A pro-lifer’s search for a welcoming place in the world

One of my greatest regrets is that I joined the pro-life movement when I was 18. In retrospect I wish I had joined when I was older. Today’s pro-lifers are spared the abuse we endured because they no longer picket weekly outside clinics. They would be arrested at once.

Our protests were held before the ridiculous “temporary” bubble-zones were created around Toronto’s abortion clinics, and at least once a week my friends and I were there. Our goal was to save lives, but of course mind-your-own-business Toronto was horrified. Although we loved such stories, not once did a woman ever approach me to say that my witness had changed her mind and she had kept her baby. No, indeed. Instead I heard the remarks of a public appalled that we were “telling women what to do,” that we were making a spectacle of ourselves and that we were making people think about things they didn’t want to think about.

Even when we merely trudged in silent circles, our signs and our presence looked aggressive, and people responded with aggression. Our youth was no protection. I recall an angry adult woman asking a very young male protestor sexually-charged questions that made him blush to his hairline. I recall, too, a leering, red-faced man shouting, “Remember this address, girls! You’re gonna need it!” He also shouted, “If boys could have babies, there’d be a clinic in St. John’s!”