Rhetoric Race and Religion
On Wednesday evening, June 17, Dylan Roof attended a Bible Study service at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. After studying with members of the congregation for about an hour, he promptly got up and started shooting. Before he left, nine people, including the pastor, South Carolina State Senator, Clementa Pickney were dead. Here at R3, we thought we would collect some of the raw emotions from people who are grieving this act of terrorism.
Read part 1 here
Read part 2 here
What this judge did is a classic “All Lives Matter” move in the face of a moral outrage that screams Black Lives Matter. Do the nine victims of the massacre matter? Sure they do according to this judge, but so do the (yet still alive) lives of the (equally victimized) Roof family. Do you see the lack of true empathy here for Black lives? Do you see the holier than thou white supremacist bullshit rationalization for needing to hold up the value of white life (that by the way hasn’t been murdered mercilessly in a church), that has to face the reality of a child who has perpetrated such suffering and evil in the world.
Although our nation is dealing with both trauma and tragedy in the wake of the shootings in Charleston, today is an opportunity for preachers to give a word of hope to people that seem to be always haunted by trauma and tragedy. Preach Jesus, not in the abstract but in the crux of life. Love on Black folk today without qualification or false equivocation. Preach with the type of passion and fire that causes the demon of White supremacy to come out of the soul of America and drown itself into a sea of sin that it will never appear on the shores of humanity ever again.
Ida Septima Ella Baker-Chisholm
He killed mostly Black women, but it’s barely even a discussion. I am exhausted by this constant erasure of Black women’s pain and suffering in this culture. It’s so pervasive that it shows up everywhere. I was talking to a white woman about education disparity. I shared a brief story about how hard I fought to protect my daughter’s spirit from teachers who tried to devalue her. I talked about how teachers always questioned if she had “help” doing her work, because she regularly outperformed her white peers. She listened to me talk about those challenges. After I was done, she said “yes, I would add that this is an issue for girls too.” I didn’t even have the energy to remind her that, my daughter is a GIRL. Unless it’s happening to white women and girls, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t real or visible until it hurts white women. I abruptly ended the conversation and walked away. I am done. Simply exhausted.
Zandria F. Robinson
This morning, Assata asked, “Racial inequality won’t ever end, will it?” I said, “not in our lifetime.” She hung her head. I told Tauheed what she had asked, and then he went into the kitchen to talk to her. I overheard him say, “you still do your art. You don’t let that stop you from doing your art.” Though this week’s events were especially heartbreaking, this is a typical exchange in our home.
I do not have the words to appropriately acknowledge the fathering that my husband, Marco Pavé, Tauheed Rahim II, does for Assata and Jordan. Whether it’s spearheading a loving (i.e., not shaming or patriarchal) social media and boys conversation with Assata and her friend or easily comforting a teething Jordan, he is always there. Both of the children benefit from his art–Jordan has it in his genes, dancing to his father’s music and everyone else’s; Assata benefits from his consistent encouragement of the art above all else.
Moreover, this man fights to be a father every. single. day. Whether it is honing his craft and insisting on being compensated for his art and labor to support his children, or working to ensure he can co-parent with Jordan’s biological mother, his dedication and patience are extraordinary.
I am so thankful that we are on this parenting and rearing and loving journey together. After the disruptions of the past 11 years, I finally feel settled in the family that was intended for me.
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