Grieving for the Lost

As a young girl in Houston in the 60s, my exposure to racial unrest was minimal, as the kinds of events that occurred in other southern cities were not as widespread in Houston, Texas. I recall just a couple of years ago, Rev. William Lawson, Pastor Emeritus of Wheeler Avenue Baptist Church, explaining in a sermon that paralleled the civil rights struggle with the Old Testament struggle of the children of Israel, that there was some kind of negotiated agreement between local Black leaders and others of the paler national about desegregation. I do not recall demonstrations in Houston where people were assaulted with fire hoses or beaten or spat on or killed.

That is not to say there were no racial injustices; there were plenty, but not on the scale of Selma, Birmingham, Little Rock or other places. I can cite instance after instance of my own personal experiences, but this writing is about something so much larger than I; it is about all of us. Still, I have to get personal. Because observations, experiences, feelings and impressions are first personal. What one sees, takes into the mind, and filters through knowledge and past experiences, and, hopefully, objectivity, still has a tinge of "it’s personal." So the accumulation of stuff that one sees, hears and experiences day after day – the good, bad, positive, negative, indifferent, ugly, outlandish, vile, unspeakable, disrespectful, encouraging, savage and uncivilized – can be overwhelmingly depressing. And that is personal. Did you notice that the bad outweighed the good? It was so easy to think of the negative stuff. And that is depressing.

So, what does all of that have to do with weeping for the lost? I’m glad you asked. Fast-forward to the present, remembering a bit of what has happened in the past.

I do not believe in coincidence. While leaving Birmingham I took the wrong exit and found myself on the wrong freeway. Getting off at the next exit, I happened to look at my gas gauge which showed I had about a quarter of a tank of gas. Even a Prius can’t get very far on that, so I pulled into the first gas station I saw and filled up. Getting back on the street I began to make my way to the right entrance, and observed a sign – "16^th Street Baptist Church." Not yet realizing the significance of that sign, I headed toward 16th St. I cannot describe how strange this was. It was one of those funny feelings I get when something is about to happen and I have no explanation but just know the funny feeling means something. I turned right onto 16^th street, drove a couple of blocks, and there it was – the 16^th Street Baptist Church. I took advantage of parking on the street in front of the church and I got out of my car and looked at the building, taking note of this post

with painted messages that was just to the left. Then it hit me: this is the church that was bombed in the 60s, the church where the four girls were killed one Sunday.

As I walked up the steps that funny feeling was overwhelming. As I stood at the door of the church I knew I was looking at different doors and windows but it really hit me that this is where something painfully significant happened. This is where a house of God was attacked by people who claimed to believe in Him. This is where four young lives were destroyed and the lives of their families were changed forever.

My imagination ran wild, and in my mind’s eye I could see horror and violence — vicious dogs, men on horseback wielding clubs, others with fire hoses, people posing around bodies burned beyond recognition, hanging from trees, men behind bars whose only crime was an aspiration to be treated with basic human dignity and have the same rights as others. Tears streamed down my face, streamed freely as I stood there struggling to compose myself. Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I stop crying? Part of it was deep sorrow, part was gratitude and part of it was prayer.

I grieved for the loss of life. Only the Giver of life should take it.

I grieved for those girls who would never grow up and experience the joys and sorrows of having done so.

I grieved for the families who lost their precious, priceless treasures.

I grieved for the unjustifiable hatred.

I grieved for the senseless destruction and damage to God's house

I grieved that such evil existed in the first place.

I grieved that it still does.

Even while I grieved for the past, I grieved for the present –

That decades later racism still abounds.

I grieved for the hatred that still exists and for people who want to conserve a way of life that would stifle opportunities and rights of some so they can perpetuate their false sense of superiority.

I grieved for their ignorance.

And even harder, I wept for the lost, those who now take for granted what decades ago others fought so bravely and endured so much, even death, to obtain for themselves and their progeny. Those who do not vote. Those who refuse to go to school and get an education. Those who waste opportunities to improve their quality of life. Those who refuse to take responsibility for themselves.

And being keenly aware that the sacrifices made there and in other places by people I will never know, have impacted the quality of my life. I am grateful beyond words.

And I prayed. I prayed for the peace that we still don't have.
I prayed to see that peace before I breathe my last. 

John Lewis Should Not be Renounced, Denounced or Whatever

The only authentic African American of whom I know, is the son of an African man and an American woman.   While he is lumped in with all the rest of us members of the darker nation (if this term is unfamiliar to you, I commend you to Stephen Carter's The Emperor of Ocean Park), the timing of Barack Obama's birth excluded him from the experiences of folks like John Lewis.  

The problem is that John Lewis types exist.  The JLs of this country remind us of a time when folks were less accepting, less loving.    So many think they should take the superficial freedoms they have won and go away quietly, sink into a Lazyboy, channel surf and sip beer, watching endless hours of television -- guys chasing funny-shaped balls in open fields -- taunting, maiming, crippling, killing each other while audiences of sufficient number to populate small towns pay much too much money for the thrill of it all, and even more money for unhealthy food and drink --  until they die.

There are folks who think we should not remember the days when Americans of the darker nation, many times joined by Americans of the paler nation, subjected their bodies to billy clubs, well-trained dogs, fire hoses, jail cells smaller than my bathroom, nooses, and even the grave, to achieve what most Americans take for granted now.  And while the notorious acts of that era are no longer commonplace, let us not be disillusioned.   In many ways there is still a lack of acceptance. There is still a lack of love.   We see it and hear it all the time.  

Yes, the "N" word may be socially unacceptable, politically incorrect, or whatever.  But what about EXOTIC -- UNQUALIFIED -- OFF WITH HIS HEAD -- HE'S AN ARAB -- KILL HIM.   These words and phrases, no doubt uttered with venom and spittle spraying those nearby, reflect hatred that can be felt even through television.   I know, because I felt them.  And I felt the mob-type murmurings that followed -- felt them in my knotted gut.  And then I remembered what I saw on television decades ago.   Bodies plastered against buildings by the force of water from a fire hose.  Dogs barking and biting at flailing limbs.  Charred bodies, now faceless, hanging from trees that on any other day might be refuge from the sun.  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., lying in a pool of his own blood on a balcony of the Lorraine Motel.     These images, once viewed by this writer, who knows that but for the grace of God, could have been a subject of the photographer rather than a beneficiary of suffering, cannot be forgotten.  

A German-born Jewish American (too many labels for me, but necessary to make my point) works at a place I visit often.   During our last encounter I could tell that he was not having a good day.   It turns out that for the first time, he saw on television the night before, footage from the civil rights struggle of the 60s.   He expressed shock, dismay and disgust, having had no idea of what happened during that time, and confessed that it was nothing that he was exposed to in school; and because those events happened during his lifetime, they were in some ways even worse for him than the Holocaust.  We both agreed that neither of those events should be forgotten.  Their lessons are far too important for either to be glossed over.  If our kids can watch the gore and violence produced by television and movies, and can play video games fraught with purposeless violence, why must they be shielded from the reality of the 60s?

So I ask you, does John Lewis not have a right to remind us of the dangers of inflammatory speech?  Is it an okay thing for a speaker to evoke such language, but not okay to speak of the dangers of one doing so?  No.  Should we forget the struggles and sacrifices of the 60s?  No.  Should the JLs of the world be required to act as if their experiences are meaningless and forgotten?  No.  Should we all make sure those events are not repeated, even if it means dredging them up again to remind us?  What do you say?  I say YES, and that is my final answer.

Rather than renounce John Lewis, we should thank him for reminding us of the oppressive barbarism of the 60s and those who fought to overcome it.