Dear Diary:
The pastor flings excited beads of sweat from his brow as he preaches to the packed pews of his Harlem congregation at First Corinthian Baptist Church. His enthusiasm echoes in a shared buzz of gratitude. We are happy to be alive. Happy to come together on this Sunday, a day unique to all those anteceding and all that will follow.
The change in mood is sudden. Spontaneous “Amens” and “Thank yous” ripple into silence. The pastor has posed a request: “I want all those who have lost a loved one from gun violence to walk to the front.”
Half the congregation rises from their pews and files toward the pulpit.
I stay seated. I am one of a handful of white faces scattered among the crowd. My friend hugs her 8-year-old son tightly. To her, he is the world. To the world, he is another young black male, teetering on the edge of morbid statistics. Today she avoids the long walk to the pulpit, but tomorrow holds no guarantees. His future and the future of this community are being decided in other parts of town.
I turn my head to the left. The pew stands completely empty. A moment before, those same seats were filled with flesh-and-blood people who have become eclipsed by data and information trends. I gaze across the barren sea of crushed red velvet with tightness in my chest. How will we find a unified decision when half of us are gone?
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