I’ve heard it said the nineteen sixties began November 23, 1963 with the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. For some of us the nineteen sixties began September 15, 1963 in a church basement in Birmingham, Alabama.
This is another excerpt from Asia Minor. Daddy and his ladies are hanging out in B’Ham Alabama.
“Big cousin you would have enjoyed our trip to Birmingham. Jennifer, Dee, and I rode over one Friday afternoon a couple of Septembers ago. We wanted Miss Abigail to know her history, so we took her to visit the Civils Rights Museum there. Every summer she goes to New Zealand to visit. Jen’s parents make sure she understands what it means to be Chinese. I try to make sure she gets a Black perspective. And Jen helps out.”
“An old friend of Daddy’s arranged for a man named Winston to give us a tour of Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. Mr. Winston, we called him. He was a great tour guide.”
“You trying to teach Dee her history for real, huh.”
Yeah, and a little lesson about love and hate and Daddy said he’d been told Mr. Winston was the man for the job.”
“Why love and hate. Did something happen to make you feel like she needed the lesson.”
My turn to stare across the way. My eyes settled on a spot about a third of the way down the Irish slope. Even from here you could see it was a rough patch. Brush spilling out onto the path and sharp-edged rugged rock strewn all over this section of trail. It looked like a place where you could easily trip and take a tumble. I imagine toppling a ways down and wince at the thought. It looks like a place where you would rise bruised and bloodied after the fall.
I see Adrienne is right about this being a more difficult descent then it appears. Yeah, you could get hurt bad and if you’re unlucky you might crack your head on a boulder and go to meet your maker. Makes me think about…
I force my mind away from the thought. Adrienne stares at me. We seem to be taking the measure of each other quite a bit in this moment. Clucking my tongue against the roof of my mouth I tell her I’m okay. Her eyes pull me close for a long moment before she shifts her gaze. She raises her right hand to shield her eyes. “I guess it’s good you and Jennifer took her for that lesson. She needs it.”
“Yeah, I guess she does.”
“What did Dee think.”
“She was quiet when we first got there. That’s unusual for her.”
“Well, they were right around her age cousin. I mean Chicken Wing.”
A smile creases my face. “I can hear Mr. Winston now.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Tell me about it.”
It was a beautiful late summer getting ready to turn fall day. I love fall weather. In the south it’s close to perfect. We got a preview of the coming attraction that is a southern autumn. Air crisp, temperature hovering around seventy-five degrees, the sun warming our faces.
We approached the brick stairs out front which led to the church entrance. A breezeway guarded the doors A dome sat atop the brick structure. Stained glass windows lined the two rectangular facings framing the main section of the church. Plain windows open into the church basement. Sixteenth Street Baptist, a solemn structure, exudes strength. Jen looked at it wide-eyed. Dee and I could feel some future art percolating in her mind.
Pausing, “oh,” leapt from Jen’s mouth. “You can feel something happened here. Do you feel it baby? Dee pressed against Jen and nodded her head. After a long moment we trudged up the steps. A slight medium brown man with thinning gray hair opened the door as we reached the top of the stairs. He stood five eight, maybe five nine and looked to weigh around one hundred and fifty pounds. He wore a plaid short-sleeve shirt with gray wool pants and shiny black oxfords.
“Good afternoon,” he said smiling. “My name is Winston, and you must be the Thomases.” He reached his hand out to me and I clasped it. It was slight like Mr. Winston, but his grip was firm.
We shook hands and I replied yes, we are. I gave him my name, introduced him to Jennifer and finally said this is our daughter Abigail.
“Why you’re Jennifer Hon aren’t you?”
“I am. How did you know that?”
“I love your painting June. It speaks to me.”
Jen always curious about how her art affects people asks, “How Mr. Winston.”
“You can call me Winston Mrs. Thomas. Anybody who paints like you can call me by my first name. It reminds me of what happened here. That red death’s head reminds me of white people. That’s an evil face. But those tears say to me that all of them aren’t bad. But that death’s head sure feels like Bull Connor and the Klan all rolled up into one. I was in Atlanta a few years ago and I saw it hanging in a house in what do they call that neighborhood?’ A faraway look in his eyes Mr. Winston struggled to come up with the neighborhood’s name. We knew it was West End but gave him a chance to fish it from his memory. “Oh yeah, West End, that’s it.”
Mr. Winston smiled at Dee. “How are you doing Miss Abigail?”
“I’m fine Mr. Winston,” Miss Abigail replied and reached out to shake his hand. He shook hands with her. “How old are you,” he asked.
“I’m thirteen,’ Dee answered.
“That’s a good age to be,” Mr. Winston replied. “Your mom is a great artist. I cried when I saw that painting. It brought back some right fearsome memories. I was fourteen that day. Us kids were doing the service. I was upstairs when it happened waiting to get started. I can’t get the sound out my ears even after all these years. The walls felt like they were crying. Just like those tiles in June Miss Jennifer.”
Jennifer looked at him. “Thank you, Mr. Winston, and somebody who can smile like you remembering what happened that day deserves to be called Mr. I’m flattered. It depicts another great tragedy. You may be familiar with it- Tiananmen Square.
Mr. Winston nodded his head. “It’s amazing how cruel people can be to each other.”
Jen bounced her head up and down in agreement. “It is, but I can’t get over how someone could kill children. I know it happens, but I still can’t get over it. When I first painted it I was nineteen. It was a statement about China. How it is a great nation with tragedy in its DNA.
I told my husband America was the same way. I didn’t know about this bombing then. I only knew America could be as cruel as China in its own way.”
I nodded my head.
