Sudden violent death creates concentric ripples which spread ever wider washing and crashing over the immediate family on to extended family, friends, and colleagues. Those ripples ebb back to the deceased’s family. Sometimes, what rolls back is sympathy and genuine compassion. In other instances, a dangerous rip tide threatens to pull the family back into gothic familial deep water where the recently aggrieved find themselves struggling to maintain their footing and keep from drowning in those passive aggressive human voices whose motives are more self-centered than benevolent, more angry than comforting.
The men from my dad’s side of the family met each Thanksgiving weekend at a hunting cabin in Pickens County, Alabama. It is in actuality an old farm house adjacent to the Tom Bigbee River surrounded by grazing land for cattle and a combination of pulp and hard wood trees unique to the south. What started as a weekend of hunting and drinking two generations prior was now an occasion for the patriarchal Gunn family to meet, enjoy supposed fellowship, watch football, talk politics, and share a few meals—the drunken part of the weekend long banished once my grandfather became the family head. He and his eldest son, my uncle, devoutly subscribed to fundamental Christianity of the hair shirt variety so drunkenness was soon off the weekend’s agenda.
My history with my dad’s side of the family was strained at best due in large part to events prior to my birth. My grandfather expected his children to remain close in proximity and obedient to his will even in adulthood. Most of my aunts and uncles never left Benton, Kentucky a rural western Kentucky town that remained segregated as late as the 1980s which was the last time I had any reason to visit where they were born and either entered into the family insurance business or started other business ventures funded with grandfather’s wealth. Though his parents pushed dad to take up medicine as a career, I always felt they wanted him to return home to practice after meeting the right woman (meaning one they approved), marry, and live their idea of an idyllic Christian American lifestyle.
While an undergraduate at Vanderbilt, my dad met my mom. It was an odd relationship bordering on taboo in that they were distantly related and even shared the same last name. As if out of some stereotypical Appalachian folk tale, their father’s knew each other, had grown up together in rural Tennessee, and dad’s grandfather and father fucked my mom’s dad in a business deal which haunted my mom’s dad and tainted his relationship with his cousin/future in law for the rest of his life. I do not know when the respective parents found out about the illicit relationship, but I know neither side approved initially. My mom had to tell her parents when she found herself pregnant in the late 60s with what was to be my older brother. Her father, looking out for his daughter’s welfare, concerned what people would say (about the relationship generally and a child out of wedlock specifically), and distrustful of the paternal half of the relationship, offered her a way out of the pregnancy. Though abortion was illegal, he knew people and offered to arrange one for his young pregnant daughter to save her the embarrassment of single motherhood in 1968 and to prevent a stigmatized union with a family he strongly mistrusted.
Ultimately, mom and dad married and opted to have Chuckie. My mom’s parents accepted the marriage and though dad’s family feigned happiness, looking at how events developed over the years, I believe they never accepted or supported the marriage and looked on their children—and future grandchildren–as abominations. When my older brother died in a car crash as an infant, I think dad’s family secretly hoped it would end the shameful marriage that compromised their beliefs and socially embarrassed them. I also believe they felt it was the result of some divine justice for a sinful relationship. Chuckie’s death, though, kept my parents together, and as my dad finished medical school at the University of Kentucky, I was born in the fall of 1970.
After entering into what his parents considered an incestuous relationship, dad broke the unwritten family code by moving his family out of Kentucky via Nashville, TN to south Alabama upon completion of his residency at Vanderbilt University Hospital in 1977. For an old southern patriarch with deep religious convictions, this decision, I believe, solidified the rift between son and father: a rift my sister and I would suffer though we had no part in its creation but because we were the embodiments of dad’s sin and betrayal.
The Faulknerian twists of my family took years to unravel and now that most of the principals are gone, I still have only a fraction of what I can only describe as something resembling understanding; yet, I realized by early adolescence I wanted limited interaction with my paternal grandparents. After turning away from their faith at an early age and in light of their distance toward my sister and I, my summer visits stopped just before I turned 13 leaving the Thanksgiving get away my only regular contact.
By the Thanksgiving trip of 1992, I attended college in Birmingham and was dating a woman who asked that I spend the holidays with her family. Dad called me on Monday Thanksgiving week and asked that I go with him to the cabin. I refused and told him I had plans, adding that I did not want to see those people (his family) anyway. He asked again to the point of telling me I was going whether I liked it or not. Our relationship was strained, at best, since he and my mom divorced when I was 13, but we were making in roads toward piecing it back together. Due to his persistence and despite my reservations, I agreed to meet him in Aliceville with the intention of spending the long weekend with his family.
