Civil Rights Up Close
During the first two months of my 12 years teaching at the University of Louisville, two cross-burnings and a mass murder-suicide launched me into a world that was far beyond the Madison, WI bubble I had enjoyed for the previous 7 years.
Cross-burnings were something I heard about, but had never really explored the depth of decay at their foundation. These federal crimes, coupled with the introduction my Black students gave me to their therapeutic gospel world on Sundays, laid the foundation for my involvement with some wonderful Black colleagues. They mentored and invited me into a greater understanding of the African American experience in America because those in Louisville with Southern roots lived with the intergenerational trauma that came from centuries of systemic racism on this continent. Initially, I learned about the needs of Black college students and some of the hopes and challenges that are part of their life. I also learned about the burdens of Black women in their extended families and how central they were to so many people. The list goes on and on. For example, here are just a few of the many, many burdens they face:
Health risks from a lack of representation in healthcare
Financial inequities
Economic disparities stemming from segregation
Intergenerational trauma as a residual of slavery and generations of systemic racism
Greenwood Cemetery began as part of segregation.
Generations of Black Americans honor the strife and the determination of their ancestors here.
During this time I had many life-changing experiences. To this end, I was able to revisit the memory of one of these in February 2024 during a pass through in Birmingham AL after speaking to a conference for Marriage and Family Therapists in Huntsville.
In 1985, I visited Birmingham with my dear friend, Dr. Pat Walker. Pat’s sister, Joyce Wade, was on the board of directors of the Carole Robertson Center in Chicago. She introduced Pat to Alpha Robertson, the mother of Carole Robertson who was one of the Four Little Girls killed in the 1963 KKK bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. The bombing unleashed nationwide horror at the destruction of this violent racism. Mrs. Robertson was gracious and welcoming as she took us under her wing for the day and gave us a civil rights tour of Birmingham, from neighborhoods that were terrorized with bombings to this tragic event at the church. The sites and memorials stay in my mind today:
Greenwood Cemetery
Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. Bomb was in the lower right corner of the basement where children went after choir practice.
The marquee of the church on the day of the bombing —
“A Love That Forgives.”
Hearing the story from a mother’s perspective was a sacred privilege that has grown even more important to me over time. She mentioned how she needed to change her home church so she could be out of the limelight of the movement and have some privacy to grieve the death of her daughter. In hindsight, I recognize how hard that must have been to be torn between the solidarity of the fight combined with a need to grieve the shocking loss of your beloved child.
After living in Southern California for the last 22 years, I have had a number of pass throughs in Birmingham. I learned that Mrs. Robertson had died, which led me to research and locate these family graves at the Greenwood Cemetery. Upon finding them, the stark invisibility of the grave site under a shade tree reminded me about the dangers of grave desecration that plagued the innocent during the 1960’s and beyond.
It was a modest, no-frills family plot. Nothing that would suggest the central role they played in the history of America.
They may have been afraid to have their loved-ones found and terrorized yet again. That happened on numerous occasions in other places. I grieved for them to have more recognition.
My first visit allowed me to reflect on who was here and the lives that meant so much to so many.
On the second visit, I took one of my doctoral students, Nikita Tate-Casanova, before her dissertation defense, and we decorated the graves of Carole and her parents.
(with Nikita April 2015)
Going for a third time last February, I was not prepared for what I found. I was accustomed to the surroundings and the other graves that were signs of love and devotion. But as I got out of my car, a splash of honor, dignity and love exploded even twenty yards away.
There, reaching toward the shade tree like an open arm was a tall tower of respect and admiration. I looked around. Was I in the right place?
2024
“Hey!” it said to me, “Come and see how far we’ve come!” Was I really seeing this? Not just the tower, but pictures embossed upon it. I didn’t really get past the “Hey!” before the sobs erupted. All my controlled sadness from the years of shadows flowed into indescribable joy.
Alpha and Carole smiling for all to see, smiling at me. Greenery and nature’s mulch nourished the ground.
A stately bench with all the time in the world to collectively grieve. With Mrs. Robertson, we can mourn, reflect on and celebrate these unsung heroes.
Engraved expressions of love came from the Jack and Jill Club (https://www.jackandjillinc.org). All four girls are listed together.
I wasn’t about to sit down. I paced and circled and sobbed, paced and circled and sobbed, paced and circled and talked to them, paced and circled with joy.
Mrs. Robertson was again welcoming me into her world. A proud and beautiful world.
“We cannot change the past, but we can let it break our hearts.” -Unknown
This quote sounds a little like James Baldwin. Maybe Maya? If I am making this up, I’ll take it. If someone knows the author, please contact me above.
I was ready to be broken-hearted. I was ready to forgive and acknowledge some progress (at that moment!). The late Melissa Inouye has spoken about “repentance by proxy.” I can always do better than my ancestors. They would want that. And so, this was cleansing for my soul – washed by Mrs. Robertson’s magnificent nobility, having the time for openly paying my respects. Now, I was purified by the belief that she is still with us.
I recalled her words of reconcilliation at the end of Spike Lee’s award-winning documentary, Four Little Girls (1997).
“I worked hard not to feel anger and hatred. But . . . I did. And I just had to work on it. And I had to kind of keep my spirits up so that I could help my husband keep his up and the other folk around me. We had good friends and family who gave us a lot of support. And I just had to work with it and pray . . . gradually, it came about. Because the hating of people wasn’t going to do me any good. It would hurt me worse than it would them. So I think I conquered it.”
Now, that bright, joyful smile of hers beams over my shoulder.