Well, my friends, it’s been a little while since I shared “My Two Cynts.” I thought it fitting to take a moment to tell you about my day.
My six-month-old angel graced heaven 25 years ago today, August 21, 1994. So, I thought my day would be somewhat consumed with thoughts of our daughter, Special K. I woke up and offered a prayer of gratitude for bringing us through that experience. I offered another one for the blessing of our four children. That was it. Something else took center stage today.
Over the years I’ve shared my top ten life lessons. The first one is “always remember where you came from.” I usually add “…because you might forget where you’re going. Your starting point sets the compass for your journey.”
Today, I made it back to my starting point. I visited where I came from: the Collegeville neighborhood of Birmingham, Alabama. Joined by my mother—who left Birmingham in March of 1960, when I was a baby—my sister, two uncles and an aunt, we ventured back in time to Bethel Baptist Church and my mom’s old neighborhood. To say it was enlightening is an understatement. I didn’t live it, but now I have a better understanding of it. It being the historic, ugly and courageous activities of the early fight for and against Civil Rights.
Coincidentally, I had just finished reading You Can’t Go Wrong Doing Right, authored by my dear friend, Bob Brown. Still in awe of his story and the various “Movement” accounts from his perspective, I started my Birmingham adventure wanting to see some of the places that served as centerpieces for the fight for freedom, fairness and an end to Jim Crow.
I wasn’t quite ready to hear my mother’s firsthand account of Christmas 1956, when Bethel Baptist Church—her church—was bombed. She described how her pastor, Rev. Shuttlesworth, emerged from the chaos and preached a sermon like no other, one with fire, conviction and determination. My mom’s best friend was directly across the street at her grandmother’s house when she saw the bombs being planted.
While we were both standing on Bethel’s steps, my mom pointed across the tracks and through the trees to where she lived on that memorable day. Moments later we were standing there, on the vacant land that was once the floor of the house where she was raised. A place that gave me shelter for three months—but was now giving me much more.
Yesterday, we visited the 16th Street Baptist Church, a place my mother frequently visited and considered her other church. Yes, the place where four black girls were killed as a result of more bombings. I ran up the church steps because I was eager to touch the door, then walked to the park across the street where four statues honor Cynthia, Carol Denise, Addie Mae and Carole. Behind them stands a statue of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and in front of the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute across the street, a statue of the Rev. F. L. Shuttlesworth.
The backdrop of my mother’s voice merging with my uncle’s voice was at times a surreal experience. They actually lived to tell incredible stories about hate, courage, drinking from colored water fountains and, in my uncle’s case, being jailed for two weeks because he defied my grandma’s fear-steeped wishes and marched for justice. He was locked up in the same jail where the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote the Letter from Birmingham Jail. This history hit closer to home than ever before.
So, as I head back to Dallas tonight, here are the two questions at the top of my mind: Am I being a good steward of the compass? And can I use the experiences of my two tour guides as my starting point to navigate the rest of my journey? The knowledge and insight gained over these last 48 hours should allow me to serve better. Remember, better is my word for the year. I have to be better when I land in Dallas.
I have to serve my family better. I have to serve my work team better. I have to serve my community better. I have to stand up for justice, fairness and freedom better. I have to sit quietly and listen to God’s voice better. I have to promote unity better. I have to be better in taking action against the remnants and sometimes quilts of injustice that still exist almost 63 years after the infamous Bethel church bombing and some 56 years since the killing of the four little girls on 16th Street.
Birmingham, Alabama is where my story began. There’s something special and particularly moving about gaining knowledge from storytellers and tour guides who were actually there, up close and personal, in a segregated Birmingham.
I’ve been extraordinarily blessed. My geographic compass pointed to California, where—despite my zip code—I received a great education and was afforded many wonderful opportunities. My inner compass now says it’s time to take all of my experiences and Birmingham insight and do something. I’m supposed to be better and do better as a result of this magnificently moving 48-hour experience.
Do you know where you came from? Are you using your starting point as the compass for your journey? How can we be better?