This year’s trip was mere days after Clinton defeated Bush 41 and with that victory came the hope that 12 years of harsh, trickle down conservatism was at an end. Conservatives nationwide were shell shocked and angry to the point of histrionics similar to what our current president experiences. Anti-Clinton propaganda and conspiracy theories were rampant even before he took office. The country was seriously divided then—almost foretelling how it is now, and the anti-big government conspiracy theorists’ tales only heightened a pejorative Clintonmania. In this atmosphere, my dad and I drove up to the cabin where our bathed in blood Christian Conservative moral majority relatives waited.
The first night went well enough. Sons, brothers, and cousins exchanged some slightly barbed jabs but the conversations remained civil enough, and we shared some laughs. I went to bed that first night thinking maybe I misjudged my relatives. It had been a year since I last saw them, and I thought this trip could be different.
By lunch, the next day, I could feel antipathy as clearly as I could smell the beginnings of Thanksgiving dinner—that recognizable mix of celery, carrots, and onion. I noticed my dad mixing a drink early from the back of his car, and thought how odd that a 47 year old man had to hide a mixed drink, and there was palpable disapproval in the air. It was not necessarily disapproval of the drink, or the current political developments, but a morally superiority that tinted and tainted the air as the Jack Daniels darkened the water in my dad’s glass.
I stayed outside most of the afternoon avoiding the heated political debate going on indoors. As night came on, the conversation grew louder and more heated. I walked back into the cabin where my dad was seated in a recliner obviously buzzed if not just plain drunk. His father and brother were on his left, and his cousin and brother-in-law were on his right. It looked as though he was holding court, but besieged on all sides. Everyone around dad described how Clinton would destroy the country, how more regulation would kill small business, and how a pro-baby killing president would ensure the country’s damnation.
I realized it was time to leave as voices got louder and it looked as though things might get physical. I remember my dad saying something derogatory about the Pope, at which point his brother had heard enough. Though he was no Papist, my dad’s defense of abortion outraged my uncle. As I continued to pack, he approached my father as though he intended to hit him. There existed between them an odd brotherly rivalry which bordered on sadism. Dad had polio as a child which limited and stunted his physical development and also, I think, impacted the brothers’ relationship. Instead of violence, he looked into his brother’s eyes with hatred and told him, “if you keep talking this way, there will be no one to bury you.” I was done at this point, told my dad we were leaving, and we spent the night in a hotel away from the abuses of his closed minded family.
Four months later, an anti-abortion protester named Michael Griffin assassinated my father. According to dad’s side of the family, they were unaware he performed abortions though he performed them for the better part of two decades in part or exclusively. After years considering his motives and silence, I think I finally have some degree of understanding. If his family was willing to write him off over a presidential candidate and some offhand remarks about the pope, then they clearly would have disowned and damned him to hell for murdering babies. He hid the abortion portion of his career, not out of shame or fear, but as some perverse familial life preserver. He wanted and needed that familial connection and feared he would lose it if his family knew the truth. Ironically, they disowned him over vagaries as opposed to the issue that took his life.
He never spoke to or saw his family after that November night in Aliceville. Though my mom and dad had long ago divorced and he was remarried, he opted to spend his last Christmas with us at my maternal grandmother’s house in Tennessee. Whether he was too proud to call his brother and father, or whether pride held back their hand makes little difference: he was dead to them and they to him.
My first conversation with any of my dad’s family was later in the afternoon of 10 March 1993 when my uncle called to ostensibly see how we fared. I do not remember him expressing any sympathy for the loss; rather, he wanted to tell me how we (meaning he) would arrange the funeral. He wanted to control all arrangements and return the prodigal son, in body only, to his old Kentucky home. I was initially dumbfounded that my uncle, the supposed adult in the room, was more concerned about a dead body than his niece and nephew. In his mind, he knew best, I was a child, and I should simply obey. In clear terms I told my uncle to fuck himself, that we had things under control, welcomed him, as well as the rest of the family, to the funeral we planned, and asked that he kindly leave us alone unless he had some honest assistance or sympathy to offer.
We buried dad during the worst winter storm in recent southern history. It was in mid-March less than two weeks prior to spring’s beginning, but Winter Storm ’93, as the media dubbed it, hung coldly over the funeral and attendant proceedings. Though my dad’s parents attended, they refused to sit with the family in the chapel of Cortner’s Funeral Home in Winchester, Tennessee—an antebellum home converted into a funeral parlor whose walls are as familiar to me as a childhood home given my 40 year history of funerals in that discomforting comfortable ritual death house. Moreover, they did not attend any of the mandatory post burial potlucks which may or may not be uniquely southern. Instead, they sent two of my cousins as emissaries seeking information but providing little. They ensured my sister and I need not worry, our grandfather had our interests at heart, and he would see we were protected (she was 17 and I was 22). Of course, these entreaties proved false.
