Annmarie Condit

(www.RemnantNewspaper.com) It was less than a week before the election when I received the news that President Obama would be holding a rally on campus. The College Democrats were ecstatic. Flyers announcing his visit were posted everywhere. Students rushed to get their tickets.

The university’s honors program sent out a special email inviting their top students to reserve seats on the stage as a way of representing the university. (All this was done, of course, with special emphasis on the fact that the university was NOT endorsing any candidate, but rather “facilitating an offer” from the Obama campaign. Right!) At any rate, four of my pro-life friends and I decided that we would go. 

The big day arrived. People lined the sidewalks for at least two miles outside the arena where the President was going to talk. They were armed with signs and buttons, t-shirts and flags marked with the ominous battle cries of “Choice” and “Forward.” We drove past them slowly, wondering what they would do to us if they knew the reason we were there.

It was like entering a war zone. Our slogan, which we carried on a huge bunch of bright balloons, was “Life,” and we brought as our standard an image of one of our fallen. His tiny arms were torn from his body, which was eviscerated in a horrible mass of red; his head, mouth agape, was lying next to his feet. We would honor his memory by braving the stand for life among those whose vote could mean death. We carried his picture and our balloons with us as we cut across campus to reach the entrance to the arena where the line began.

We weren’t the only protestors there. A large group of people, mostly older men, waved signs protesting the Benghazi situation. A tall man in a long checkered robe was weaving in and out of the crowd, waving a picture of an aborted baby and yelling things. Most people in line were ignoring him. Three lonesome, uncertain—looking students bearing Romney/Ryan signs stood nearby. Six big men with bullhorns screamed that Obama was the anti-Christ and that Jesus hated him. Shouting matches were going on down the line, and I could quite tangibly feel the tension in the air. (The phrase sounds trite, but I mean it.) It really was a war zone, plain and simple. 

We first approached the Romney/Ryan bunch, naively assuming that they were conservative students like us and would welcome our presence. Though we smiled and greeted them, only one responded and the others completely ignored us. I was shocked at the look I saw in their eyes; it was obvious that they thought we were nut-jobs and wanted nothing to do with us.

The other abortion protestor, on the other hand, was eager to stand with us, but after exchanging a few words with him I began to wonder if he was high on drugs. I didn’t doubt his sincerity to the pro-life cause, but for obvious reasons we decided that we should probably just stand on our own.

 All eyes turned on us as we walked down the sidewalk in search of a place to stand. As we students have learned from previous pro-life events on campus, the mere sight of young women protesting abortion is always an unpleasant shock to pro-choicers. (After all, we’re supposed to be liberated from all those sorts of constraints.) Their looks of shock and utter disbelief took a moment to evaporate, and then their voices rose in a dull murmur of anger. “It’s a woman’s choice!” and “Go home!” “Shame on you!” were some of the politest remarks they gave us.

Young women volunteers stirred up the crowd with rousing chants of “Four more years!” while the Benghazi protestors and “Christians” with bullhorns attempted to out-scream them with angry rejoinders. It was an absolute circus. One thing was clear: Both sides of the crowd were ready for a fight.

We found a spot on the sidewalk in clear view of the line and set up our signs, holding our LIFE balloons high. Ignoring the furious taunts coming from those around us, we took out our secret weapons and unleashed them on the crowd. One, of course, was prayer. The other was silence, the sound that echoes loudest in a culture of continuous noise. We had seen it used before at pro-life protests, but had never actually tried it ourselves. To symbolize the fact that the preborn have no voices with which to defend themselves, we put strips of red duct tape with “LIFE” written on them across our mouths.

The enemy took the blow hard. The radicals in the line were furious, just dying for us to respond to their insults and hateful remarks, but all we would do was stand quietly, praying and holding out the truth. Sadly, as the line passed by, most people just stared and gave absolutely no reaction. Many took pictures of us. Some laughed and made obscene jokes about the images. Women proudly displaying their support for the President told us to be ashamed of ourselves; after all, there were children here.

In fact, I couldn’t believe how many parents were bringing their kids to the rally. A few of them even approached us carrying children and asked if their kid could have a LIFE balloon, only to return to their place in line to support the most anti-life President we have ever known. But toward evening, one little boy standing in line noticed the abortion pictures and tugged on his mom’s sleeve. “Mom,” he said, “that’s wrong.” No questions. No exceptions.

His mother looked where he was pointing. “Honey,” she retorted, probably horrified at his reaction, “it’s a woman’s choice.” But he continually insisted, “No, Mom, that’s wrong!” as she hurried him along in line, blind to the truth that her little son saw so easily.

The time, and the line, passed quickly. Night fell around us, as the last of the crowd filtered in to the screaming arena to prepare to wage war. A few days later, they did so . . . and they won.

Did five silent pro-life students change the course of the election? No. Did we change anyone’s mind about abortion? I don’t know. I would hope so. But it doesn’t matter. We did our duty. We stood for life, and for truth, and we fought the good fight with the peaceful weapons of prayer and silence.  The fight has hardly even begun, of course, but even those of us at secular colleges are preparing ourselves. We pray that we will be ready when the time comes.

Viva Christo Rey!

Editor’s Note: We’re pleased to welcome Miss Condit to our stable of writers. She is 19, the second oldest in her traditional Catholic family. She has nine siblings and sixty first cousins, and tells us she loves them all! Thanks to the grace of God and to her good parents, she has been attending the Tridentine Mass since childhood. She’s currently in second year of college at a large public university, and is majoring in rhetoric and professional writing. She has part-time work as a librarian and full-time work as an abortion abolitionist on campus. She writes that her “most memorable and significant life experience was the Chartres Pilgrimage,” which she made with Remnant Tours in 2010.  Her fine article speaks for itself. This war is far from over.  Please look for Miss Condit's articles in upcoming issues of The Remnant.  Welcome aboard, Miss Condit! MJM