Sarah Johnson plays “phone bank bingo” in her head when she makes cold calls.
If she’s called a “baby killer,” that’s a point. Five voicemails in a row, another point. A staunch supporter, or someone saying the F-word, either in support or opposition, a third and fourth point. If someone tells her their abortion story, bingo.
“When you’re canvassing, people are very respectful,” she said.
The worst she’s gotten while door knocking for Amendment 3 is someone saying “No, we need to care for the babies” before closing the door in her face. Amendment 3 aims to enshrine the right to abortion until fetal viability in the Missouri Constitution.
“On the phone you get called a lot of nasty things," she said. "People are emboldened to say things when they’re not face to face.”
On Thursday evenings, with her cat Hank purring at her ankles, Johnson opens Zoom and a window on her computer with a script. Thus begins an evening of phone bank calling.
During shifts that last about two and a half hours, Johnson has talked to pregnant women, to mothers, fathers, daughters and people with kids screaming in the background.
“A lot of people want this to pass and assume that it will,” she said. A few undecided voters she’s spoken with don’t like that Missouri’s abortion ban has no exceptions for rape or incest, but they don’t want to see abortion used as "another form of birth control."
Johnson’s involvement in reproductive rights advocacy began in 2014 when, at 22 years old and without a car, she got a ride from Columbia to a Planned Parenthood clinic in St. Louis to get an abortion.
Someone at Planned Parenthood explained to Johnson various birth control options available.
“I remember, I just felt so much shame in that moment, because I felt like I should have known better,” Johnson said. In the session at Planned Parenthood, Johnson said she finally got the sex education she didn’t receive earlier in her abstinence-only private school education.
Johnson had to pay for an ultrasound, another Missouri requirement she found unnecessary.
In some states where abortion is legal, a person can walk into a clinic and, if an appointment is available, get an abortion on the same day. Missouri’s then 48-hour waiting period meant Johnson had to return to Columbia, work for a week, then find her way back to St. Louis. The Columbia clinic didn’t offer abortions at that time.
It was easy to feel unwelcome at the clinic. When she later volunteered at Planned Parenthood in Oregon — where she lived in her mid-20s — she realized the St. Louis clinic’s tight security reigime and no-nonsense staff isn’t the norm everywhere.
“They're addressing you gruffly, because they're trying to keep people in there safe,” she said. After her abortion, Johnson took the MO-X airport shuttle back to Columbia.
In 2022, the Institute for Women’s Policy Research, a think tank, ranked states according to a “reproductive rights index.” Oregon came in fourth after New Jersey, California and Washington. The organization ranked Missouri last.
Johnson attributes her activism to coming from a politically active family. She grew up attending campaign events and volunteering with her childhood church, New City Fellowship, in St. Louis.
Johnson’s choice to get an abortion drove a wedge between her and her parents. They didn’t talk with her for a month or two after her abortion and didn’t let her stay with them before or after the procedure. Her relationship with her father remains strained. Johnson’s grandmother was of a different mind.
“It's a personal choice between a woman, her doctor and her God,” Johnson remembers her grandma saying. “I don't care if my God tells me something different than hers.”
As she knocked on doors one Sunday afternoon this month, a shirtless man could be seen from the sidewalk mowing the lawn behind his home. Johnson placed a brochure in a potted plant outside his house. “He’ll probably water this plant,” she said.
In addition to being a form of political activism, canvassing helps her get out of the house and get her steps in. MiniVAN, a smartphone app, directs canvassers to homes of people who are likely to support Amendment 3. The algorithm doesn’t always work.
Johnson knocks on the door of a red brick home. A wreath with fall-colored foliage adorns the front door. Orange and yellow flowers bloom in pots flanking the home’s stoop, a pumpkin and toy-sized scarecrow nestled among them. A man opens the door and reads Johnson’s shirt: “MISSOURIANS FOR CONSTITUTIONAL FREEDOM #EndTheBanMO.”
“I’m for Trump,” he says, brushing her off.
“Oh, but you can still be for Trump and for women, right?” she says quickly. He gives her a look and turns away.
The goal of canvassing is not to change the minds of people who oppose abortion. It’s the undecided they’re after.
Down the street, a teal vintage car is parked at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. “Have we gone back in time?” Johnson asks, looking at the car. “On our rights we have!”
