by Herb Frazier
The Graham children grew up at Mother Emanuel Church, where their mother sang in the choir. Their parents are buried at Emanuel cemetery. Cynthia Graham Hurd was on a number of committees at Emanuel, and she served on the usher board. “If she wasn’t at the library, she was at Emanuel AME,” Malcolm told reporter Schuyler Kropf. 39
Like all the Emanuel Nine, Cynthia Graham Hurd felt strongly about her neighborhood and its residents. According to her brother Malcolm, “She was community focused. She always had an interest in improving the community by delivering constituent services every day at the library, whether people were doing a job search in the computer or looking for answers to questions in a book . . . she was serving the public.”40
Not only did Cynthia work thirty-one years, full-time, in the Charleston County library system; she also worked evenings for sixteen years at the College of Charleston Library. At the CCPL Dart Branch on Charleston’s east side, she helped children with reading assignments and papers, as well as job searches. Sometimes she had to run off vagrants who were loitering in front of the library. She used to say, “You can’t wait for folks to come into the library,” so she would go out and draw people to it by working with schools in the area. She saw it as a ministry and a way to provide a unique public service for the community.41
Kim Odom, manager of the Dart branch, spoke at Cynthia Graham Hurd’s funeral. When Odom joined the Dart staff fifteen years ago, Hurd took her to a desk, introduced her to the staff, and said, “Let’s go.” Odom asked, “Where?” Hurd answered, “To drive around the community. Before you can know what to do, you’ve got to know who we serve.”42
Hurd’s desire to serve was not limited to her work at the library. Her friend and library colleague Marvin Stewart, with whom she shared a brother-sister relationship, is reminded daily of her talents with a hammer and saw. The first floor of Stewart’s two-story home in Charleston reflects Hurd’s creativity and ability to imagine an interior design, then craft it with her hands. Hurd made the drapes and valences in Stewart’s living room and painted the walls. She gutted the den; made new walls; hung a ceiling fan; measured, cut, and installed crown molding; then added a special touch: books, but not real books. The wallpaper pattern resembles books on bookshelves. Stewart and Hurd are librarians. That is how they met three decades ago when Hurd, fresh out of college, took her first job as a librarian assistant in a library where Stewart was a manager. From that moment they realized what they had in common: Mother Emanuel and parents who wanted their children to be better than themselves. They both grew up in the church but at different times. Both of their mothers were domestic workers who made sacrifices to send their children to college.
As a divorced father of two girls, Stewart called on Hurd when he needed help getting one of his daughters ready for a high school prom. “She gave a shawl to match the dress, and she never asked for it back,” Stewart says. When the daughter of Stewart’s former spouse needed a math tutor, he turned to Hurd, who majored in math in college. Hurd and the student huddled together at the library for after-hours tutoring. It helped her pass her math course, and soon after Hurd hired her for a summer youth program job.43
Cynthia Graham Hurd was a member of the City of Charleston Housing Authority, which gave her another opportunity to serve the community surrounding the library. Like the Rev. Hilda Scott, Hurd had no children of her own, but any child that she came in contact with became one of her children. Before her death, Hurd was transferred from the Dart branch, in a predominantly African American community, to a branch in a Charleston suburb with a more diverse population. She was torn about leaving Dart but made the change nonetheless.
Stewart unexpectedly discovered another one of Hurd’s talents. In Emanuel, many members sit in the same pews; over the years Hurd and Stewart had staked out seats not far from each other. One Sunday they sat together, and during the service, he discovered she had a lovely voice. Because he knew Hurd so well, Stewart did not imagine Hurd was at Bible study on June 17, because of her Wednesday night part-time job in the library at the College of Charleston. They had seen each other earlier that day during a county library staff meeting, but they didn’t have time to “shoot the breeze,” he said. “That was the last time I saw her.”44
How can anyone ever know the last time he or she will see a loved one or how a seemingly ordinary Wednesday in June can turn into one’s last day on earth? We can’t know such things, and this is what makes the smallest of details matter—because it’s these small moments and details that compose and illuminate a life.
