come to my defense!” Later she felt empowered. “If you can see where you fit into a problem, you can figure out where you could fit into a solution,” Harris told me. Perhaps as a result, she said, “I love problems, because they’re an opportunity to fix something— there’s nothing more gratifying.”

When I shared what her daughter had said, Dr. Harris offered a slightly different spin. “I wanted to know the situation. Always,” she confirmed. “But I’m not going to put on a Band-Aid when I don’t even know what the problem is. Because it could be a problem for a Band-Aid or it could be a problem for a [bigger] treatment.” And lest I missed her deeper motivation, she added, “I also think that it is patronizing from a mother’s point of view to underestimate the intelligence and the resilience of children.”

Dr. Harris brought the same tough love to the many students she mentored over the years. “It’s a very simple rule: You would not be in my lab unless I thought you were good,” she said. “Because I don’t believe in charity.” She believed they could succeed at whatever she threw at them, so they usually did. But not always. “My bottom line is just do it, and if you fall, I’ll pick you up. Because when else are you going to have this opportunity?” She could not abide young people being ruled by their laziness, or insecurity. “I’m not doing this because I’m being given millions of dollars to do this. It’s my time. And because my time is worth a lot of money, and I’m putting that time into you, you got to understand how good I think you are!” This, by the way, is the same hard-ass attitude her daughter has displayed as a boss and mentor—one of the reasons she’s sometimes been called “difficult” to work with. (Her mother’s description was “really strict.”) When it came to their expectations of the people around them, Shyamala said, they both wanted “the good stuff.”

Around 1976, Dr. Harris got a job at a research hospital at McGill University and moved the girls, then 12 and nine, to Montreal. Kamala hated being uprooted, but eventually she made some good friends. One of the recurring stories she tells is about what happened when she discovered that one of them was being molested by her father. “I said, ‘You have to come live with us.’ My mother said, ‘Absolutely.’”

Kamala had long known she wanted to be a lawyer like her idol, Thurgood Marshall, attending Howard University like he had. Given her family’s progressive world view, the assumption was that her focus would be civil rights, perhaps as a defense attorney. (Years later, her sister and close adviser Maya Harris headed the Northern California office of the ACLU.) But after returning to the Bay Area for law school, Kamala surprised her mother by announcing she wanted to become a prosecutor and champion victims like her high school friend. “She told me, ‘If you’ve not been unjustly prosecuted, you don’t need a very hot-shot defense lawyer, do you? That is only necessary when the prosecutor doesn’t do their job.’” Kamala insisted she would be a different kind of prosecutor—one who understood that “a criminal is much more than the crime he or she commits,” Dr. Harris said. “Crime in a society doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Therefore you have to integrate law enforcement in the context of the society.” When you lose sight of the context, she said, “you lose sight of humanity.”  

Then she launched into a story—another entry in the Kamala canon—about her daughter’s first job in the Alameda County DA’s office, which includes Oakland. An innocent bystander, a woman with kids, had been rounded up during a drug bust. If the woman didn’t get out that day, she’d be stuck in jail all weekend. Harris spent the afternoon looking for someone to approve the woman’s release, finally plunking herself down in a courtroom until the judge relented and signed the necessary paperwork. As Shyamala recalled it, Kamala was particularly distraught by the potential impact on the woman’s kids. “Because they are the future,” Shyamala said. “You don’t destroy them.” 

“And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.”

In 2007, campaign season was already in full swing and the Democratic frontrunner was Hillary Clinton. Shyamala didn’t have much to say about the presidential race, other than to grumble that the idea of a woman leading the ticket was hardly worth the hoopla. India’s Indira Gandhi had served as prime minister for almost 15 years. What about Margaret Thatcher? “And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?” Dr. Harris said dismissively. “Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.” As for Obama, who’d visited the Bay Area to fundraise with Kamala, “I didn’t spend that much time with him,” Shyamala told me. “He’s a great guy, but I don’t know him enough. But on my limited exposure to him, there is nothing about him that offends me.” If that seemed like faint praise—well, that’s who she was. “Anybody will tell you, I am not that easily impressed about anything.”

