My family and I visited the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute this week. We all wanted to be sponges and soak up African-American history and the Birmingham Civil Rights Movement.
How can a sponge soak up a sea of injustices and struggles?
The depictions of the racist and segregated landscape of the 1950s were all so real. My two granddaughters were intrigued by the relics: Paul Bunyan wooden school chairs, colored water fountains, and other life-size displays.
They walked through the apparitions of a world unknown to them.
The pictures, interactive recordings, and histories took me back to an almost pre-humane society. Vicious dogs snapped at men’s flesh, and people tumbled in the streets from the deluge of fire hoses. It was painful to watch. And those terrorist and brutal acts didn’t happen that long ago.
It’s important to remember the past, the pathway of progress, and those who paid the ultimate price. In many cases, that price was death, and the path to change was bloody.
When we returned home, my husband and I talked about Bonita Carter. I remember the 1979 incident that led to Bonita’s untimely death. A white police officer, known for using excessive force, held the smoking gun, and set ablaze the anger of the black community.
Bonita wasn’t a part of the altercation between a store clerk and a black man that led to the police being called. The black man fled on foot, but Bonita ended up dead.
Why did the officer shoot Bonita?
Bonita was shot inside the fleeing man’s car. They said the officer thought she was involved in a robbery at the store.
Blacks in Birmingham and surrounding areas were “Jumanji” mad. There were civil unrest and protests.
I was angry too.
I put pen to paper and wrote a poem, not knowing what else to do.
I searched for the poem and found it stored away in a drawer. The worn, folded, yellow paper held the ink of my 1979 thoughts about Bonita’s death. I read the poem and wondered what was above my head and under my feet when I poured my thoughts onto this sheet. I really don’t remember.
But the poem is a retrieved time capsule filled with unanswered questions.
There are no answers now as there were none in 1979. But I know, as I knew then, the answers are a whisper away in God’s archives, a time capsule of the past, present, future, and eternity.
Here are my thoughts, penned almost 41 years ago, about Bonita.
A Tribute to Bonita Carter
I saw a chariot in the sky carrying a fallen star,
Thunderous were the wails from heaven and afar.
Grace be to God; it was a terrible plight,
A star so young and beautiful ceased to be a light.
For an iron pebble, a cold and venomous bite,
Severed her body and breath,
Releasing her soul that night.
It was a careless and terrible mistake, surely not a part of God’s plan,
God is infallible, but not the omnipotent white policeman.
Who, what would do such a thing?
Is this not against the natural order of He who reigns?
An eye for an eye, is this not the law?
But how could this apply?
It was a white policeman who took the eye.
He was as cold as the bullet that came from his gun,
In actuality, he and the bullet were one.
It was justified, they said.
He shot Bonita Cater several times until she was dead.
Thank God, Bonita didn’t die in vain. Bonita’s death was a catalyst for change. And the first black mayor of Birmingham, Dr. Richard Arrington, Jr. was elected. The black community welcomed the new leadership. And the changes in governing and policing restored trust.
Thanks to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute for preserving the past to inspire, promote, and secure a better today and a prosperous future.
R.I.P. Bonita Carter.