The family rift which began as a small fissure before my birth evolved into an unbridgeable canyon in death. A murder which should have strengthened family ties unalterably crushed what little connection remained. I never had any meaningful exchanges with my father’s side of the family after that November night in 1992.
Almost 150 years ago, two brothers from the Gunn family donned uniforms: one was grey and the other was blue. Family lore holds at their last meeting they crossed swords, turned, and walked away never seeing each other again. Twenty years ago, in a somewhat devalued sense, history repeated rendering a family into bits due to one brother’s adherence to outdated traditionalism and religious fundamentalism while the other looked forward toward equality and inclusion. They did not realize at the time, though perhaps they should have, that the future was murder. Dad’s politically and religiously motivated murder perfectly reflects the harsh and unbreachable polar divide which is increasingly entrenched and present in our country today. Micro recapitulates macro on occasion does it not?
My children know their uncles, aunts, and cousins as phantoms, if at all—their great grandmother and father died long ago. Like me, they must live with the repercussions of choices and actions which occurred well before their births. While my eldest once expressed interest in meeting the family he’s never known, my youngest may not even know they exist. Surely, I bear responsibility for their ignorance; however, I selfishly never pursued reconciliation though there have been overtures. Unfortunately, I doubt the sincerity of such invitations and after 20 years of solitude from those who were my family, I choose exile over guilt riddled reconciliation. It is not an exile of hatred but of indifference which is admittedly worse I suppose.
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October 26, 2013 at 12:17 pm
: ( Family…the family we choose over the years…those are the important ones..they love us unconditionally!! The “blood relatives” many times are only there when it is time to “get something”!! I know your Dad is proud of the people you and your sister have become!!
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October 26, 2013 at 12:20 pm
Thanks, Lorraine, we can’t help what we’re born into but we can chose to whom we commit.
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October 26, 2013 at 12:34 pm
Reblogged this on Defending The Last Abortion Clinic and commented:
Another great post from David Gunn Jr about the impact of anti choice terrorism on his family- Thank you David!
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October 27, 2013 at 11:29 pm
What happened to the terrorists?
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October 28, 2013 at 5:32 pm
Griffin is still in prison in FL.
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October 28, 2013 at 6:09 pm
Is he a Christian?
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October 31, 2013 at 1:01 pm
He was a self professed Christian, yes. That would make him a Christian terrorist, no?
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November 7, 2013 at 3:00 pm
Does that make you an atheist terrorist David since you defend the execution of other people on a daily basis?
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February 10, 2014 at 7:14 am
Merely to follow up on the uptade of this theme on your web site and want to let you know simply how much I treasured the time you took to create this valuable post. Inside the post, you spoke on how to really handle this challenge with all convenience. It would be my personal pleasure to gather some more tips from your web-site and come as much as offer other individuals what I have learned from you. Thank you for your usual fantastic effort.
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October 26, 2013 at 12:35 pm
Thank you for sharing this David!
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October 26, 2013 at 1:43 pm
I can’t imagine being in your father’s position with the family not knowing he performed abortions. Then, one day he is on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Wow. But families are what they are. And they can be hard work. Indeed, I’ve written how my father did not really appreciate my advocating for abortion clinics for quite a while. He eventually came around and expressed how proud he was of my work. Still, it was very hard in the beginning…
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October 26, 2013 at 1:50 pm
It’s certainly difficult to alienate those who would otherwise support you. Too often politics or ideology becomes the only barometer of how we perceive someone and their relationship to us.
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October 26, 2013 at 2:27 pm
You have always been a great writer. Thank you for sharing this. We have so many parallels, friend. I am so happy that you shared this. You are in the driver’s seat to create a new family history beginning with your children. Sometimes breaking ties with dysfunction is the best formula for a loving family. I will never forget that day. Seeing your face on television the next day,and knowing that you were going through something similar at the same time, made my reality seem less surreal.
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October 26, 2013 at 4:03 pm
DSR, I’m intrigued by your comment and thank you for sharing. Please let me know if you want to discuss further.
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February 11, 2014 at 2:11 am
Next time We discover the weibtse, I really hope it doesnt dissatisfy me personally around that one. I am talking about, I understand it had been my personal option to understand, nevertheless I truly believed youd possess some thing fascinating to express. Just about all We listen to is actually a lot of whimpering regarding some thing you could repair for individuals who werent as well hectic looking for interest.
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October 26, 2013 at 9:44 pm
Dear Dr. Gunn, Thank you for this eloquent, trenchant essay. Would it be possible for you to contact me at jacobsonjodi@gmail.com? I would like to connect with you on this.
Thanks so very much,
Jodi Jacobson, RH Reality Check
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October 26, 2013 at 9:46 pm
Dear Dr. Gunn,
Thank you for this eloquent and trenchant essay. I would like to get in touch with you but do not have your contact info. Could you kindly contact me at jacobsonjodi@gmail.com? Thanks so much. Jodi Jacobson, RH Reality Check
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October 26, 2013 at 10:53 pm
I sent you my email address. Feel free to contact me at your convenience.