And now, former Secretary of State Clinton, and former President Obama, have given soaring speeches at the Democratic National Convention in praise of Kamala Harris, the Democratic presidential standard bearer. In November, Shyamala Harris’s oldest daughter could become this country’s first woman president.

In our long-ago conversation, it didn’t occur to me to ask Dr. Harris about the very American myth that anyone can grow up to be president. But it doesn’t sound like something she would have believed. Certainly she never pushed her daughters in any particular direction, with any particular goal. “To some extent, I believe that life takes you,” she told me, waxing philosophical. “You let life take you without putting up enormous resistance.” 

All Shyamala Harris wanted to do was to give her girls the emotional tools—toughness and discipline and a deep-down belief in themselves that came from knowing they were truly loved—to take on whatever life threw at them. In that, she seems to have succeeded. “What my children tend to do, I have noticed, is when they see a challenge in front of them and they feel they can take it, they will go for it,” she said proudly. “Because [if] you’re affirmed in that manner, you think, ‘I’m not going to be afraid…. I can do this.’”

When Barack Obama takes the stage in Chicago tonight to support the candidacy of his old friend Kamala Harris, many Americans will see it as another torch-passing moment in a Democratic National Convention that’s already been replete with them. This one is extra emotional because of the sheer improbable nature of what the former president and current vice president have achieved. What many people won’t realize is that without Harris’s early and enthusiastic support, Obama’s career might have taken a different trajectory. Maybe he would have ended up in the White House anyway in 2008, maybe later, but Harris gave him a critical boost at a time when he was still largely unknown. And she did it at enormous risk to her own standing with the Democratic Party’s donor class.

In 2007, the vast majority of those donors were Team Hillary. Harris became one of the first elected California politicians to endorse Obama. Many of her Democrat-elite pals were miffed.

Back in 2007, Harris was a rising star in Bay Area politics, a “progressive prosecutor” before that became a thing, with a catchphrase that was already being borrowed by legislators and law enforcers across the country. Instead of claiming to be tough on crime, she insisted she was “smart on crime.” She was a shoo-in to win reelection as San Francisco district attorney after coming from way, way behind in her first race against a well-known incumbent—a victory that was made possible thanks to the support of rich socialites and other deep-pocketed San Franciscans who also happened to be extremely active in national politics. 

In 2007, the vast majority of those donors were Team Hillary. Harris became one of the first elected California politicians to publicly endorse Obama. Many of her Democrat-elite pals were miffed. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Obama—they thought he was amazing. But this was supposed to be Hillary Clinton’s moment. 

The New York Times covered some of this territory in a story about the longstanding Obama-Harris friendship and alliance. But it didn’t quite get at the audacity of what Harris was doing when she sided with the junior senator from Illinois over the former first lady and feminist icon whose supporters believed the nomination should be hers for the asking. 

Harris told me in 2007 that she met Obama when he was running for the Senate three years before. “We had a lot of common friends, and he and his wife and I—we know a lot of the same people. The world”—by which she meant the universe of Black and brown politicians with grand ambitions as it existed two decades ago, which of course was pre-Obama—“is very small.” Not only did they share similar cultural backgrounds, “We shared a lot of values, so it’s been easy to develop a friendship around shared experiences and values,” she told me. They also shared a gift for communication and a charisma that people found thrilling. “It has been phenomenal to watch how he is exciting to the incredibly large number of people who have never been involved [in politics] or who have walked away from it because they’ve been turned off,” she told me. They did fundraising events for each other, but the bond went beyond the mere transactional: “We just have forged a great friendship.”

Because of that friendship, Harris never faltered when Obama asked for her support, people around her told me back then. They had something else important in common: Harris knew what it was like to be told that now wasn’t the right time, that this was someone else’s moment, that people “weren’t ready.” “It was the same as the [first] DA’s race many years ago,” she told me in an interview a few years later.

