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THE NAMES OF 38 PEOPLE WERE PRINTED IN BOLD letters on separate
pieces of white paper. They were carried to a table and placed underneath rocks
to protect them from the wind. The church across from the parking lot summoned
thoughts of a holy procession, with an altar, prayers, and homilies reminding
us of the lives of the dead.
Ben Haas, director of The Religious Coalition of Nonviolent
Durham, welcomed the more than one hundred attendees to a service of grieving.
The 29th Annual Vigil Against Violence took place at the Elizabeth
Street United Methodist Church. Because
of Covid-19, last years vigil was conducted virtually. The naming of the dead
reminded the people present of the worst part of Durham. The senseless deaths
of men and women.
It was a mixed crowd of the varied hues of Durham, mingled
with a group of politicians who have made reducing homicides part of their
platforms. Javiera Cabellero, who suspended her campaign for mayor, stood
beside Nida Allam, Wendy Jacobs, and Mayor Steve Schewel. On the opposite side
of the parking lot, Elaine O’Neal stood near DeDreana Freeman. I was positioned
close to both in an area packed with grieving family members.
The distance exposed more than paces between bodies. The detachment
summoned a reminder of both political and societal dissimilarities adding to
the pain.
I thought about and prayed for Allam as I looked for names
on the Durham Memorial Quilt. The quilt was started by Sidney Brodie in 1994
after the senseless death of two- year-old Shaquana Atwater in Few Gardens. I
cried after closing my eyes and calling the names of Allam’s friends – Deah Shaddy
Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha – all murdered by
a white man with a history of threatening Black and Brown neighbors in Chapel
Hill, NC.
I was reminded of how political distance often lies. Allam
belonged next to me as we grieved the deaths of the 38 people with names on
white sheets of paper. My desire to frame others as adversary was met with a
common pain that transcends labels we create to protect distance. I found five
other names to add to the blues of Tia Carraway’s memory. I remembered standing
with her family as we identified a body battered by bullets and rigamortis.
Thirty-eight names on white pieces of paper.
The comments reverberated like an echo – the same message
kept coming back. All of us need to work against this common enemy. This is our
problem. It could happen to anyone. It could happen to you. The same message
kept coming back. The long line of names on the quilt forced an even more
painful memory. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this eulogy.
The blue sky and gentle wind conceived the backdrop for
confusion. Beautiful days aren’t made for memories like this. I thought of
gloomy skies and torrid winds. I thought of the bitterness of death stirring uncontrollable
moans of Black mamas in a church packed with a troubled community. I imagined
the sound of a Black gospel choir singing “Precious Lord, take my hand.”
I saw blue skies, felt a gentle wind, and heard the
mingling of white and Black voices troubled by incessant death. I felt the lure
of distancing preventing the breakthrough of new possibilities. My imagination captured
the explosive bang of bullets. My prayers sought the refuge of a community
unwilling to surrender to making this a normal memory.
Thirty-eight names on white paper.
Thirty-eight people killed in 2020. They have mothers and
fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some have children too young
to remember the day their parent died.
It is easy to miss the story when pain owns the moment. The
story isn’t a political agenda. It’s not the race of the victims, or the
vicious cycle leading to their deaths.
It’s the making of a holy moment, with names on white paper
escorted to an altar underneath the blue sky with a gentle wind. Its collective
tears mingled like incense in a bowl lit in the presence of our sacred truths.
Its naming a certainty deeper than death – our hope and faith in a world not
known for this type of misery.
Thirty-eight names on white paper.
My prayer, no more paper.
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