What can I say?
What words could encompass the cocktail of disgust, despair, and anger that has churned in my belly since a white, racist gunman murdered nine black leaders during a prayer meeting at Charleston, South Carolina’s Emanuel AME church?
Why is the media so quick to label a white shooter as “crazy” and “disturbed?”
How can wearing Confederate flag and Rhodesia patches and writing a manifesto calling for a race war be considered anything but racist?
How did a five year-old girl who survived the massacre know to lie down and play dead?
How can the black community recover from this act of terrorism and feel safe in places of worship, on the street, or in any public place?
How long will it take for the media to sweep this rampage under the rug?
In what ways must we, as individuals, examine the ways in which we excuse racist statements by saying, “Oh, it was just a joke”? What happens when these “jokes” stop being jokes?
When will America, as a nation, confront its racist past and stop pretending that race “doesn’t exist”?
I refuse to give the shooter air time he does not deserve. Instead, I choose to honor the dead whose lives were stolen by hate.