Though the Brown vs Board of Education Supreme Court ruling in 1954 admonished states to “end racial segregation with all deliberate speed”, the “Nashville plan”was to integrate one grade a year beginning in 1957, meaning that a complete desegregation plan would take 12 years to roll out. (Spoiler alert: The court case of Kelley v Nashville Board of Education was finally dismissed in 1998, ruled by a US district judge to be free of the remnants of state sanctioned segregation. So it clearly took longer than 12 years and that is a whole other story.)
Back to September, 1957, Nashville: 19 Black first graders enrolled in 8 elementary schools that were all white. On September 9th, one Black student enrolled at Hattie Cotton Elementary. On September 10th, in the middle of the night, a dynamite explosion destroyed a wing of the school. Hattie Cotton was closed for nine days, and re-opened without the young girl who had attempted to enroll. No one was ever charged with this crime.
That was 69 years ago today. I wonder if that little girl is still alive, a 75 year old woman now, and what she thinks about the bombing, and the days leading up her brave attempt to go to that school. And I wonder what she thinks of the days and years afterward, when “school choice” was a thing that didn’t exist for her, at least in Nashville. And I wonder if she ever wondered why no one was held accountable for this horrible, evil, violent act. I wonder if she was a person of faith, and if so, what she thought about the people who weaponized their faith against her.
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As I write this, tomorrow will be the 25th anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center as well as the attack on United Flight 93. Unlike the act of violence and evil that occurred at Hattie Cotton, I was alive (aye, a whole grown adult) at the time of the September 11 attacks. I will always remember the morning that I, a lowly PhD student, was co-teaching a class on family social work practice. The associate dean (who was my friend, co-teacher, mentor and dissertation advisor) knocked on the door of the classroom. I went to the door, thinking she was bringing me some markers for an activity we were planning and had gotten locked out. But when she had gone to get the markers, she had heard the news of the first attacks from the Dean’s office, and we had to decide how to inform the students, which we did in hushed tones in the hallway.
The estimate of the number of victims who died as a result of the terrorist attacks on 9-11 is 2,977. I am not sure it is possible to project how many people died in a less direct way, through unhealed trauma or grief.
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Every spring for the past six years, one of my favorite colleagues says “We aren’t going to play the Trauma Olympics in here”, when we have opening day of our integrated classes on Trauma Studies. What she means by this, and what we embrace, is that every story of loss or pain that someone shares with us is a story worth hearing, worth bearing witness to. I feel like this is a good phrase for me to remember right now. I am sure I will hear/read many, many reflections on “9-11” tomorrow. I saw/read/heard almost nothing about the Hattie Cotton bombing today.
Some people might argue that the loss of life on September 11 was greater, thus it is more significant to remember. Some might also point out that the impact was felt across the nation (and the world), and that is true.
But two things can be true at the same time.
I would counter that with the position that the feeling of being in danger, of being threatened, of believing you could lose your life and everyone you loved because people didn’t like the color of your skin, is just as devastating and impactful on generations. And while the bombing of Hattie Cotton Elementary only affected Nashville in a direct way, you don’t have to look long or hard to find numerous and continuous acts of violence against Black children, adults, and families all throughout the US.
I think it is appropriate to stop and reflect on the events of September 11. I think it is just as important and appropriate to reflect on acts of violence and marginalization and oppression in our own communities.
Here are a few questions I ask myself when I reflect on these situations: How am I complicit in this system today? What do reparations look like? How can I practice grace toward people who have been most closely affected? Who do I need to be listening to? Who is telling the whole story? Who has blinders on and why? What do mercy and justice look like here?
Go in peace.
Teaching (toward) the Beloved Community 