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October 27, 2013 at 11:31 pm
Why are there so many christian terrorists?
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October 28, 2013 at 2:31 pm
They feel powerless and need to prove to themselves that they are potent. Being “pro-life” is one of the safest ways to achieve that proof: it requires no training, no discipline, no sacrifice of time or money, yet provides one with the opportunity to bully people almost at will, with no civil or criminal consequences.
Self-help on the cheap.
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October 28, 2013 at 6:10 pm
Wonderful article, thank you for your stories
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October 28, 2013 at 9:04 pm
Thank you for the reading.
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October 28, 2013 at 10:53 pm
Thank you for telling your story David. I must agree that family we choose to acknowledge and nurture and who reciprocate in kind — are much more important, rewarding, and valuable, than blood kin that do not.
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October 29, 2013 at 10:31 am
Good point.
I always felt that way, I just never knew how to say it . .
Thanks.
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October 29, 2013 at 8:00 pm
Wow..and more wow..and very sad but unfortunately I can identify with the family dynamics. Families are very interesting to say the least..and sometimes better left and forgotten.
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October 29, 2013 at 9:32 pm
Joyce described three nets which trap the would be artist (I’d argue free thinker/independent thinker): nation, religion, and family. It’s only by liberating oneself from all that true expression can arise as you’re not concerned with offending any.
That said, there are nets worth the entanglements. I’m lovingly entangled now with my kids and hopefully, they will welcome it to some degree when it’s their turn to untangle by degree.
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October 31, 2013 at 8:28 pm
Oh I agree, there are nets that are definitely worth being entangled in, and others that will just drag you down until you drown. I try to avoid the nets that strangle and drown me, and opt for the nets that hug me tight with love and encouragement. We can only learn from our past and build nets of love and acceptance that entangle us with our children, that will support them and us through thick and thin, the good and the bad.
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October 30, 2013 at 2:13 pm
I’m subscribing to your blog, this was a wonderful to read.
What are you writing on next?
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October 31, 2013 at 1:03 pm
We have different writers so the subject matter changes. I’ve been on a biographical trend of late and publish about one a month (usually b/t the 16th and month’s end).
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November 6, 2013 at 11:00 am
David I do not agree in anyway with murder, and the man who killed your father was no christian, but your view is hypocritical. What is the moral difference between killing an adult and killing a child? How do you personally justify the murder of one human being and not another?
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November 11, 2013 at 2:58 pm
Linda, I do not know you and will reserve judgment about your intelligence, but your comment is one of the most elementary, irrational, illogical, judgmental, and monumentally uninformed pieces of self righteous drivel I’ve read in a long time. I am so sorry you go through life trapped in that overly simplistic and superior worldview you appear to have. If you want to find a way out, let me know. I have some great reading suggestions for you. Take a step into the light, Carol Ann.
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November 12, 2013 at 9:45 am
Light is not drowned in blood.
What is irrational, judgmental, or illogical in saying that the death of a human being is the death of a human being? It is a very simple concept indeed, murder is murder and wrong is wrong. You cant get anymore simple than that.
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November 15, 2013 at 3:58 am
This is one of the most inspiring stories that I have read about courage, love and family. Thank you for sharing your story. It was quite moving. https://www.summitmedicalcenters.com/
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August 6, 2015 at 7:48 pm
Your father saved my life in February 1993, shortly before he was assassinated. I was pregnant as a result of rape at 16 and was awash in horror and pain and knew that I would personally not survive unless I had an abortion.
Your dad was kind, supportive; a gentle man, which is what women need in such a confusing and strange situation.
After his murder, my teenaged outrage co-wrote an article for a certain women’s magazine about how your dad was killed for helping women like me. I received death threats that were withheld from me by the magazine.
Those things only make me scream louder for the rights of women and the hypocritical horrors of killing doctors.
I cannot imagine what you and your family have been through. I think of your father so often. He is a huge part of my life and who I am today. And I know I’m not the only one.
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August 8, 2015 at 7:54 am
The so-called “pro-lifers” do what they do when they know they can get away with it. If they believe that they will be punished, they don’t do it. It’s part of the “win-win” game they have constructed for themselves. They want to be heroes, but they don’t want to be inconvenienced by having to sacrifice any of their higher priorities.
I once tried to get seven so-called “pro-life” churches to get their congregants to volunteer 600 hours a year working one-on-one with needy kids. Results? Nothing. But somehow they found the time to stand on the sidewalk holding signs that said, “Mommy, don’t murder me.” It was a much more convenient way for them to be heroes. It’s hard not to imagine those people are sick in the head.
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