I grew up in a multi-cultural community, Homestead, Florida. I can't call it good or bad...it is what it is...I call it home. My friends were a rainbow of beautiful colors. In our high school, ethnicity was a mix of about 40% "white people" or of European descent, and the other 60% a varied heritage descending from Cuba, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Africa, Mexico,and many more countries. Our school district is the second-largest minority-majority public school system in the country. While our culture might be different; language accents, holidays, foods, fashion, we benefited from the diversity. While we respected our unique heritage we also embraced and identified with each other as Americans. We did not divide ourselves on the basis of color. We divided more based on goals, academics, athletics, behaviors, which is why I can look at pictures from my high school student government, chorus, Honor Society,sports teams and see a melting pot of friends. I don't care your ethnicity, if you were a trouble-maker then chances are we would not be socializing together, My town and high school was not a paradise. Recent stats note Homestead as one of the top 10 most dangerous small cities in our country. Not favorable recognition. but we have been fortunate to lead a relatively peaceful life in our hood. (Maybe the sign near our avocado farm, "Trespassers will be Shot," is an effective deterrent.) I recently researched some statistics on my former high school; nearly 80% of the 4000 students receive free or reduced lunch due to their families' low income levels.Homestead is not typical small-town America. It is diverse, it is violent, it is poor; it is also patriotic, industrious, agricultural, spiritual, and the last stop before you visit the lovely Florida Keys.
My background shaped my response and interpretation of violence when it affected my extended family in North Carolina. When I was home on college break, preparing to depart for an internship to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, we received a devastating phone call. Although my immediate family lived in Florida, every other branch from our family tree extended into small, often rural towns, scattered throughout North Carolina. One of the highlights was visiting our aunts, uncles and cousins. Typically we would go first to Rockingham where my Mama Mac, Aunt Betty and Aunt Arlene all lived along the same street. We would play in the creek outside of Mama Mac's home, trample through her exhaustive garden, hide in the woods and basically roam from one house to another. After the initial excitement subsided we would load up in the car to visit my dad's side of the family, our beloved Aunt Jewel and Uncle Lewis in Ellerbe, N.C. "Over the river and through the woods," would be the most adequate description of the rolling hills we counted until finally we got to The Hill....the one, which once crested, illuminated the brilliant Shell sign signaling we had arrived at the Braswell's Grocery.
This little country store and gas station was like Santa Claus' North Pole to us kids. Old fashioned Coca Cola coolers, Yoo Hoos, Nehi grape soda, candy counter...and don't forget moon pies! My Aunt Jewel kept an adjoining section as her personal fabric store. Women would stock up on fabrics, thread, supplies. Aunt Jewel was a crafty, creative, down-to-earth lovely woman who wouldn't hesitate to gift you extra material, instructions, or a glass of her sweet tea. Together they manned the store morning and night, through many holidays and weekends. They were not wealthy but they sure were rich. Rich in friends, love, respect generosity....and rocking chairs. Their little store always had 6 or 8 rockers situated around a wood burning stove. Primarily men, both black and white, would come in for a soft drink, Ritz crackers, maybe a ham and cheese sandwich and take a break from working in the cotton and tobacco fields. These fields were directly across from the store and line the country-side, hundreds of acres. This town of Ellerbe was small, and perhaps some would say racially divided....however, as a visitor, it seemed to my young Homestead eyes everybody mingled with love and respect. My siblings and I would often sit behind the cash register and "ring people up," taking pleasure in our ability to count change and bag groceries. The most fruitful days were "race weekends." A stream of cars would be headed toward Rockingham and Charlotte for Nascar. Although it meant more work, my aunt and uncle were grateful these weekends brought in more customers.
So, when I was 21, I heard the phone ring followed by a deep, guttural, anguished cry. My dad received the news that his sister-in-law, my Aunt Jewel, had been killed in a robbery at their quaint country store. As I recall, my uncle went outside on this particular day to pump gas for a customer. This was typical for my Uncle Lewis --full service to all customers, kind, making pleasant conversation with both friends and strangers. According to police reports, he gassed up this stranger's old car and then told Aunt Jewel that, since it was relatively quiet, he thought he would go to the house for a bite of lunch. Their house was just 50 yards away and they had an intercom system that connected the store to the house. As either would take lunch they could hear if a crowd may require extra assistance, thus they would set aside their tomato sandwich and return to the store. The man sat in his car for a bit, having asked Uncle Lewis if it was o.k. to "rest a spell," before returning to the road. Uncle Lewis assured him that it was fine. This man was overheard from the intercom entering the store and purchasing a few items from Aunt Jewel. She rang him up and walked with him to the door where, in her southern accent, she advised him, "Drive safely out there, lots of traffic today." He could then be heard re-entering the store and approaching my Aunt Jewel at the cash-register with a Chinese SKS assault weapon, redeemed at a pawn shop earlier that day in exchange for a few appliances. Ordering her to open the register, she naturally complied, gave him the roughly $69 from the drawer, held up her hands, begged for mercy and he shot her five times point blank. My uncle heard the commotion, the rapid gun fire, and he grabbed his twelve-gauge shotgun. He saw the man leaving the store with the weapon at his side and saw his wife bleeding and pulseless behind the counter. Uncle Lewis got a shot off...busted the man's rear windshield but was unable to stop the vehicle. Meanwhile my aunt lay dying in a place that had been woven with love, generosity, stories, colors, and sweet-tart candied bracelets. Uncle Lewis called for an ambulance and police.