“I now know tragedy is both specific and universal. So is suffering. You’re not the first person who told me they saw The Civil Rights Movement in my painting. I painted it for my mentor. An artist named Qi Wong. It was to be a remembrance of China.” Jennifer’s face clouded. “Qi didn’t like it.”
“It worked out Mommy,” Dee interjected.
Jennifer smiled and rubbed Dat Dere’s shoulder. “It sure did Baby. Mr. Winston, I don’t believe in God. But if I did, I’d have to say She stepped in and put my painting in the right hands. My father-in- law bought it and a lot of Black people have seen it over the years. It gives comfort to Black people of a certain age. Even those who know it’s about China. Some of them talk about what happened here. Some of them talk about Emmett Till. Some of them mention Philadelphia, Mississippi.”
“That’s a lot of pain Miss Jennifer.”
“Yes, but what did Dr. King say. Unearned suffering is redemptive.”
“Excuse me Miss Jennifer, but you don’t sound like you’re from The United States. How do you know so much about the movement?”
I cut in and say, “She’s from the south Mr. Winston.”
“He means the southern hemisphere. I’m from New Zealand.”
“Miss Jennifer, I love your accent.”
“Thank you, Mr. Winston,’ she replies while she gives me the side eye. “You can’t hang around my mother and father-law and not know a lot about the movement. And Big Boy here taught me a lot,” she says gesturing in my direction. “I’m lucky.”
“And you don’t believe in God. Some days will make you question the good lord if not his existence. Come on, let me show you around.”
“Where do you want to start Miss Abigail?”
“May I see the basement,” Dee asked in a tiny voice.
“Yes Miss Abigail, you sure can. It’s been rebuilt so it’s not quite the same as that day. But it’s a monument to Denise, Ada Mae, Carole, and Cynthia. Did you know there was a fifth little girl who lived?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Winston, Sarah Collins. My Grandma told me about her. She got hurt pretty bad huh?”
“She did. She got glass in her eyes, and she says it affected her mind. She was a very good student before the bombing. She was never the same in school after that. And she lost her sister Ada Mae.”
Dee stared at him. “I hate white people.”
“Oh no Miss Abigail. You can’t feel like that. Although I know what you mean. I felt the same way too for a long time.” He bent down and looked her in the eye. “But you can’t hate. That’s what caused this. And I don’t ever want to see this again. Not in my church.”
Dee’s eyes shifted to her shoes from Mr. Winston’s face.
“He looked at us. “Come on, take my hand. I want to show you something.”
Dee muttered okay and grabbed his hand.
“Let’s go back upstairs.” He led us back up the steps and into the sanctuary. Filled with circular pews it was quite impressive. “They bombed this church because it is where people gathered in Birmingham to march. They shot us with water cannons and sicked police dogs on us. But we kept coming. So, they did this.” Mr. Winston’s voice cracked for a moment.
I saw Dee squeeze his hand.
“When they killed Emmett Till, that galvanized Black people. When they slaughtered these little girls, it galvanized the world. I don’t know why God took those children. Maybe it’s what it took to shake up first Black people and then the world. Miss Jennifer, that’s why I must believe in God. I believe in God so I can believe in heaven. And I know that’s where they are now. In heaven with the good lord where every day is a play day. Otherwise, I couldn’t get up out of the bed some mornings knowing what happened here.”
“My Grandpa Howard says heaven is for the living. A place where you know your loved ones are safe,” Dee told him. Jen pressed her right fingers to her lips and her eyes watered. She looked at Dee.
We moved to the front of the building. A window with a Black Jesus stood there. His hands outstretched like he was on the cross. His head hanging down.
“Miss Abigail, you see that stained glass window. It’s beautiful isn’t it.” Dee nodded yes. The people of Wales donated it to the church to let us know how sorry they were. Those were white people too.” He stared at Dee. “Miss Abigail, you can’t a tar an entire group of people with the same brush.”
“I guess,” Dee responded. “They were my age.”
“They sure were. And those people in Wales were as upset as you are. And a whole lot of other white people too. Really, Miss Abigail, a whole lot of other people period.”
Jennifer walked up behind Dee and wrapped her arms around her. “Baby, what Mr. Winston is trying to tell you is love is the answer to hate.” Because if tragedy is universal and specific so is love.” Shorter than Dee by five inches Jen rested her head on her upper back. “The love I found here with Daddy is the love Grandma and Grandpa Hon sheltered me with back home. Hate is everywhere in this world. But so is love. And if they’re both everywhere you need to decide which one you want to feel. I didn’t know what to think of Black people when I got here. But then I realized Black people are people. That’s what the people who did this refused to see. We’re all just people.”
“Yeah Dee, Mommy was nineteen when we met. But she was born old. Her paintings told me that. She’s not like any nineteen-year-old I’ve ever known. And I know we humor her and pretend she’s Chinese, but she’s just Jennifer. She’s your mommy, but Mommy’s my heart.”
“Now see now ya’ll are getting yucky,” Dee cracked, and Jennifer pushed her away. All of us laughed.
“She’s different for you and for me. That’s all I’m saying. Chinese doesn’t begin to describe her. And she’s different from Auntie Qi, right?”
Dee nodded her head.
“I don’t expect you to agree with us Miss Abigail. I know how I felt when I was your age. But when you leave here carry Ada Mae and Cynthia and Carole and Denise’s goodness with you because I knew them, and they were good people. And you acknowledge what hate did to them. And carry that window in your heart so you’ll know love is better. You promise me you’ll do that.”
“Yes sir Mr. Winston.”
“We’ve come a long way, Miss Abigail. We’ve even got a Black president. Ain’t that a glorious thing.”
Dee stared at me. “Yes sir, Mr. Winston.
“Good lets finish our tour.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Winston.”