1950's Project By Laura Zirkle
Hardly a day passes I don't think about it. I've asked God "why" too many times to count. Those girls are back in heaven now. They're with Jesus. Nothing I could say, no Bible verse could make their mamas stop crying. If you can get through seeing something like that happen and still believe, that's real faith. the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and it's not up to man to question when or why.
I was there that day, just like any other Sunday, about to give a sermon to the children. "The Love that Forgives." I still remember every word. Everything's so clear in my mind like it happened yesterday. You've never heard anything so loud in your life as that bomb. Louder than a freight train. The windows got blown out and broke into a million pieces. Going down into the church basement, digging through the wreckage, that's when I saw the girls- their bodies twisted up and mutilated. They were all stacked in a pile, like they clung together.
Every nightmare I have, the image of those four girls laying in the rubble is there. I know there was nothing I could have done. I am human and powerless and too often overcome with frustration and hatred. At times like these, I pray and the Lord gives me the strength to begin to forgive. Sometimes in dreams those girls appear before me, and it's the girls I knew. They're in their Sunday dresses and good shoes, with white wings light as clouds and golden halos. Floating in the air, they say to me, "it's alright, it's alright, tell our mamas it's alright," and I know it's the grace of God brought them home.
I was there that day, just like any other Sunday, about to give a sermon to the children. "The Love that Forgives." I still remember every word. Everything's so clear in my mind like it happened yesterday. You've never heard anything so loud in your life as that bomb. Louder than a freight train. The windows got blown out and broke into a million pieces. Going down into the church basement, digging through the wreckage, that's when I saw the girls- their bodies twisted up and mutilated. They were all stacked in a pile, like they clung together.
Every nightmare I have, the image of those four girls laying in the rubble is there. I know there was nothing I could have done. I am human and powerless and too often overcome with frustration and hatred. At times like these, I pray and the Lord gives me the strength to begin to forgive. Sometimes in dreams those girls appear before me, and it's the girls I knew. They're in their Sunday dresses and good shoes, with white wings light as clouds and golden halos. Floating in the air, they say to me, "it's alright, it's alright, tell our mamas it's alright," and I know it's the grace of God brought them home.
Birmingham Bombing by Callie Neal
As my head spins, I try to sort out what be goin on. I begin to look round for some answers, but come up wit nothin. All I can see is smoke and fire. As I start to walk around, I quickly find three destroyed bodies, unable to recognize who they be. Instead of answering my questions, my head fills with even more.
I ain’t believe what I see. Without thinkin, I sprint to the steps, but only to find that they ain’t no longer there. From my new position, a bit of light be able to catch my eye. Without pausin, I begin to follow it. Soon enough, I find myself starin into the chaos happenin on the street in-front of the church. Everyone is runnin around as if they be crazy. Almost all I can hear are angry voices, rocks bustin through winders, gunshots, and police sirens.
After leavin the buildin, I carefully began to walk up to someone to ask what be goin on. They continued what they were doing, pretendin they ain’t seen me. Cause of the conditions, whatever they may be, I decided not to take it too personally. I tried to get several individual’s attention, even yellin at a few of em. After failin many times, I eventually heard someone screamin my name in the distance. I sprinted toward the shoutin, ultimately discoverin the noise be coming from my sister, Sarah. As I stood in front of her, she still be screamin my name, rapidly tryin to find me. I tried to comfort her, get her to realize I be fine, even acknowledge me, but failed once more. Then the question flashed in my mind, “Why ain’t no one seen or hear me?”
I ain’t believe what I see. Without thinkin, I sprint to the steps, but only to find that they ain’t no longer there. From my new position, a bit of light be able to catch my eye. Without pausin, I begin to follow it. Soon enough, I find myself starin into the chaos happenin on the street in-front of the church. Everyone is runnin around as if they be crazy. Almost all I can hear are angry voices, rocks bustin through winders, gunshots, and police sirens.
