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Post-Roe era fight isn’t just about abortion. It’s about stopping selective history from determining our rights

I am no longer able to think of Carmel without thinking of abortion and Nora May French.

For this new habit of mind, I blame two things: the US Supreme Court and the literary scholar Catherine Prendergast’s searing 2021 masterpiece, “The Gilded Edge: Two Audacious Women and the Cyanide Love Triangle That Shook America.” From visiting Carmel, I knew about the city’s early 20th century history as a colony of artists and bohemians. But I had never heard of the French poet until picking up Prendergast’s book.

“The Gilded Edge” begins with French’s own real-time account of her 1907 abortion. This description, discovered by Prendergast in the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley, was hard to read last fall. It is infuriating to read now, weeks after the US Supreme Court canceled the constitutional right to abortion.

French, a brilliant 25-year-old poet, “could not afford a ‘therapeutic’ abortion in a hospital even if she could convince a doctor to give her one,” Prendergast writes. So, the poet induced an abortion by swallowing pills she’d bought at a local drugstore in San Francisco. Such abortifacients came in colored boxes with names like “Dr. Conte’s Female Pills” and “Dr. Trousseau’s Celebrated Female Cure.” They also contained dangerous chemicals, like turpentine.

French recounts swallowing pills on a Saturday morning and feeling nothing. The following day, she is awakened by a contraction and then waves of spasms, nausea and intense pain.

French had moved to San Francisco the year before, months after the great earthquake and was already succeeding as a poet and writer — winning a newspaper’s poetry contest and being published in literary journals. But if she had the baby (she had become pregnant by her married boyfriend Harry Lafler, a literary journal editor), she knew she was risking her burgeoning career and could end up raising a child alone.

Between contractions, French wrote to Lafler. “Very dear, I have been through deep waters, and proved myself cowardly after all.

“I have gone through every shade of emotion… It was as if we were walking together and my feet were struggling with some pulling quicksand under the grass. I would come near screaming very often.

“Motherhood! What an unspeakably huge thing for all my fluttering butterflies to drown in! A still pool, holding the sky.”

I looked into it day after day, and sometimes I could see the sky, and sometimes only my drowned butterflies. Oh—”

That is where the letter cuts off.

French did survive her abortion and soon after relocated to Carmel, where she took up residence in the guest cottage of a married Bay Area couple with many literary friends, Carrie and George Sterling.

George Sterling styled himself as a writer (championed by author Ambrose Bierce) and was a prominent member of the Bohemian Club, a famously elite male social institution with an artistic bent founded in 1872. But Sterling’s real business was real estate. He used his literary network to attract artists and writers to Carmel—among them Jack London and Upton Sinclair—to give the place a creative cachet that would help Carmel Development Co. sell land. Prendergast shows that Sterling spent more time philandering and drinking than writing. Carrie Sterling did most of the recruitment work.

In Carmel, many bohemian men pursued the beautiful and talented French, plying her with writerly advice while seeking to co-opt her talent. George and Nora became lovers. Then, less than a year after her abortion of her and move to Carmel, French died of cyanide poisoning. George Sterling was away. Carrie Sterling found her body of her. What actually happened remains a mystery.

The death of the young and pretty poet made news nationwide (“Midnight Lure of Death Leads Poetess to the Grave,” one headline crowed) and inspired copycat suicides. In the years to come, Carrie and George Sterling split up; each would later commit suicide, by cyanide. Others connected to the Carmel colony met unfortunate ends, too.

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