The twenty-five year old man was eventually caught and arrested and found guilty by jurors.(We all, as tax payers, still feed him and give him a warm place to live in jail, likely for the rest of his life.) My aunt was rushed to the hospital and as is true in small-towns, my mom's niece was the ER nurse who worked feverishly to save her. Their interventions however were futile against the brutality of the bullets. This man should never have been on the streets, he had multiple arrest records and a history of armed robbery. Her killer was a black man. He could have been red or yellow, black or white. The color didn't matter, the hurt would have been the same. Evil and violence comes in all colors, evil and pain does not discriminate. We all feel it. What is worthy of mention however, given the current news, was the response from my uncle, from his family, from the community.
I delayed my trip for my internship and flew to North Carolina. The town was reeling from my aunt's murder. Aunt Jewel loved everybody and everybody loved her. I stood in the receiving line for at least 4 hours. I hugged as many grieving, shocked black folk as white folk as hour after hour people lined beyond the funeral home, to share their respects and honor my aunt's life. My uncle had anger, but not racial anger. He was angry at evil, that criminals steal and rob, not from fellow criminals, but from the innocent. Criminals kill the innocent, the beloved, the kind....of all colors. Because of my childhood, my background and my experiences, and granted my experiences are that of a white girl, I don't see our country as a racist country. There are people in our country who are haters, there are people in our country who are racists, there are people in our country who are killers, there are people in our country who are evil. There are people who are angry and choose to demonstrate their anger with violence. There are also people, like my uncle, who felt anger and demonstrated with love.
I don't understand the whole Ferguson story, I am sorry a young man lost his life. I am sorry an officer felt his life was in peril. I am sorry for police officers who lose their life in the line of duty. I am sorry my Aunt Jewel lost her life while simply tending to her country store. Responding to violence with violence seems, on the one hand, natural. when the violence is directed.toward the perpetrator.(Heaven knows I had a few dreams where I shot her killer.) But to respond with violence toward an entire town? Perplexing as Ellerbe, N.C. responded not with hate but with love. So much love expressed toward my uncle at his treasured wife's funeral. There was no racial divide, men and women of all colors shed tears and and wallowed in grief. There was no violence, no looting, no protests, no fires set in outrage that a serial criminal would kill an innocent woman. We congregated in love. Love for our fellow brothers and sisters who believe that spirit and humanity, compassion and kindness, extends beyond skin color; who believe love is stronger than hate. If given the choice between demonstrating peace or violence, love or hate.....what would you demonstrate? If we protest something despicable like racism or murder, must the protest be violent? My uncle's legacy, of responding to violence with love, creates a lasting impression for how I choose to live and to love. What do you protest? How do you demonstrate? Who do you represent? What is your legacy?
Thank you for reading.
My background shaped my response and interpretation of violence when it affected my extended family in North Carolina. When I was home on college break, preparing to depart for an internship to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, we received a devastating phone call. Although my immediate family lived in Florida, every other branch from our family tree extended into small, often rural towns, scattered throughout North Carolina. One of the highlights was visiting our aunts, uncles and cousins. Typically we would go first to Rockingham where my Mama Mac, Aunt Betty and Aunt Arlene all lived along the same street. We would play in the creek outside of Mama Mac's home, trample through her exhaustive garden, hide in the woods and basically roam from one house to another. After the initial excitement subsided we would load up in the car to visit my dad's side of the family, our beloved Aunt Jewel and Uncle Lewis in Ellerbe, N.C. "Over the river and through the woods," would be the most adequate description of the rolling hills we counted until finally we got to The Hill....the one, which once crested, illuminated the brilliant Shell sign signaling we had arrived at the Braswell's Grocery.
This little country store and gas station was like Santa Claus' North Pole to us kids. Old fashioned Coca Cola coolers, Yoo Hoos, Nehi grape soda, candy counter...and don't forget moon pies! My Aunt Jewel kept an adjoining section as her personal fabric store. Women would stock up on fabrics, thread, supplies. Aunt Jewel was a crafty, creative, down-to-earth lovely woman who wouldn't hesitate to gift you extra material, instructions, or a glass of her sweet tea. Together they manned the store morning and night, through many holidays and weekends. They were not wealthy but they sure were rich. Rich in friends, love, respect generosity....and rocking chairs. Their little store always had 6 or 8 rockers situated around a wood burning stove. Primarily men, both black and white, would come in for a soft drink, Ritz crackers, maybe a ham and cheese sandwich and take a break from working in the cotton and tobacco fields. These fields were directly across from the store and line the country-side, hundreds of acres. This town of Ellerbe was small, and perhaps some would say racially divided....however, as a visitor, it seemed to my young Homestead eyes everybody mingled with love and respect. My siblings and I would often sit behind the cash register and "ring people up," taking pleasure in our ability to count change and bag groceries. The most fruitful days were "race weekends." A stream of cars would be headed toward Rockingham and Charlotte for Nascar. Although it meant more work, my aunt and uncle were grateful these weekends brought in more customers.
