just as hard, working with police, taking videotapes of demonstrations. One of the regulars seen on those videos was a man named Gordon Watson. Gord had worked at a sawmill at one time. His father had fought in Korea as a Provost captain, his grandfather had been gassed at Ypres in the First World War. And Gord Watson?
“A full-tilt Bible-thumper,” he said. “That’s me. I’m it.”
He was there on the street preaching the gospel of life. Mainstream pro-life types didn’t do that. Gord felt they were happy just to sit around and talk about it over coffee.
He used to tag along with his father to political meetings. Dad was a bit of a hell-raiser on that front, enjoyed the battle. Gord would go further than that—he would be nastier.
It’s the B.C. election of 1991 and there’s Gord Watson on TV, tearing a strip off a candidate. Someone lunges at him, a full-out brawl begins, and Gord manages to get the mike, his shirt torn, yet appearing collected as can be—this is great stuff—and he politely asks, “Can I address the chair, please?” The TV journalists there take to him like moths to a flame, cameras rolling, and: “Abortion is murder, and I think British Columbians deserve the right to have a referendum on it.”
The pro-lifers loved it, this 42-year-old firecracker who stood up and said what they all believed, fearless.
“Betty,” he later said to veteran pro-lifer Betty Green, “I’ll make you look like sweetness and light.”
Others in the movement couldn’t quite figure him out. He ended up in and out of jail, alternately the darling and pariah of the movement, constantly writing letters, getting in a war with a Vancouver Sun reporter whom he called an “abortion promoter.” Once, Gord Watson went south to attend a pro-life conference in San Antonio, a big event. Joe Scheidler, the Chicago pro-life leader, put it on. Great guy, thought Gord. At one of the big sessions, a fellow stood up and spoke about pro-lifers being condemned for violent acts. “We are moderates, the speaker insisted. We don’t lynch abortionists, we don’t blow up abortion mills.” Pause. Grin. “Not that we have any moral problem with that!”
Gord thought about it. If you have a belief, don’t you have to back it up? What is the line between belief and action? He could feel the tension between pro-life camps on the issue. One night he was pulled aside and asked to attend a private meeting at a motel off the freeway. Why not? The motel had its own steakhouse. My kinda place, he said to himself.
He went to the assigned room. A man asked him questions. How long you been active? Where you from? Family? Gord told him about his dad’s service in Korea.
“You know anything about firearms?”
Gord looked at his interrogator, puzzled. Bit of an odd question, wasn’t it?
“Ever had any sort of military training?” His mind raced. This guy’s assessing whether I’ll take up arms for the movement, he thought. He reflected later that it was probably fifty-fifty that he was being assessed as either someone they hoped would shoot, or feared would shoot.
Gord wasn’t sure where he stood on the violence option. The moral logic was unavoidable: Hey, you kill babies, you set yourself up for bad things to happen to you. But could he bring himself to hurt a doctor, attack him, shoot him, even? He wasn’t against it in principle, but no. He was a loose cannon, but not stupid. He did not want to go to prison for good. The interview spooked Gordon Watson. He stopped going to the States after that.
***
In the summer of 1994 a man stopped at a post office-box in Maryland. He’d been living in a trailer in Delaware of late, but it was a short drive across the state line. He opened the box he had obtained under the name “Kevin James Gavin,” date of birth June 8, 1951. The papers had finally arrived, from the sportsman club in Maryland. A membership application. The club had a shooting range. The man wrote on the form that he
“A full-tilt Bible-thumper,” he said. “That’s me. I’m it.”
He was there on the street preaching the gospel of life. Mainstream pro-life types didn’t do that. Gord felt they were happy just to sit around and talk about it over coffee.
He used to tag along with his father to political meetings. Dad was a bit of a hell-raiser on that front, enjoyed the battle. Gord would go further than that—he would be nastier.
It’s the B.C. election of 1991 and there’s Gord Watson on TV, tearing a strip off a candidate. Someone lunges at him, a full-out brawl begins, and Gord manages to get the mike, his shirt torn, yet appearing collected as can be—this is great stuff—and he politely asks, “Can I address the chair, please?” The TV journalists there take to him like moths to a flame, cameras rolling, and: “Abortion is murder, and I think British Columbians deserve the right to have a referendum on it.”
The pro-lifers loved it, this 42-year-old firecracker who stood up and said what they all believed, fearless.
“Betty,” he later said to veteran pro-lifer Betty Green, “I’ll make you look like sweetness and light.”
Others in the movement couldn’t quite figure him out. He ended up in and out of jail, alternately the darling and pariah of the movement, constantly writing letters, getting in a war with a Vancouver Sun reporter whom he called an “abortion promoter.” Once, Gord Watson went south to attend a pro-life conference in San Antonio, a big event. Joe Scheidler, the Chicago pro-life leader, put it on. Great guy, thought Gord. At one of the big sessions, a fellow stood up and spoke about pro-lifers being condemned for violent acts. “We are moderates, the speaker insisted. We don’t lynch abortionists, we don’t blow up abortion mills.” Pause. Grin. “Not that we have any moral problem with that!”
Gord thought about it. If you have a belief, don’t you have to back it up? What is the line between belief and action? He could feel the tension between pro-life camps on the issue. One night he was pulled aside and asked to attend a private meeting at a motel off the freeway. Why not? The motel had its own steakhouse. My kinda place, he said to himself.
He went to the assigned room. A man asked him questions. How long you been active? Where you from? Family? Gord told him about his dad’s service in Korea.
“You know anything about firearms?”
Gord looked at his interrogator, puzzled. Bit of an odd question, wasn’t it?
“Ever had any sort of military training?” His mind raced. This guy’s assessing whether I’ll take up arms for the movement, he thought. He reflected later that it was probably fifty-fifty that he was being assessed as either someone they hoped would shoot, or feared would shoot.
Gord wasn’t sure where he stood on the violence option. The moral logic was unavoidable: Hey, you kill babies, you set yourself up for bad things to happen to you. But could he bring himself to hurt a doctor, attack him, shoot him, even? He wasn’t against it in principle, but no. He was a loose cannon, but not stupid. He did not want to go to prison for good. The interview spooked Gordon Watson. He stopped going to the States after that.
***
In the summer of 1994 a man stopped at a post office-box in Maryland. He’d been living in a trailer in Delaware of late, but it was a short drive across the state line. He opened the box he had obtained under the name “Kevin James Gavin,” date of birth June 8, 1951. The papers had finally arrived, from the sportsman club in Maryland. A membership application. The club had a shooting range. The man wrote on the form that he
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