As the Supreme Court Term Begins… Some Reflections by Margaret Andersen

As the U.S. Supreme Court begins its new term and at a time when public confidence in all national institutions, including the Supreme Court, is at an all-time low, I am heartened by remembering how one letter, sent long ago to Associate Justice Harry Blackmun, can remind us of the heart beneath a justice’s robe, even at a time when a justice was under vicious attack by political opponents. I am also reminded of what it can mean to bring joy to a justice’s chamber. And I am thinking about my long-gone dogs. 

I named my two dogs, who were abandoned as puppies by their owners, after Justices Thurgood Marshall and Harry Blackmun, two giants in judicial history. Thurgood Marshall, the first African American to serve on the Court (appointed in 1967), was touted for his long-standing commitment to civil rights, including early cases that prohibited racially restrictive real estate covenants. In another of his decisions, he invalidated the white primary, long a method by which southern Democrats maintained their political power. He is, though, best known for arguing the landmark case Brown vs the Board of Education before the Supreme Court in 1954.  A staunch advocate for people who had too long been denied legal protections in the United States, Marshall retired from the Court in 1991 and died in 1993. 

Likewise, Associate Justice Harry A. Blackmun left an indelible mark on U.S. judicial history. Appointed to the Court by President Richard Nixon in 1970, Blackmun’s early decisions on the Court were most aligned with conservative justices. Over time, however, his decisions became more in tune with those of more liberal justices. He was passionate in this support for abortion rights and defended affirmative action. Writing in the 1978 Regents of the University of California vs. Bakke decision, allowing some consideration of race in university admissions but disallowing racial quotas, Blackmun wrote, “In order to get beyond racism, we must first take account of race. There is no other way. And in order to treat some persons equally, we much treat them differently.” 

Blackmun’s support for abortion rights was unyielding. The very week we adopted our dogs (in 1989), Blackmun wrote a scathing dissent on the case Webster v. Reproductive Health Services, the first Supreme Court case to chip away at the constitutional right to abortion established in Roe v. Wade. In his dissent, Blackmun wrote, “For today, the women of this Nation still retain the liberty to control their destinies. But the signs are evident and very ominous, and a chill wind blows.” 

How prescient that dissent—one of the reasons I so admired Justice Blackmun. How did two photos of my dogs ended up in Harry Blackmun’s papers housed in the Library of Congress? 

Very few dogs find themselves memorialized in the Library of Congress. Dogs included famous people, such as TV host Ed Sullivan, singer Billie Holiday, actress Joan Caulfield, and actor Jimmy Durante mostly own those. Also included are some photos of national dog show winners. The Library of Congress is the largest library in the world, housing documents that tell the history of the United States by documenting and preserving some of the nation’s most important records. These are treasured archives, a repository of national civilization and creativity.

The Library of Congress hardly seems a place where ordinary neighborhood dogs would be seen. I am not a celebrity, nor a Washington insider, nor have my dogs ever been in a competitive dog show. Yet, sure enough, my dogs’ photographs are included in the hundreds of boxes that archive the work of Supreme Court Associate Justice Harry A. Blackmun: Box 1445, Folio #9.

When my husband and I took in these puppies, the house next door to us was a concrete block shack, owned by a notoriously obnoxious absentee landlord. The tenants, seemingly living on the margins of poverty, absconded in the middle of the night, probably owing back rent and fearful of the landlord’s well-known violent temper. Left behind were the mother dog and four newborn puppies. A reclusive neighbor who lived in the woods across the street took in the mother dog, but the puppies were left to fend for themselves. One poor pup was hit and killed in the road. A second pup was adopted by a neighbor’s friend. Left behind were two little black lab puppies.

Even before the tenants fled, the two puppies had been frisky, though largely ignored by their owners. The puppies liked scampering around on the riverbank, occasionally falling into the Chesapeake Bay where our house is located. My husband would jump in our rowboat, row to their rescue, drag them out of the water, and bring them back home. Later, they never seemed to like water—odd since they were mostly black labs, though not purebreds.  

When the dogs’ owners fled, we took in the two puppies, thinking we could find a home for them. We already had two cats and never intended to add dogs to our household, certainly not two of them! We tried to find people who would adopt the two puppies, preferably as a pair because they were brothers. We considered posting a “free puppies” sign at the local market but rejected that plan when we heard that puppies so publicly advertised might be picked up by an unscrupulous puppy mill operator. 

Once they were living on our porch, we became very attached. After a few weeks of trying to find a new home for them, we relented and decided to keep them. Like other dog owners, we tried to find fitting names for our newly adopted pups. It was 1989. The nation was emerging from the Reagan years—a time when many hard-fought civil rights were being retracted. George Bush Sr. was the President. Roe v. Wade had established the constitutional right to reproductive freedom in 1973, but the movement to overturn Roe was simmering. As someone who was teaching university courses on racial and gender inequality, I was keenly aware of the backlash against women and people of color that our nation was facing. 