After leavin the buildin, I carefully began to walk up to someone to ask what be goin on. They continued what they were doing, pretendin they ain’t seen me. Cause of the conditions, whatever they may be, I decided not to take it too personally. I tried to get several individual’s attention, even yellin at a few of em. After failin many times, I eventually heard someone screamin my name in the distance. I sprinted toward the shoutin, ultimately discoverin the noise be coming from my sister, Sarah. As I stood in front of her, she still be screamin my name, rapidly tryin to find me. I tried to comfort her, get her to realize I be fine, even acknowledge me, but failed once more. Then the question flashed in my mind, “Why ain’t no one seen or hear me?”
Emmett Till-Narrative
by Paige McLaughlin
“The south was a different world,” they told me. Racism and segregation ran
deep in Southern veins, no matter what the North was doing and no matter what
the Supreme Court outlawed. They told me to get down on my hands and knees and
bow to a white passer-by if the situation deemed it necessary and that no matter
what, I had to control my impulses. My momma kissed me goodbye and told me to be
safe.
I arrive in the town of Money, Mississippi and play with my cousins and the
other black boys in town. I boast of my life in the North and tell them all
about how I catch white women left and right. I want to prove myself to them; to
show them I’m already more of a man than they are.
“If you’ve got so much experience, prove it to us, boy,” they challenge me. I
accept the challenge, my ego allowing me to do nothing less.
21-year-old Caroline Bryant stands inside the store, eyeing me as I walk in.
I view her as she is: a woman. Being a young man, what is the harm in speaking
to her? I see none but simply wolf whistle in her direction on my way out,
impressing myself with my own boldness.
I leave Bryant’s Grocery and Meat Market with my challenge conquered to face
an old black man playing checkers on the porch.
“With that impudence you just pulled, you better hope no white folk get
ahold of you son. Get away from here while you still can,” he barked at me,
wariness flashing in his eyes, like he could see them coming for me already. I
ignore his warning and return to my uncle’s house.
The night is August 28, 1955. Part of me keeps my dim hope that I will be
able to get away with my actions unscathed, but anxiety is starting to take over
as I hear the old man’s warning on replay in my mind. When Caroline’s husband
and husband’s brother show up to take me, icy cold drips of fear rush into my
bloodstream and I long to run far, far away, back into the safe haven of my
mother’s arms. I watch my aunt and uncle plead with my captors for any kind of
ransom.
“For the love of God, don’t take this boy. He’s young and careless and
didn’t know what he was thinkin’. We’ll give you whatever we’ve got, just don’t
do this!” I watch their panic-stricken faces increase to horror when the men
shake their heads and respond.
“Matters like this don’t get by folks like us. It’s time for him to pay the
price for his mistakes.” They growled their words, speaking only to me and
seeing nothing else but myself: hopelessly defenseless. Evil, twisted grins
sprawl across their mocking and hungry faces. Fear strikes directly into my
heart.
I am being taken away, and I watch my happy, carefree-self float away as
pure terror completely overrules me. Time speeds up. My kidnappers find a place
to stop and continue with Part B of their plan. Their faces are malicious. The
hatred in their eyes burns straight to my core. I brace myself for the onslaught
of pain and can’t help but scream and scream and scream, praying someone will
find me and save me from this torture. HELP ME! I desperately try and call out,
the words reverberating through my head. Every cell in my body is begging for
relief but my voice is lost and I have no words, each attempt cut off into
gurgling screeches of agony. Strangely, thoughts are still flashing through my
mind as I’m beaten like an animal. I am young and free and had a long and
promising life in front of me. Now all I want is for it to be over. Why me? Why
me? Why me? I don’t deserve this. The injustice worsens my pain and I cry out
even louder, hoping for a miracle. Even as I’m watching the world around me
become a red and blurry haze and I can smell my own blood forming pools around
my mangled body, I can somehow still hope. But even with this faint hope I knew
I was dying. I didn’t even want to let the thought occur to me, but I knew. I
could feel it hanging over my head like an imminent thunderstorm. By this point,
the fear is gone. The pain is ebbing as a comforting dark veil washes over me
and starts to pull me somewhere else. Somewhere better where I can feel no pain.
They can hurt me no further. All I have left is my dignity and I plan on keeping
it until the very end.
“Still think you’re better than me?” Roy Bryant shouts at me as I lay
crumpled next to the river, broken on the ground in front of him.
