Its Thursday, and with my wife and my daughter, I'm walking to Parliament Hill. We carry no signs but are there to be a part of the yearly March for Life. Heading up Metcalfe Street, a road that I have walked many times, having grown up in Ottawa, I'm taken aback by the heightened police presence, apparently a permanent fixture now at these gatherings. A block from the Hill we start hearing the calls: “My body, my choice; my body, my choice”, in high soprano tones..Now we're almost at the Hill, and we walk past a group of young women, mostly in their late teens and early 20s, as far as I can tell, and sporting bikini and tank tops and signs “Get your hands off my f*ing body”, and “Abortion is a gift from God”..Soon we are through the gates find ourselves immersed in a sea of people. Pro-lifers. There must be about 8000 of them here. There are nuns – surprisingly young – in their blue and grey habits. There are priests in their black robes and rosary beads. There are all the rest, and there are the signs: “I Am Pro-Life”, “I am glad my mother chose life”, etc. .On the small stage at the front a young woman is introducing speakers, each with their five or ten minute slot. We find a space on the lawn. .The speeches have long started. We hear from women who have had abortions. We hear a man who's mother was on the table for an abortion and chose not to go through with it. We hear a man paralyzed from the chest down who leads an organization pushing back against euthanasia..Off to the far side is one half of the “counter protest”, held back behind a line of police, and shouting over their shoulders “my body, my choice”, at times almost drowning out the speeches..And the sense of irony is poignant, especially as a middle-aged woman stands at the mic, sharing through tears her grief over her abortion 25 years ago, how she has been able to forgive herself, and then emphasizing that “pro-choice people fight because of love, too: love for freedom, love for their own bodies, and love for children.”.More than one speaker this day takes a moment to pray for the women shouting them down..I just keep thinking about how those youthful vocal chords can keep all this shouting going..It is the mixed sea of normal people that gets me. Yes, the politicians from the Conservative party are there, introducing themselves and vying for votes (to which my wife and I look at each other askance). But there's families with tiny kids. Lots of youngsters from various schools who apparently have been bussed in. My wife remarks on the presence of “so many young men”. And then there are all the greying Knights of Columbus guys, and those grannies who seem to me synonymous with all things Catholic – I imagine them knitting booties for new babies..Just an eclectic mix of pretty normal looking people – even the guy with both a pro-life sign and an AC/DC t-shirt..In a while, my daughter and I need to find a washroom..We head back down Metcalfe street, stopping in at a Bridgehead Coffee. A woman carrying a couple signs sneaks into the washroom before my daughter gets there. The minutes pass. As we sit in the nearby booth, three other women in their late teens come in. They look pretty normal—they could be university students, if a little loud for the upsnuffy Bridgehead vibe. My daughter gets up to look down the hall for another washroom. When she sits back down, one of the newcomers says, “A pro-lifer went in there.”.Awkwardly, we wait a bit longer and then trot off to find another place, helped through the renovation maze of the World Exchange Plaza by a gregarious janitor, who is awfully refreshing at this point (Something about blue-collar ease always gets to me.)..Back on the Hill, “those carrying banners” have all lined up and headed off past the War Memorial, and now the rest of us join up towards the rear of this group that looks so much larger when stretched out down the street. We are to proceed around the downtown core. A man to my right asks if I want some literature and then hands me two copies of obviously independent magazines on world issues from a Catholic view. Another man who has “had a word from God” offers me some more, to which I decline..Beside us is a group of about 50 or 60 teenage boys, all wearing white shirts, khaki trousers and ties, along with four priests in black robes holding rosary beads and walking at the corners. Near the gates of the Hill, four of the boys hoist up onto their shoulders a three-foot statue of “the Madonna”..Soon, we are nearing the Memorial and something I didn't expect happens:.“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...”.The teenage boys have broken out singing, in deep full-bodied and unabashed tones, a Latin chant. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...”.Minutes later I realize that I've become mindful of my steps. I've slowed, keeping in time with the singing...with these young men who are all seriousness, and, though I watch for it, don't show a cynical smile or joke on their youthful faces..We are walking in a procession as Catholics across the world have done for hundreds and hundreds of years..All the previous build-up of the last few days, which for me has been persnickety moments of internal debate around the Roe v Wade leak, the writing up a column, wondering how far onto the abortion ground I should go, worrying as a parent with a son involved in the protest about the counter-protest and potential violence, even the fact that I'm walking streets that for me will always carry memories of trucker protesters and baton-waving riot police...now all of it fades. All that stuff is subsumed somehow, lifted up in the midst of this ancient song..I'm looking at the ground now, as I walk, holding my wife's hand, and wishing, as a non-Catholic, that I knew more of the words..“Ave Maria, gratia plena.. .To my right, then, a woman standing on the curb holds up a sign: “Make Vasectomies Mandatory”. Another young woman stalks up alongside the crowd, her red hair bouncing. She's angry, and looks like she's bracing for a fight. She shouts: “You're disgusting!”..No one responds. The older lady behind us in the wheelchair, the politician who was just up on the platform, the frumpy parents—not a fashionista among them, and these young men to my left, singing—we all just keep moving down Elgin street..Talking, taking it all in, and praying..“Ave Maria...”