I told my husband that, given the times, we had to name these two dogs for men who had done something good for women. I had long admired U.S. Supreme Court Associate Justice Thurgood Marshall, then retired from the Court. Our two dogs became Blackmun and Marshall.

I often thought about writing to the two justices about their namesakes, but life was busy and I didn’t do it until 1994. Moved by Blackmun’s announcement of his pending retirement, my husband and I drafted a letter to Justice Blackmun explaining why our dogs bore his and Thurgood Marshall’s names. The letter we sent, signed by my husband, included two pictures of the dogs together on our front lawn.

Our letter said:  

I didn’t really expect a response, but only a few days later, and much to our surprise, a letter on embossed Supreme Court stationery showed up in our mail! Written with wry humor, the grace of a gentleman, and with a subtle reminder of his positions on conception, Blackmun’s letter to us was hand-signed. 

We cherished that letter and our two amazing dogs, but life went on. Then, in 2004, things took an unexpected turn.

In honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the Brown v. Board court decision, the University of Illinois College of Law, like many academic institutions that year, sponsored a symposium about the impact of the Brown decision and invited me to present a paper. I gladly accepted and wrote an article on the implications of the Brown decision for different groups. I had presented many conference papers prior to this commemorative event. Still, I had never spoken at a law school or to a room packed with mostly law professors and other legal scholars. I am a sociologist. That is my usual audience. I was nervous and felt very out of my element. I knew no one on the featured panels and hardly anyone in the audience. But I knew my paper was solid, despite my anxiety about its reception. 

As I wrapped up my presentation, I thought it had gone well and considered adding that I had named my two dogs for the two justices I so admired. It seemed a little corny to bring up my dogs in such an esteemed and unaccustomed, for me, place, but oh well…I did it. The audience seemed to appreciate it. I sat down to a round of applause.

The next speaker was introduced as a law professor at Duke University. When she began her remarks, she expressed her appreciation for being with known colleagues and meeting new people…a common way speakers warm up their presentations. She then said, “And I am especially pleased to meet someone I have a special connection to…Maggie Andersen.” I was floored! I had never met her, did not follow her field of legal study, and could not imagine how she thought she knew me. She continued, “Years ago I was a clerk in Justice Blackmun’s chambers. One morning, he called all his clerks together because he had received a letter from ‘some professor in Maryland,’ and he wanted to share it with us. Treating his clerks to breakfast, he read the letter out loud.” She then said, directly to me, “You will never know how happy your letter made him!” She proceeded to deliver a very good analysis of the impact of the Brown decision on disability rights. 

As we sat at the symposium on Brown, the release of Blackmun’s papers to the Library of Congress was very much in the news. Blackmun had died five years earlier (in 1999) but had arranged for a quick release of his papers to the Library of Congress. His papers were released only five years after his death, which is unusual because most justices do not have their papers released until 50 years after their death. 

Because of the prominence of Blackmun’s papers in the daily news, I asked the former clerk if she thought our letter—and the photos of our dogs—would then be in the Library of Congress. She said, “No doubt! That’s how important your letter was to him.” As the session ended, she said she wanted to rush right out and call Justice Blackmun’s former secretary because she knew the secretary would be excited to know she had met me! 

I later learned, by reading Juan Williams’ excellent biography of Justice Blackmun, that at the time Blackmun received our letter, he was besieged by hate mail from those who strenuously objected to his more progressive opinions—particularly his defense of Roe. Our letter was a rare praise song!

Now, even more years later and with both dogs long gone, Blackmun’s fears have come to pass. More than a chill wind blows today. There is a full-blown hurricane toppling women’s rights, smashing civil rights, and crushing institutions themselves. The assault on reproductive rights is no longer directed at one man, but, rather, at entire institutions. Confidence in the judicial system, including the Supreme Court, has hit an all-time low, as has public faith in all national institutions. Even when under attack by the right, probably overwhelmed by case work, and fearful for women in America, Harry Blackmun found the time to pen a letter, honoring not only our dogs, but also the best of America: national institutions that adhere to American values, the cherished connection between public servants and citizens, and the protection of civil and constitutional rights of all Americans. How I long for the values and graciousness that Justice Blackmun demonstrated. My next dog, if a female, will be named Sonia. Or, should we acquire a litter, maybe Sonia, Ketanji, and Elena—women who are speaking truth to power. I miss Blackmun’s wisdom on the Court, and I miss my dogs.

With thanks to Patrick Kirwin, Manuscript Reference Librarian, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress and to Connie Cartledge, Senior Archivist, Library of Congress

Dr. Margaret L. Andersen is the Elizabeth and Edward Rosenberg Professor Emerita and Founder and Executive Director of the President’s Diversity Initiative at the University of Delaware, who resides in Oxford.