Why Cecile Richards Didn’t Wear Panty Hose to the Planned Parenthood Hearing

At day’s end there wasn’t much more to do. I’d reread the facts and packed my binder. I’d steamed my suit again and set out a different pair of shoes. [My husband] Kirk [Adams] made us dinner. “Just remember,” he said, “you know more about Planned Parenthood than anyone in that hearing room.” I stopped to consider that but was loath to admit that he just might be right.

I called [my] kids. Lily was in Iowa, where she had moved for the Clinton campaign; Hannah was in Indiana, working on a campaign of her own; and Daniel was in school in Maryland. They each wished me luck, and I went to bed early.

When I woke up the next morning I tried to meditate. It didn’t work. The team packed into a car and we headed to Capitol Hill. There were protesters standing outside the hearing, which was nothing new. It reminded me of a Planned Parenthood luncheon we’d had years earlier on rural Long Island. The place was difficult to find, and at the turnoff we’d had to drive past a group of protesters with ugly signs. Once we made it inside, one of our elderly donors, neatly dressed in her “ladies who lunch” suit and pearls, approached me. “I saw those protesters outside,” she said, and before I could say anything, she went on: “I was so glad they were there—otherwise I never would have known where to turn!” Remembering her made me smile.

Walking into the hearing room, I checked my phone one last time. I had an incoming text from my friend Terry McGovern, who works in global and maternal health. Her message read, “Just remember to carry the rage of women through the centuries with you this morning!”

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