Charleston: Forgiveness, Truth, Reconciliation, and Change

 

 

On the evening of June 17^th at a Bible study group in Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina in the United States, nine people were shot and killed.  It is important to know and say their names.  They were:  Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Clementa Pinckney, Cynthia Hurd, Tywanza Sanders, Myra Thompson, Ethel Lee Vance, Daniel L. Simmons, DePayne Middleton-Doctor, and Susie Jackson.  They were gunned down by a 21 year old man obsessed by race and by hatred.  The names of the nine dead have been added to the roster of those sacrificed to racism and white supremacy in America.  And the community is once again asked to forgive.

Forgive whom?  Forgive what?

Once again, the Christian doctrine of forgiveness is invoked.  That doctrine, however, speaks of forgiving those who express sorrow for their actions and ask for forgiveness.  This expectation is related to, but different from the expectation that we love one another without exception, including those who have wronged us and not asked for forgiveness.  That is the situation with Dylan Roof.  That is the work of truth and reconciliation at the individual level.  And yet there is more to the tragedy in Charleston.

The shooter may have pulled the trigger nine times, but his actions were just the latest shock and awe manifestation of the racism that is endemic to this nation. The events of June 17^th call forth memories of the bombing death of Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Addie Mae Collins and Denise McNair.in a church in Birmingham, Alabama; the murder of 14 year old Emmet Till in Money, Mississippi; the murder of James Byrd in Jasper, Texas, the deaths of….the list is too long for this writing.  Each of these deaths was a personal act with a victim and perpetrator and each was much more than that.  Each of those acts along with the ones that we continue to be witness in this ongoing American holocaust have at its root the toxic system of racism and white supremacy.  This system permeates our culture, our history, our politics, our economics—the fabric of our lives.  How does one forgive a system? How does one forgive the cultural manifestations of this disease that afflicts every community? How does one forgive the structures that support it?  One cannot.

When will that truth be acknowledged so that we can begin the work of reconciliation and move forward to change?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Didn't Expect

For Jimmy, forty years later

“I didn’t expect him to be in such good condition.” That phrase was all the sister remembered of the day.

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The orders came and the jokes began. Of course they knew how to pronounce it. They had been hearing it for weeks—Phuoc Long. But they laughed anyway, at humor that was stupid, or funny, or vulgar, or racist. Humor tinged with fear. Humor with a black heart.
“I hear you’re going to fuck long.”
“Hey man, I’m outta here, I’m on my way to fuck long.”
“Fuck long. Yeah bro’, that’s what I’m known for.” Hands slapping. Laughter.

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In another time, had they been there for another reason, they would have drawn in its beauty. Variegated green on rolling hills, sinuous marshes enveloped in mist in counter point to heat shimmered expanses of stunted bushes and scrub grass. They would have commented on the sharp shadows and the rising and falling drone of an accompaniment of insects. But the men in the squad had their orders and so did the men on the other side. They were on patrol and looking for each other.

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Still for hours. They watched the shadows change. Then a sound. Hollow, metallic. The officer’s hand. A signal. Fan out.

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The kid from Brooklyn. He crouched, listening, muscles taut, eyes on alert. Scanning. Ba Ra, the mountain, loomed without shadow, a surprise in the distance across the flatness. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. About three yards away. A small flicker. He could see it clearly. He didn’t expect it and watched, fascinated. He’d never been so close to a snake. Not in Flatbush. Diamond shaped head. Slick. Intricate pattern of browns and blacks. He stifled a laugh. Ladies shoes. A flick of its tongue. Motion. Quick. Quick.

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They couldn’t understand why he stood up. The sound itself had evil in it. First a whistle and then something deafening. The concussion knocked him into the air and back. They could see it happen. They watched. Silent. It was like a movie. Grainy. Slow motion.

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A voice cracking.
“Man, Watson! What did you do that for? What did you stand up for?”
There were no marks on him. Just trickles of blood from his nose and one ear. Dried now because they had had to wait. The sergeant wiped them away.
He looked at one of his men, his face tortured. “I didn’t expect him to stand up!” Anger loose. Despair tight.
“Man, Watson! What did you do that for…? Shit.”
They carried him back.

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The father, mother, sister and brother stood, shell-shocked in a semi-circle. The smell of candles. Of flowers. The father put his hand on the smooth wood and looked at his son through a screen of tears. He said, to no one in particular, “I didn’t expect him to be in such good condition.” That was all the sister remembered of the day.






When we entered high school back in 1970, we knew that ____ had lost her brother in Vietnam. It was not something we spoke about. We were thirteen and fourteen and war and death though in our living rooms and on the news each night were still too abstract, too distant, and just too much for a group of just-turned teenagers in a Catholic school for girls. Despite the fact that we wore MIA bracelets and talked about the immorality of war, the death of a brother was something that was too big for us, and so we didn't speak of it.
A few years ago, that group of just-teenagers, now grown women with our own kids--teenagers and young adults--gathered and talked and laughed, and gossiped. Once again a war raged. This time, we had the words for the undertow that we all felt. And ____ told the story of the loss of her brother. This time we could listen and we could hear. And so forty years later, this is for Jimmy.