Its Thursday, and with my wife and my daughter, I'm walking to Parliament Hill. We carry no signs but are there to be a part of the yearly March for Life. Heading up Metcalfe Street, a road that I have walked many times, having grown up in Ottawa, I'm taken aback by the heightened police presence, apparently a permanent fixture now at these gatherings. A block from the Hill we start hearing the calls: “My body, my choice; my body, my choice”, in high soprano tones..Now we're almost at the Hill, and we walk past a group of young women, mostly in their late teens and early 20s, as far as I can tell, and sporting bikini and tank tops and signs “Get your hands off my f*ing body”, and “Abortion is a gift from God”..Soon we are through the gates find ourselves immersed in a sea of people. Pro-lifers. There must be about 8000 of them here. There are nuns – surprisingly young – in their blue and grey habits. There are priests in their black robes and rosary beads. There are all the rest, and there are the signs: “I Am Pro-Life”, “I am glad my mother chose life”, etc. .On the small stage at the front a young woman is introducing speakers, each with their five or ten minute slot. We find a space on the lawn. .The speeches have long started. We hear from women who have had abortions. We hear a man who's mother was on the table for an abortion and chose not to go through with it. We hear a man paralyzed from the chest down who leads an organization pushing back against euthanasia..Off to the far side is one half of the “counter protest”, held back behind a line of police, and shouting over their shoulders “my body, my choice”, at times almost drowning out the speeches..And the sense of irony is poignant, especially as a middle-aged woman stands at the mic, sharing through tears her grief over her abortion 25 years ago, how she has been able to forgive herself, and then emphasizing that “pro-choice people fight because of love, too: love for freedom, love for their own bodies, and love for children.”.More than one speaker this day takes a moment to pray for the women shouting them down..I just keep thinking about how those youthful vocal chords can keep all this shouting going..It is the mixed sea of normal people that gets me. Yes, the politicians from the Conservative party are there, introducing themselves and vying for votes (to which my wife and I look at each other askance). But there's families with tiny kids. Lots of youngsters from various schools who apparently have been bussed in. My wife remarks on the presence of “so many young men”. And then there are all the greying Knights of Columbus guys, and those grannies who seem to me synonymous with all things Catholic – I imagine them knitting booties for new babies..Just an eclectic mix of pretty normal looking people – even the guy with both a pro-life sign and an AC/DC t-shirt..In a while, my daughter and I need to find a washroom..We head back down Metcalfe street, stopping in at a Bridgehead Coffee. A woman carrying a couple signs sneaks into the washroom before my daughter gets there. The minutes pass. As we sit in the nearby booth, three other women in their late teens come in. They look pretty normal—they could be university students, if a little loud for the upsnuffy Bridgehead vibe. My daughter gets up to look down the hall for another washroom. When she sits back down, one of the newcomers says, “A pro-lifer went in there.”.Awkwardly, we wait a bit longer and then trot off to find another place, helped through the renovation maze of the World Exchange Plaza by a gregarious janitor, who is awfully refreshing at this point (Something about blue-collar ease always gets to me.)..Back on the Hill, “those carrying banners” have all lined up and headed off past the War Memorial, and now the rest of us join up towards the rear of this group that looks so much larger when stretched out down the street. We are to proceed around the downtown core. A man to my right asks if I want some literature and then hands me two copies of obviously independent magazines on world issues from a Catholic view. Another man who has “had a word from God” offers me some more, to which I decline..Beside us is a group of about 50 or 60 teenage boys, all wearing white shirts, khaki trousers and ties, along with four priests in black robes holding rosary beads and walking at the corners. Near the gates of the Hill, four of the boys hoist up onto their shoulders a three-foot statue of “the Madonna”..Soon, we are nearing the Memorial and something I didn't expect happens:.“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...”.The teenage boys have broken out singing, in deep full-bodied and unabashed tones, a Latin chant. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...”.Minutes later I realize that I've become mindful of my steps. I've slowed, keeping in time with the singing...with these young men who are all seriousness, and, though I watch for it, don't show a cynical smile or joke on their youthful faces..We are walking in a procession as Catholics across the world have done for hundreds and hundreds of years..All the previous build-up of the last few days, which for me has been persnickety moments of internal debate around the Roe v Wade leak, the writing up a column, wondering how far onto the abortion ground I should go, worrying as a parent with a son involved in the protest about the counter-protest and potential violence, even the fact that I'm walking streets that for me will always carry memories of trucker protesters and baton-waving riot police...now all of it fades. All that stuff is subsumed somehow, lifted up in the midst of this ancient song..I'm looking at the ground now, as I walk, holding my wife's hand, and wishing, as a non-Catholic, that I knew more of the words..“Ave Maria, gratia plena.. .To my right, then, a woman standing on the curb holds up a sign: “Make Vasectomies Mandatory”. Another young woman stalks up alongside the crowd, her red hair bouncing. She's angry, and looks like she's bracing for a fight. She shouts: “You're disgusting!”..No one responds. The older lady behind us in the wheelchair, the politician who was just up on the platform, the frumpy parents—not a fashionista among them, and these young men to my left, singing—we all just keep moving down Elgin street..Talking, taking it all in, and praying..“Ave Maria...”
