Sunday, June 21, 2015

Playing Dead In Order To Live: A Reflection on The Terrorist Act at Mother Emanuel


At 110 Calhoun Street, in Charleston, South Carolina, a little girl played dead, after a white male terrorist shot no less than five clips of ammunition piercing at least 9 brown bodies during what was a prayer service.  The gunman, now identified as Dylann Roof, sat through an hour of prayer service, at Mother Emanuel church before offering a cringe worthy diatribe on why Black people in the US had to go; and after offering it, he followed his words as he executed black preachers, teachers, elders, mothers, fathers, politicians, and ushers.  However, a little child survived this incident by playing dead.

The thought of what that child endured in that time period has made me cringe, cry, pray, and curse.  As I sat at a conference more than 700 miles away, I thought about that little girl, and the many who were directly involved in and victimized by the incident.  And, I thought about the many ways my story laid on the floor of that church bleeding out in agony.  You see, I am from South Carolina, and I am a graduate of Lexington County schools where Dylann Roof attended school.  I was raised in the AME church, and a preacher.  I am an Alpha, like brother Pinkney.  I attended CAU, like sister Cynthia Hurd.  And my family has been in the process of designing a family reunion in Charleston, where we had hoped to visit the famed Mother Emanuel AME Church.  For me, there are too many touch points that connect my life to those who went to church to seek Jesus' abundant life, and unfortunately found themselves dying after prayers that surely spoke of hope.

Meanwhile, in Indianapolis, I'd been seeking to make sense of my training institute where I had been putting difficult questions of race and culture on the table for Fraternity and Sorority professionals.  At the conference, I'd been pressing my colleagues to think about how conceptual frameworks of race work in our organizations, as we sat on the grounds of a Republican affiliated country club and hotel.  As many Black colleagues found themselves having taboo conversations about race, Black greek life experiences, and the challenges of working in predominantly white institutions, we began to form a small circle sitting next to each other as our facial expressions often indicated when we felt we were being fed political rhetoric, or outright lies about some southern fraternity/sorority traditions.  There were many times, we asked questions, but there were also quite a few times we set silent, seeking to not jeopardize burgeoning relationships and careers.

While we could have never imagined that the day before the close of the conference someone would walk into a Black church and shoot up the place, that was exactly what happened, pushing us to consider both the merits of our time at the conference, and how we might navigate the conversations that would later ensue.  It was a sobering and saddening moment.  While I found out late Wednesday night about what had happened, I really began my reading of the event on Thursday afternoon as I sat waiting in the hotel lobby.  Immediately, the stories of AME congregants sitting in the church caused uncontrollable tears to roll down my eyes.  I would periodically put down my phone because I couldn't take much more, but I would undoubtedly pick it up, seeking to know more, as my phone beeped with updates from friends around the country who wanted to touch base with me about the incident.

As I read the story of the young girl who played dead, I thought about the meaning of that - that a child would play dead in order to preserve her life.  What a heavy thought when we consider our lives.  This revelation manifested: it's funny how many of us play dead every day, trying to preserve our own livelihoods.  Now think about that for just a moment.  What does this really mean, you ask?  I'm wondering how many black people in places of leadership remain silent, IE dead, as black people wait for our advocacy.  How many black business professionals remain silent even as they note the depth of inequity in the economy? How many black education professionals stand silent in meetings where their ability to understand and advocate are necessary for student access?  I'm wondering right now, how many black pastors will overlook the nuances of race on this coming sunday morning, choosing to play it safe in the pulpit?  

Too many of us are playing dead every day that we live, work, and play in spaces of privilege.  Our respectability politics, our lack of cultural competency, and our lack of race consciousness, as well as a eurocentric, white supremacist system (along with its many actors) that leaves children lying on the floor playing dead as gunshots ring out.  Over the course of the past year, I continue to learn that while it may be unpopular, I have a responsibility to speak life and advocate for communities in peril.  The seminal question of the early 20th century asked in the Black Women's Club movement continues to be important:  "How will you move the race forward?"  Positions of advocacy are important in Republican Country Clubs, in meetings with Vice Presidents, at our Fraternity gatherings, and in our churches.  To sit in silence about racism and domestic terrorism, even as we advocate for better compensation packages for ourselves, is to stand outside of the traditions that make it possible for us to have access.  

Tonight, I don't just grieve the people who died, I also grieve a president who can't say race in a lame duck period of his tenure.  I grieve black pastors who talk about destiny and prosperity, but not about race, responsibility and community.  I grieve professionals who mumble under their breaths about things that should be voiced aloud.  I grieve students who collect opportunities for themselves, without asking themselves how they will use what they've been given to empower the world.  I grieve black people willing to say ain't that a shame, but nothing else.  I grieve. I grieve. I grieve.

Though Denmark Vesey's church is invoked in this passage, I am reminded of something that another radical black voice said.  Meet Nat Turner, who once said before his own death:"…I reverted in my mind to the remarks made of me in childhood, and the things that had been shown me – and as it had been said of me in my childhood by those by whom I had been taught to pray, both white and black, and in whom I had the greatest confidence, that I had too much sense to be raised, and if I was, I would never be of any use to any one as a slave."  As such, I have decided not to play dead in times of convenience, because no child should ever have to lay down in pulpits meant for hope playing dead as gunshots ring out...hoping to live to see another day.