“Yes”, I croak with as much spirit as I can, mustering up every last ounce
of strength left within me. My last thought is one of my Momma. I can’t bear to
think about how she will react to this. It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to
me. The pistol is raised. I hold my head as high as I can. Try not to cry,
Momma. I never let them win.
deep in Southern veins, no matter what the North was doing and no matter what
the Supreme Court outlawed. They told me to get down on my hands and knees and
bow to a white passer-by if the situation deemed it necessary and that no matter
what, I had to control my impulses. My momma kissed me goodbye and told me to be
safe.
I arrive in the town of Money, Mississippi and play with my cousins and the
other black boys in town. I boast of my life in the North and tell them all
about how I catch white women left and right. I want to prove myself to them; to
show them I’m already more of a man than they are.
“If you’ve got so much experience, prove it to us, boy,” they challenge me. I
accept the challenge, my ego allowing me to do nothing less.
21-year-old Caroline Bryant stands inside the store, eyeing me as I walk in.
I view her as she is: a woman. Being a young man, what is the harm in speaking
to her? I see none but simply wolf whistle in her direction on my way out,
impressing myself with my own boldness.
I leave Bryant’s Grocery and Meat Market with my challenge conquered to face
an old black man playing checkers on the porch.
“With that impudence you just pulled, you better hope no white folk get
ahold of you son. Get away from here while you still can,” he barked at me,
wariness flashing in his eyes, like he could see them coming for me already. I
ignore his warning and return to my uncle’s house.
The night is August 28, 1955. Part of me keeps my dim hope that I will be
able to get away with my actions unscathed, but anxiety is starting to take over
as I hear the old man’s warning on replay in my mind. When Caroline’s husband
and husband’s brother show up to take me, icy cold drips of fear rush into my
bloodstream and I long to run far, far away, back into the safe haven of my
mother’s arms. I watch my aunt and uncle plead with my captors for any kind of
ransom.
“For the love of God, don’t take this boy. He’s young and careless and
didn’t know what he was thinkin’. We’ll give you whatever we’ve got, just don’t
do this!” I watch their panic-stricken faces increase to horror when the men
shake their heads and respond.
“Matters like this don’t get by folks like us. It’s time for him to pay the
price for his mistakes.” They growled their words, speaking only to me and
seeing nothing else but myself: hopelessly defenseless. Evil, twisted grins
sprawl across their mocking and hungry faces. Fear strikes directly into my
heart.
I am being taken away, and I watch my happy, carefree-self float away as
pure terror completely overrules me. Time speeds up. My kidnappers find a place
to stop and continue with Part B of their plan. Their faces are malicious. The
hatred in their eyes burns straight to my core. I brace myself for the onslaught
of pain and can’t help but scream and scream and scream, praying someone will
find me and save me from this torture. HELP ME! I desperately try and call out,
the words reverberating through my head. Every cell in my body is begging for
relief but my voice is lost and I have no words, each attempt cut off into
gurgling screeches of agony. Strangely, thoughts are still flashing through my
mind as I’m beaten like an animal. I am young and free and had a long and
promising life in front of me. Now all I want is for it to be over. Why me? Why
me? Why me? I don’t deserve this. The injustice worsens my pain and I cry out
even louder, hoping for a miracle. Even as I’m watching the world around me
become a red and blurry haze and I can smell my own blood forming pools around
my mangled body, I can somehow still hope. But even with this faint hope I knew
I was dying. I didn’t even want to let the thought occur to me, but I knew. I
could feel it hanging over my head like an imminent thunderstorm. By this point,
the fear is gone. The pain is ebbing as a comforting dark veil washes over me
and starts to pull me somewhere else. Somewhere better where I can feel no pain.
They can hurt me no further. All I have left is my dignity and I plan on keeping
it until the very end.
“Still think you’re better than me?” Roy Bryant shouts at me as I lay
crumpled next to the river, broken on the ground in front of him.
“Yes”, I croak with as much spirit as I can, mustering up every last ounce
of strength left within me. My last thought is one of my Momma. I can’t bear to
think about how she will react to this. It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to
me. The pistol is raised. I hold my head as high as I can. Try not to cry,
Momma. I never let them win.