One day of 1963 that stands out for me is the moment I heard that 4 girls were blown up in the 16th Street Baptist Church. I knew one of them. We attended the Friendship and Action events together – in a group formed to bring together Black and white families in spite of Jim Crow segregation.
I can still see that moment, 63 years later. I was standing in front of our dining room table, staring out the window into our backyard. This was the table I slept under with a pillow on top of me so that if any of the bomb threats my family was receiving actually materialized, I wouldn’t be impaled by the glass from that window.
I live with survivor’s guilt.