Sen. Clementa Pinckney’s day began routinely at the statehouse in Columbia with small and large details that signified family, legislative duties, and fashion. His office refrigerator has a “Yes! I Love My Library” sticker from his wife, Jennifer, a librarian. He attended a senate committee meeting where he advocated against Republican opposition for money to repair roads in his impoverished district. Then he joined a caucus with fellow Democrats and a lighter moment with a political adviser with whom he shared a newfound passion for colorful socks.45 When the business of the state ended, there was no reason for Jennifer, Malana, and Clementa to travel together to Charleston that day, other than they wanted to spend quality time together.46
June 17 was also a busy day for Emanuel steward pro tempore Leon Alston, who saw the Pinckneys in Charleston at the church, first at an elevator committee meeting then at the Quarterly Conference, where he purposely sat behind Daniel Simmons so the minister would not see him and possibly entice him to stay for Bible study. Simmons often reminded Alston that to be a better steward, he needed to come to Bible study on Wednesdays. When the quarterly meeting ended, Simmons commented that it had been a long night and everyone was hungry. But Myra Thompson spoke up and said it was her night to teach Bible study and she wanted to proceed. After all, that night she’d had her license to preach renewed.
Alston had another reason to be at the church that night. As a general contractor he was commissioned to renovate the pastor’s office and update the restroom. At 12:50 p.m. on June 17, Pinckney had texted a picture of the floor tile he wanted to use in the restroom to Alston. Following the Quarterly Conference, Alston knocked on the door to the pastor’s office, but to his surprise he found Jennifer Pinckney and her daughter, Malana, there. Alston had planned to start the work the following day, and that Wednesday the Pinckneys had selected the flooring for the office. Now they were in the office, picking paint colors for the walls. Alston told the pastor he was leaving, and Pinckney promised to call him after Bible study. “I am still waiting for that call,” Alston says.47
After the Quarterly Conference, Pinckney helped Ruby Martin down the stairs fronting Calhoun Street. During a lighthearted moment, she complimented the pastor on his multicolored plaid socks, saying he looked “cool” on that hot summer night. The socks were a gift from his daughters, and as a dutiful father he was obligated to wear them. She went home, and the pastor went to Bible study. Less than an hour later, Emanuel member Willi Glee called Alston to say he heard there had been a shooting at the church. “I didn’t believe it,” Alston says. “I said, ‘You mean outside the church?’ He said, ‘Polly Sheppard called me from the scene, hysterical, saying someone had shot up the church and killed the pastor.’ ”48
Rev. Pinckney undoubtedly affected his flock in a myriad of ways—from enticing Alston to become a more active member of the church to sharing his vision of Emanuel’s future with Dudley Gregorie. Pinckney asked Alston to be a steward, but Alston replied that he needed to pray about it. “A week later he came to me and asked for my decision,” Alston says. “I said, ‘I am still praying.’ He said, ‘I was praying about it, and God told me to tell you to get off your knees and become a steward.’ That was three years ago. Since that day I have not missed a Sunday in church, and I have become very active in the church.”49
Gregorie praised the pastor as a modern-day minister who adeptly used technology, his smartphone and iPad, to juggle the dema
nds of church and state. They shared a friendship and late-night phone calls to discuss the politics of the church and their shared experiences as elected officials. “I treated him like a son,” said sixty-six-year-old Gregorie of the pastor who was twenty years his junior, noting Pinckney possessed a keen sense of big projects that would produce income for the church. One involved the proposed relocation of the two buildings adjacent to the church to make room for a boutique hotel that would not only serve the church’s short-term housing needs but also would be open to tourists. The black-owned funeral home across the street had already been sold and converted to a boutique hotel.50