So, when I was 21, I heard the phone ring followed by a deep, guttural, anguished cry. My dad received the news that his sister-in-law, my Aunt Jewel, had been killed in a robbery at their quaint country store. As I recall, my uncle went outside on this particular day to pump gas for a customer. This was typical for my Uncle Lewis --full service to all customers, kind, making pleasant conversation with both friends and strangers. According to police reports, he gassed up this stranger's old car and then told Aunt Jewel that, since it was relatively quiet, he thought he would go to the house for a bite of lunch. Their house was just 50 yards away and they had an intercom system that connected the store to the house. As either would take lunch they could hear if a crowd may require extra assistance, thus they would set aside their tomato sandwich and return to the store. The man sat in his car for a bit, having asked Uncle Lewis if it was o.k. to "rest a spell," before returning to the road. Uncle Lewis assured him that it was fine. This man was overheard from the intercom entering the store and purchasing a few items from Aunt Jewel. She rang him up and walked with him to the door where, in her southern accent, she advised him, "Drive safely out there, lots of traffic today." He could then be heard re-entering the store and approaching my Aunt Jewel at the cash-register with a Chinese SKS assault weapon, redeemed at a pawn shop earlier that day in exchange for a few appliances. Ordering her to open the register, she naturally complied, gave him the roughly $69 from the drawer, held up her hands, begged for mercy and he shot her five times point blank. My uncle heard the commotion, the rapid gun fire, and he grabbed his twelve-gauge shotgun. He saw the man leaving the store with the weapon at his side and saw his wife bleeding and pulseless behind the counter. Uncle Lewis got a shot off...busted the man's rear windshield but was unable to stop the vehicle. Meanwhile my aunt lay dying in a place that had been woven with love, generosity, stories, colors, and sweet-tart candied bracelets. Uncle Lewis called for an ambulance and police.
The twenty-five year old man was eventually caught and arrested and found guilty by jurors.(We all, as tax payers, still feed him and give him a warm place to live in jail, likely for the rest of his life.) My aunt was rushed to the hospital and as is true in small-towns, my mom's niece was the ER nurse who worked feverishly to save her. Their interventions however were futile against the brutality of the bullets. This man should never have been on the streets, he had multiple arrest records and a history of armed robbery. Her killer was a black man. He could have been red or yellow, black or white. The color didn't matter, the hurt would have been the same. Evil and violence comes in all colors, evil and pain does not discriminate. We all feel it. What is worthy of mention however, given the current news, was the response from my uncle, from his family, from the community.
I delayed my trip for my internship and flew to North Carolina. The town was reeling from my aunt's murder. Aunt Jewel loved everybody and everybody loved her. I stood in the receiving line for at least 4 hours. I hugged as many grieving, shocked black folk as white folk as hour after hour people lined beyond the funeral home, to share their respects and honor my aunt's life. My uncle had anger, but not racial anger. He was angry at evil, that criminals steal and rob, not from fellow criminals, but from the innocent. Criminals kill the innocent, the beloved, the kind....of all colors. Because of my childhood, my background and my experiences, and granted my experiences are that of a white girl, I don't see our country as a racist country. There are people in our country who are haters, there are people in our country who are racists, there are people in our country who are killers, there are people in our country who are evil. There are people who are angry and choose to demonstrate their anger with violence. There are also people, like my uncle, who felt anger and demonstrated with love.
I don't understand the whole Ferguson story, I am sorry a young man lost his life. I am sorry an officer felt his life was in peril. I am sorry for police officers who lose their life in the line of duty. I am sorry my Aunt Jewel lost her life while simply tending to her country store. Responding to violence with violence seems, on the one hand, natural. when the violence is directed.toward the perpetrator.(Heaven knows I had a few dreams where I shot her killer.) But to respond with violence toward an entire town? Perplexing as Ellerbe, N.C. responded not with hate but with love. So much love expressed toward my uncle at his treasured wife's funeral. There was no racial divide, men and women of all colors shed tears and and wallowed in grief. There was no violence, no looting, no protests, no fires set in outrage that a serial criminal would kill an innocent woman. We congregated in love. Love for our fellow brothers and sisters who believe that spirit and humanity, compassion and kindness, extends beyond skin color; who believe love is stronger than hate. If given the choice between demonstrating peace or violence, love or hate.....what would you demonstrate? If we protest something despicable like racism or murder, must the protest be violent? My uncle's legacy, of responding to violence with love, creates a lasting impression for how I choose to live and to love. What do you protest? How do you demonstrate? Who do you represent? What is your legacy?
Thank you for reading.
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