Do women not have equal rights under the law?
For more than a century, twenty-four words written by suffragist Alice Paul have waited at the threshold of the American Constitution—close enough to touch, but never quite admitted. The Equal Rights Amendment, passed by Congress in 1972 after nearly fifty years of effort, fell three states short of ratification before its 1982 deadline, and a belated yes from Virginia in 2020 arrived too late to change that legal reality. What endures is a quiet constitutional absence: no explicit guarantee that rights shall not be denied on account of sex, leaving the gains of generations resting on statutes and precedent rather than foundational law. As battles once thought settled over reproductive rights and gender equality reopen, the weight of that absence grows harder to ignore.
- A single constitutional amendment, just twenty-four words long, has spent over a century unable to clear the final legal threshold—three states short of permanence when the clock ran out in 1982.
- Phyllis Schlafly's organized conservative opposition proved more durable than the feminist movement's momentum, turning what seemed like an inevitable ratification into one of the most consequential defeats in modern American constitutional history.
- Generational distance has blunted the urgency: daughters and granddaughters of ERA activists grew up living as though equality was already secured, never feeling the doors their mothers had to force open.
- Virginia's 2020 ratification offered symbolic vindication but no legal remedy—arriving thirty-eight years past the deadline, it changed nothing in the Constitution and everything in the conversation.
- With reproductive rights and gender equality now actively contested in courts and legislatures, the absence of a constitutional anchor is no longer an abstraction but a live and pressing vulnerability.
In 1923, Alice Paul wrote twenty-four words she believed should anchor the Constitution: a guarantee that equality under the law could not be denied on account of sex. It took nearly fifty years for Congress to agree. When the ERA finally passed both chambers in 1972 and went to the states, ratification seemed like the straightforward part. It was not.
Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a founder of Ms. Magazine and a central figure in the feminist movement, was certain the country would ratify quickly. She was wrong. Phyllis Schlafly organized a fierce and effective conservative opposition, and the campaign stalled. When Congress's 1982 deadline arrived, only thirty-five states had ratified—three short. The ERA died, at least officially.
Pogrebin's own family became a living record of how much had changed in the decades that followed. She had entered the workforce in an era of pink and blue card files—separate job listings by sex. Her daughter Robin became a prominent journalist at the New York Times, moving through a world her mother's generation had helped pry open. Robin's peers did not march for the ERA; they simply lived as though equality was already theirs.
Robin's daughter Maya, now twenty-seven and working in finance, had never encountered the ERA at all. When she learned that women still lack an explicit constitutional guarantee of equal rights, she was genuinely puzzled. Technically, she is right to be: the law has changed in many ways, but none of those changes are anchored in the Constitution. They rest on statutes and precedent—things that can be rewritten.
In 2020, Virginia became the thirty-eighth state to ratify, a symbolic vindication that arrived thirty-eight years too late to matter constitutionally. And as battles over reproductive rights and gender equality have since reopened as active legal conflicts, the fragility of what earlier generations won has become impossible to ignore. After more than a century, Alice Paul's twenty-four words remain outside the law.
In 1923, Alice Paul sat down and wrote twenty-four words. "Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex." That was the entire Equal Rights Amendment—no elaboration, no exceptions, no mention even of the word women. Paul, who had fought for and won the right to vote in 1920, believed these words should become part of the Constitution itself. It took nearly fifty years for Congress to agree. In 1972, the ERA finally passed both chambers and went to the states for ratification. What followed was supposed to be the straightforward part: get three-quarters of the states to sign on. Instead, it became one of the most consequential failures in modern American constitutional history.
Letty Cottin Pogrebin was thirty-one years old when Congress sent the ERA to the states. A founder of Ms. Magazine and a towering figure in the feminist movement, she was certain the country would ratify it. "By 1975, the country will wake up and we'll have equality," she said decades later, remembering her own certainty. She was wrong. The opposition that materialized was fierce and well-organized. Phyllis Schlafly, a conservative activist and organizer, became the public face of the resistance. In 1983, Schlafly articulated the counterargument plainly: women had ambitions and worked hard, but most chose to direct their energy toward family. The ratification campaign stalled. States voted yes, but not enough of them. Congress had set a deadline—1982—and when that date arrived, only thirty-five states had ratified. Three short. The ERA died, at least officially.
Yet the world did not stand still. Pogrebin's own family became a living archive of how much had shifted in six decades. When she began her career in the early 1960s, employment agencies kept separate card files: pink cards for women's jobs, blue cards for men's jobs. Her daughter Robin became a prominent New York Times journalist, working at the paper for more than thirty years. Robin did not grow up feeling the weight of barriers the way her mother had. "My generation had the luxury of my mother's generation breaking down the doors for us," she said. She and her peers did not take to the streets for the ERA. They simply lived as though equality was already theirs.
Robin's daughter Maya, now twenty-seven, works in finance. She has ambitions for a substantial career. But the Equal Rights Amendment? It had never entered her consciousness. When she learned that women still lacked an explicit constitutional guarantee of equal rights, she was genuinely puzzled. "Do women not have equal rights under the law?" she asked. The answer, technically, is correct: they do not. Not in the Constitution. The law has changed in many ways—employment discrimination is illegal, women can own property, can sign contracts, can work in fields once closed to them. But none of that is anchored in the Constitution itself. It all rests on statutes and precedent, which can be rewritten.
In 2020, Virginia became the thirty-eighth state to ratify the ERA. It was a symbolic victory, a vindication of sorts for the activists who had fought for it. But the deadline had passed thirty-eight years earlier. Virginia's yes vote came too late to matter constitutionally. And in the years since, the fragility of the gains Pogrebin's generation fought for has become impossible to ignore. Battles that seemed settled—over reproductive rights, over gender equality itself—have reopened as active legal and political conflicts. The Constitution still does not guarantee that those rights belong equally to all Americans regardless of sex. After 103 years, Alice Paul's twenty-four words remain outside the law.
Citas Notables
By 1975, the country will wake up and we'll have equality.— Letty Cottin Pogrebin, feminist writer and Ms. Magazine founder, on her expectations for ERA ratification
Women do have ambition and work hard, but most women choose to apply those energies to building their family.— Phyllis Schlafly, conservative activist, explaining opposition to the ERA in 1983
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does it matter that the ERA never made it into the Constitution if women have gained so much ground anyway?
Because statutes can be repealed. Precedent can be overturned. A constitutional guarantee is different—it's the bedrock. Without it, every right women have is sitting on sand that can shift.
But younger women like Maya seem to think equality is already there. Doesn't that suggest the fight is over?
It suggests they've inherited a world their grandmothers built for them. But inheritance isn't the same as ownership. You can lose what you didn't have to fight for.
Phyllis Schlafly opposed the ERA by saying women wanted to focus on family. Is that still the argument?
The argument has evolved, but the core idea—that equality threatens something essential about women's role—never really went away. It just found new language.
What would the ERA actually do now if it were ratified?
It would make sex-based discrimination unconstitutional at every level—federal, state, local. It would shift the burden of proof. Right now, women have to fight for each right individually. The ERA would say: equality is the baseline.
So Virginia's ratification in 2020 was meaningless?
Not meaningless. It was a statement. But constitutionally? Yes, it arrived too late to count. That's the tragedy of it.