Charles Booker - From the Hood to the Holler: A Story of Separate Worlds, Shared Dreams, and the Fight for Americas Future

I KNEW I had to say something. I couldnt stay seated. I couldnt stay quiet.

It was March 14, 2019. We were in the final days of the years legislative session, and it was nearly 10 p.m. Wed been in a marathon session since two that afternoon, and at the stroke of midnight we would adjourn for the governors veto period; beyond last-minute efforts to override vetoes or rush through surprise bills, this would be the last day new laws would be passed this year. The bill up for debate was Senate Bill 9, a deceptive piece of political theater known as the Fetal Heartbeat Bill that would ban abortions as early as six weeks into a pregnancyexcept that it was unlikely to ever become law, because similar bills had been passed by Republican legislatures that year and theyd all been caught up in court battles or struck down outright as unconstitutional for violating the protections of Roe v. Wade. This bill was likely to suffer the same fate, a fact the legislators behind it knew all too well, but they were driving its passage anyway to further fan the flames of a wedge issue that would bring their supporters out to the polls. It was a tiresome exercise for everyone, the more so for me since I hadnt eaten dinner and my glucose was running lowan always-present danger of living with type 1 diabetes.

Everyone in the Kentucky State Legislature knew the bill was a farce, a political statement masquerading as legislation. Even some of my Republican colleagues had no desire to waste time voting on it. Still, the debate droned on. Some Republicans got up and made passionate statements about faith and the sanctity of life. Others got up and accidentally said the quiet part loud: They opposed reproductive choice because they believed women should still be treated as property. Meanwhile, the rest of them stayed silent even as they planned to support the bill for craven political reasons. The previous day, an amendment had been offered by a Republican that would provide an exception for abortion in cases where the pregnancy would threaten the life of the mother. It was emphatically voted down by the majority, which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about the value these legislators placed on the sanctity of a womans life.

As it happened, just a few days earlier we had debated another piece of legislation that, to my mind, pertained every bit as much to the sanctity of life: a bill to allow concealed carry of weapons without a permit. If passed, it would put police officers in dangerous situations and increase the likelihood that more innocent people, particularly Black and brown Kentuckians, would be shot by police. It was a contentious piece of legislation that united an unlikely coalition, as it was opposed by activists demanding justice reform, gun safety groups, and law enforcement. Its only real supporter was the NRA. It was framed as a gun rights bill, but like the Fetal Heartbeat Bill, it had nothing to do with protecting rights. It was about scoring political points at the expense of Kentuckians.

With Republicans holding a supermajority in the Kentucky House and Senate, the outcome of the debate was a foregone conclusion. That didnt stop me from fighting it. As the only legislator present who had seen police pull their firearms for a rolling-stop traffic violation and the only legislator present who recently lost multiple loved ones to gun violence, I poured my heart out against that bill. In what was likely a first in the Kentucky legislature, I acted out a scene of what this law could mean to a young Black man pulling a wallet out of his pocket. I even reenacted gunshots piercing the bodies of innocent people. I cast my vote and sat in my seat fuming while the bill passed. Now, instead of addressing poverty, homelessness, cannabis legalization, or the health of coal miners suffering from black lung, I was stuck listening to a bunch of misguided and dishonest sermonizing about abortion.

I decided Id had enough.

I dont have time for people who twist the truth. I cant tolerate liars. We all knew the bill wasnt really about reproductive health. We all knew an issue of faith was being weaponized to divide people against each other. But nobody was standing up to say that, and I felt I had to call it to attention. If my colleagues on the right wanted to preach about this bill, I felt a charge to do some preaching myself. I pushed the white button that alerted the speaker pro tem, David Meade, that I was requesting time to speak. Several of my colleagues looked over at me, wondering if I was going to stand up and give a sermonette, as I was known to do. I looked back at them and slowly nodded. My faith wouldnt let me hold my tongue. As Kentucky State Representative for the 43rd District, I had a job to do. As one of only six Black legislators in the House, I felt the weight of that responsibility multiplied a thousandfold. As heavy as it was to carry that obligation, I did it with pride.

The 43rd District sits inside Louisville, the largest city and metropolitan area in Kentucky. With the rest of the state being largely ruralfrom its fertile farmland to the rolling bluegrass to the beautiful hills of Appalachiaa chasm has formed in the state legislature, and that chasm regularly pits Louisville against the rest of the state. I see that dynamic from a different perspective than most, because I dont just come from Louisville, I come from the West End of Louisville, a place so isolated and segregated that in many ways it has more in common with the hollers up in coal country than it has with the rest of the big city. That often-ignored reality gave me a unique responsibility: to shine a light on our common struggle and bridge the divide between the urban and rural communities, to tell the stories that too often dont get told inside rooms like the Kentucky State Capitol.

Sitting there with my request to speak button glowing, mentally exhausted from hours of debate, my palms sweating slightly from anxiety, I thought about all the women in my life this bill would affect. I thought about my mom, my wife, my daughters. I thought about Grandma, the matriarch of my huge family on my moms side. I thought about Maw Maw, the hardworking woman who gave birth to my dad and taught me how to use a rotary sawall the incredible, strong Black women in my life who got up every day to stake their place in a society that didnt always acknowledge their humanity.