We can only imagine what Jennifer Pinckney has battled with since June 17, 2015. A Charleston psychiatrist speculates she is dealing with survivor’s guilt, the trauma of hearing the gunfire and not knowing what was going on, and feelings of helplessness. “Through post-traumatic stress she is reliving the event, and then overlaid on that is anger that [her husband] left her alone to rear two children,” the psychiatrist says. “So she has a lot of emotions, and she has the emotion of being abandoned, and then she has the emotion of being overwhelmed. She has the role to take over the family, and people are expecting her to carry on [Clementa’s] legacy.”51
A lasting and meaningful marriage is built between two loving people who are not merely husband and wife but share a deeper relationship built on friendship and strengthened by mutual pursuits. In a touching letter to her husband, which was included in his eulogistic service program, Jennifer referred to her spouse as “Ta.” She spoke from her heart to not only her husband but also to Clementa, her “soul mate, confidant and friend.”52
Earlier that day they had spent quality time together before the unthinkable occurred. Upon reflection Jennifer is grateful to God that he gave her and Clementa time together. “I do not know how to think about moving forward, but I know I must! I have tried to be strong for the girls, but this is so hard for all of us!”53 In her final letter she wrote of her husband’s promises to never leave her; that they’d be together for years; together they would watch their children grow, marry, and have children; and in Jennifer’s and Clementa’s latter years, they would be together without the demands of the church or the state. Now she feels “robbed, cheated, and cut short” and angry that their children will mature without their father, and he will not see them grow. Clementa, their hero, is now their angel. Jennifer is thankful, however, that his life was not in vain. Through his example he taught his family to trust God. “We will believe that God will make a way for us! We believe that God used you to be a beacon of hope to transform our family, the Church, the State and our world.”54 That is Pinckney’s mission. “I want him to smile down on us. I want him to be proud. I want to carry on his work,” she said. Pinckney has formed a foundation in her husband’s name to continue his campaign to upgrade public education and access to health care.55
When Jennifer and her girls look skyward, maybe they will see a rainbow through which their angel will inspire them that hope still lives and hear a songbird’s melody that love will never die.56
TWELVE
WHAT IS FORGIVENESS?
All of the seats in the courtroom were taken by the time Post and Courier reporter Andrew Knapp stood in the doorway to observe a bond hearing for accused killer Dylann Roof. As a seasoned journalist who delves into public safety issues for Charleston’s daily newspaper, Knapp has reported big stories before, but the words he was about to hear were shocking yet powerful—and for a moment unbelievable. Knapp checked himself to make sure that the words he was hearing were indeed being spoken. Family members of those who’d had their loved ones snatched from them just two days before spoke directly to Roof—who only heard their voices—as they said they forgave him for his alleged crime.1
Roof stood in front of two county sheriff’s deputies in a nearby room at the county jail. On the television screen Roof could see the bond hearing judge but not the people in the packed courtroom. The courtroom audience could see Roof on a television screen, and Knapp watched Roof’s face closely for any sign of emotion, but he showed none. Knapp felt certain that Roof must have felt something inside, but it will remain a mystery, perhaps, until Roof goes on trial for nine counts of murder. Knapp was in awe of what he witnessed as relatives of the victims called “for grace and mercy.” Knapp says, “I can’t imagine anyone not being affected by it in some way.”2
There is virtually no precedent in America for what transpired at that bond hearing. The forgiveness expressed by some of the family members astounded everyone who heard them speak. The hearing was broadcast live on television, and almost as soon as the brief hearing was over, the video went viral, and people all over the world heard the trembling voice of Ethel Lance’s daughter, Nadine Collier, who was the first person to say, “I forgive you.” She was followed by soft-spoken minister Anthony Thompson, whose wife, Myra, had led the Bible study two nights before. He also expressed forgiveness, suggesting that Roof repent, confess, and give his life to Christ so he could change.
