Violence Implied- March For (Whose?) Life

Yesterday sucked.

The March for Lies marched right on into O-town and the participants…well, they did what they do. I’m warning you now that this may not be the most coherent and cohesive blog-post. I’m in recovery.

Every year the March comes and makes me irate. It makes me sad. It also scares the crap out of me. Having thousands of people all around me who are so diametrically opposed to an issue that defines my very autonomy- people who would deny me that autonomy based on a faith-based set of principles- I get more than a little bit freaked.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, the numbers are swelled by the hundreds of busloads of youth brought in from Catholic schools (your tax-dollars hard at work, folks!) across Ontario. But that makes it even more depressing, knowing that so many of those youth have been subject to indoctrination to such an extent. Sure lots of them couldn’t care less and just want a field-trip. Fair enough. But some of them, perhaps many of them, will leave having experienced a feeling a belonging for the first time in their lives. That euphoric feeling will carry them through all the evidence-based arguments, Charter challenge discussions and anti-paternalism tirades that you or I will launch at them. Scary shit, I say again.

This palpable threat I feel during Starch for Lime is due in no small part to the violence implied just below the surface of the event. The low-level stuff that, as an advocate against choice, you think so little of me as a woman you believe me incapable of making my own decisions, that I don’t know what’s best for me and my possible future children. Indeed, seen through anti-choice eyes, I am less-than. I am dehumanized. Enter the overt violence right about here.

Let’s not even get started on the actual call to arms that we naively believe is more or less contained to the US. They shoot and blow up people like me down there. Yay, pro-life!

I was telling a co-worker of mine about these feelings. She’s this beautiful, witty, intelligent woman and she’s First Nations. As I started to tell her about the fear I felt at the living, breathing oppression seething just below our office windows, my voice petered out. I can’t speak for her, but I imagined that oppression, palpable and dangerous, stares her in the face every day- mostly masked, but no less ugly.

There was no solace, no consolation in that. Yesterday sucked.