Harris expounded on the theme in a commencement speech to San Francisco State University students in 2007 that was picked up by the New York Times. “I remember the day I got my first poll results back [in the DA’s race],” she told the crowd. “I was sitting in a small conference room, a little nervous, but very hopeful. Then I read them. I was at 6 percent. And that wasn’t good. So I was told what you all have probably heard in your life, and that you will certainly hear in your future. I was told that I should wait my turn. I was told that I should give up. I was told that I had no chance.

“Well, I didn’t listen. And I’m telling you, don’t you listen, either. Don’t listen when they tell you that you can’t do it…. And surround yourself with people who will support you and will encourage your ambition.”

When Barack Obama takes the stage in Chicago tonight to support the candidacy of his old friend Kamala Harris, many Americans will see it as another torch-passing moment in a Democratic National Convention that’s already been replete with them. This one is extra emotional because of the sheer improbable nature of what the former president and current vice president have achieved. What many people won’t realize is that without Harris’s early and enthusiastic support, Obama’s career might have taken a different trajectory. Maybe he would have ended up in the White House anyway in 2008, maybe later, but Harris gave him a critical boost at a time when he was still largely unknown. And she did it at enormous risk to her own standing with the Democratic Party’s donor class.

In 2007, the vast majority of those donors were Team Hillary. Harris became one of the first elected California politicians to endorse Obama. Many of her Democrat-elite pals were miffed.

Back in 2007, Harris was a rising star in Bay Area politics, a “progressive prosecutor” before that became a thing, with a catchphrase that was already being borrowed by legislators and law enforcers across the country. Instead of claiming to be tough on crime, she insisted she was “smart on crime.” She was a shoo-in to win reelection as San Francisco district attorney after coming from way, way behind in her first race against a well-known incumbent—a victory that was made possible thanks to the support of rich socialites and other deep-pocketed San Franciscans who also happened to be extremely active in national politics. 

In 2007, the vast majority of those donors were Team Hillary. Harris became one of the first elected California politicians to publicly endorse Obama. Many of her Democrat-elite pals were miffed. It wasn’t that they did like Obama—they thought he was amazing. But this was supposed to be Hillary Clinton’s moment. 

The New York Times covered some of this territory in a story about the longstanding Obama-Harris friendship and alliance. But it didn’t quite get at the audacity of what Harris was doing when she sided with the junior senator from Illinois over the former first lady and feminist icon whose supporters believed the nomination should be hers for the asking. 

Harris told me in 2007 that she met Obama when he was running for the Senate three years before. “We had a lot of common friends, and he and his wife and I—we know a lot of the same people. The world”—by which she meant the universe of Black and brown politicians with grand ambitions as it existed two decades ago, which of course was pre-Obama—“is very small.” Not only did they share similar cultural backgrounds, “We shared a lot of values, so it’s been easy to develop a friendship around shared experiences and values,” she told me. They also shared a gift for communication and a charisma that people found thrilling. “It has been phenomenal to watch how he is exciting to the incredibly large number of people who have never been involved [in politics] or who have walked away from it because they’ve been turned off,” she told me. They did fundraising events for each other, but the bond went beyond the mere transactional: “We just have forged a great friendship.”

Because of that friendship, Harris never faltered when Obama asked for her support, people around her told me back then. They had something else important in common: Harris knew what it was like to be told that now wasn’t the right time, that this was someone else’s moment, that people “weren’t ready.” “It was the same as the [first] DA’s race many years ago,” she told me in an interview a few years later.

Harris expounded on the theme in a commencement speech to San Francisco State University students in 2007 that was picked up by the New York Times. “I remember the day I got my first poll results back [in the DA’s race],” she told the crowd. “I was sitting in a small conference room, a little nervous, but very hopeful. Then I read them. I was at 6 percent. And that wasn’t good. So I was told what you all have probably heard in your life, and that you will certainly hear in your future. I was told that I should wait my turn. I was told that I should give up. I was told that I had no chance.

“Well, I didn’t listen. And I’m telling you, don’t you listen, either. Don’t listen when they tell you that you can’t do it…. And surround yourself with people who will support you and will encourage your ambition.”