Felicia Sanders, who witnessed the massacre and miraculously survived with her granddaughter, followed Thompson. The pain in her voice was raw, but she still ended her statement with the words, “May God have mercy on you.” In later statements she described the way she forgave immediately and said it was not a choice. “If you don’t [forgive] you’re letting evil into your heart. You’re the one suffering. You’re the one hating. You have to forgive. For you.”3
Daniel Simmons’s granddaughter, Alana, spoke next; her voice was clear and filled with conviction when she said, “Hate won’t win.” Since then, she has turned this idea into a powerful movement called Hate Won’t Win.
DePayne Middleton-Doctor’s sister, Bethane Middleton Brown, spoke last. Her voice was trembling yet defiant when she admitted that she was angry, but that her sister had taught the family that love came first—so she forgave Roof and prayed for his soul. In keeping with her sister’s belief that theirs was a family that love built, she is now raising DePayne’s four beautiful daughters. Since the cameras were on Roof, who remained expressionless throughout the proceedings, the disembodied voices were even more powerful to viewers. The sounds of anguish and the pain seemed even more acute.
There are cynics who assume these extraordinary expressions of forgiveness were only a trip of the tongue when these family members were put on the spot—but if that’s true they would have recanted their statements or qualified them somehow. And that is not what has happened. In fact, there seemed to be a higher power at work that Friday morning in June, and it was for all of them a moment of revelation from which they continue to gather strength. Each of them said something distinctly different at the bond hearing, and all the complexities and contradictions that weave their anger and grief into the notion of forgiveness must be considered. This forgiveness is not easy; it is quite the opposite.
But not every family had a representative at the bond hearing, and not all the family members feel the same way about forgiveness. Forgiveness itself is as complex as any human action. These extraordinary expressions of forgiveness do not suggest acceptance, nor do they imply forgive and forget. Although no one spoke from Sharonda Coleman-Singleton’s family at the bond hearing, her son, Chris, publicly expressed forgiveness. Chris, a baseball player for Charleston Southern University, spoke on ESPN with journalist Bob Woodward soon after the church massacre. His younger sister, Camryn, told Woodward that she was initially shocked that her brother responded with forgiveness, but she prayed about it and realized that being consumed with hatred was worse.4
Does this mean forgiveness is a choice one makes in order to survive the grief? If so, when is that acceptable? According to Cynthia Graham Hurd’s brother, Malcolm Graham, forgiveness is possible under certain circumstances. Malcolm was driving to Charleston from his home in Charlotte when he heard the bond hearing unfolding on National Public Radio. “When I heard the first person and second person say, ‘I forgive,’ I said �
�That’s the sound bite. The media jumped on it and spread that forgive thing across nine families,’ which is not true,” he says. “If my sister was walking down the street and she was hit by a distracted driver who was texting and driving and she got killed and the person immediately said, ‘Please forgive me; that was not my intent when I woke up this morning’ . . . I would be very upset, but forgiveness would come a lot easier.”5
Nadine Collier’s sister, Sharon Risher, is “not there yet.” As a pastor, she acknowledges the need for forgiveness as a practice in our society, but she considers it a process with no time limit: “The God I believe in is patting me on the back, saying, ‘You take your time.’ ”6 Forgiveness for some is a journey, and for everyone affected by this tragedy, this journey is indeterminate and unique. Built into this equation is the fact that we all grieve differently, and no two people experience loss in exactly the same way. Murder may be the hardest kind of death to process, and the emotional response is much more complicated because this unfathomable grief is coupled with anger. In Charleston the media attention has exacerbated the situation; something private became public immediately, in ways that were unexpected and out of one’s control.
Ashland Magwood Temoney, DePayne Middleton-Doctor’s niece, said as a Christian it is expected of her to forgive, and if she does not do so, it could prevent her from being blessed. “But it is really hard, and at times I am very angry. I am sick of hearing the news or seeing anything about the trial. It reminds me of that night all over again. It infuriates me that she had so much to live for and she had four girls who depended on her.”7
