16 Jan Thanking Ms. Rosa Parks
On any given Sunday, a sea of hats, in all colors of the rainbow, is visible before you set foot on the grounds of the First African Methodist Episcopal Church (FAME) in South Central Los Angeles. Women, men, and children in their finest fill the entryway with vibrant colors, matching the rich laughter and greetings, as we are welcomed by Reverend Cecil Murray.
My mother-in-law has always been very involved in her temple: from a member when Damon and his sister, Dawn, were younger to one of the first female presidents of Temple Isaiah. Mom has exemplified what it means to give back, speak up, and help out when she can. She is still on a committee or two, keeps herself informed, and is persistently making progress for future generations.
On Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday weekend, the First AME Church and Temple Isaiah hosted a congregational weekend exchange where Reverend Murray spoke at Shabbat Service on Friday evening and Rabbi Robert Gan spoke at the Sunday Morning Service at the church. Church and temple members were encouraged to attend both services showing support of one another. Damon’s family, which I was now a part of, spent an entire weekend between temple and church.
Most temples are fairly quiet during service; Reformed temples are no exception. Besides the cantor, the spiritual song leader and pulpit partner to a rabbi, there is only a choir, on special occasions, and somberness pervades the space. The feeling is reserved as opposed to lively, with the exception of one Friday evening out of the year, when First AME’s congregants, were in the sanctuary: “praises” and “Amens” were abundant; “preach” was uttered over and over again; clapping was encouraged; a “Hallelujah” or two or few called out; Rabbi Gan and Reverend Murray kibitzed and joked; smiles as opposed to sleepy, bopping heads (Dad and Terry – don’t even try and get out of this one) were in the audience. After our Shabbat greetings and a reception hosted by Temple Isaiah, we hugged like lifelong friends and promised to see one another at church on Sunday.
The sea of hats carried us into one of the most sacred spaces I have ever felt. Outside of nature, my spiritual home resides within my beating heart, so religious buildings hold no significance to me. Simple or ornate, carvings of Jesus, mosaic tiles and Allah written in Arabic, Jerusalem stone with the Star of David carved into it, a smiling Buddha, or any religious icon matters not. What matters is the feeling I get when I walk into a space: Do I feel love – holy, sacred, the divine, a warm embrace, home all wrapped up in one infinitely peaceful feeling? Do I feel that?
“Having felt injustice through racial and sexual discrimination, I knew all to well the cause my
African-American sisters and brothers and my Jewish family were fighting for – us all to be on equal footing.”
Being guests of Reverend Murray, our temple members were seated in the first few pews. It was standing room only – from the choir to the back of the church – every inch of space was taken up. Rabbi Gan, a tall, gentle, quiet man spoke of the decades long friendship he and Reverend Murray had fostered, when both were young, religious leaders in Los Angeles around the time of the Civil Rights Movement. Both men felt a pull to speak out against injustice, racial discrimination, and preached equality for all. The Hallelujahs, Amens and “preach Rabbi” were being chorused and I too found myself echoing their sentiments. Having felt injustice through racial and sexual discrimination, I knew all to well the cause my African-American sisters and brothers and my Jewish family were fighting for – us all to be on equal footing.
Many moments in my life are so sacred that I have fear in retelling them as if someone will shout out, “No – that didn’t happen! You dreamed that up.” That Sunday, was one of those moments. In the pew directly in front of me, a few inches towards my left, sat a demure, quiet, beautiful, African-American elder. She wore glasses – the old-fashioned kind that are in vogue now – and a mauve lacy, long-sleeved blouse, which concealed a camisole of the same color.
A Civil Rights icon.
My hand shaking, I reached for the stability and warmth of Damon’s hand. “That is Ms. Rosa Parks,” my voice, quivering and barely above a whisper, spoke.
Damon looked into my eyes, brimming with tears, as I squeezed his hand. He and I have been through much – dare I say – more than the average relationship. When our right to respect and love one another was being challenged by external voices, denying our existence, spewing hatred in our direction, and burning us to hellfire and eternal damnation, I stood my ground.
My strength came from ancestors within my human family who paved the path for love. Souls such as Ghandi, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Ms. Rosa Parks. So many names have been lost to time and the ages – souls who fought until the death – so I could be free to marry whom I thought made the best partner. Others we know by name, whose stories are passed through history books and storytelling.
“History sat a mere six inches from me.”
Here, I sat behind a Civil Rights icon, a woman who exemplifies God’s grace, who became the face of a movement – a quiet hero. A woman who chose to make a stand by keeping her seat. A woman who was tired of the hate but not the fight. A woman who knew we, as a race – the human race – could be better and do better. History sat a mere six inches from me.
Reverend Murray honored Ms. Rosa as she raised a dignified hand of acknowledgement. It was apparent that standing was difficult for her. The congregation was on its feet as Rabbi Gan was winding down his sermon. I think he secretly enjoyed the exuberance and sheer joy that was present that day; his childlike smirk said it all. Each congregant – young and old alike – thanked us personally for attending Sunday Service at First AME. Ms. Parks, was being escorted by Ms. Cicely Tyson (another legend). Hand in hand, they both walked towards the door.
As our family approached the exit, Ms. Rosa reached for my hand! She nestled my hand in between her grasp: the color of browned butter, soft, pillowy yet firm, the veins showing underneath thinning skin. She held my hand. Tiny in size but mighty in stature, I looked into her eyes, “Thank you – for everything – Ms. Parks,” I said. “It’s an honor to meet you.” By now my tears were spilling onto my cheeks. She smiled the most serene smile I have ever witnessed, nodded, and blessed me.
As I turned away from Ms. Rosa, my husband was waiting. Hand-in-hand we walked away grateful that we were able to thank in person one of the many souls who paved the way so we could exist.
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