Mourning a Powerful Lady
I met Erica at our first action, planned by the group that would become Reconcile Sylva. I had been on the periphery of planning because, believe it or not, I understood the impact racial justice activism could have on my job. I intended to be at the event as a clergy presence, ready to provide spiritual care and comfort to attendees, as my partner and I had done when we went to a counter-protest against the Neo-Nazi rally in DC, and it seemed best to me to keep my distance from the event organizers, given the role that white supremacy has played in Christianity over the years. I wanted to be available to offer help, but I didn’t want to make a statement, so for the most part, I wore my stole and ran with the medics, especially during the march.
I won’t forget the tension I felt all throughout my body during the march. Running as a medic, it was my job to keep an eye on people who might fall out from dehydration or overheating on hot summer day, but also to keep an eye out for any situations that might escalate, whether from hecklers outside of the marchers or from friction between marchers. I was constantly scanning the crowd, constantly clocking clusters and interactions. Everything was fine in the end, thank God, but it was a long time before I let out my breath.
Once the crowd returned to the starting point of the march, I hung back, keeping an eye out for stragglers and decompressing as best as I could. Erica had hung back too, and we struck up a conversation. We were glad to see so many people turn out to call for the removal of the Confederate statue that looms over Main Street, but we were also both some level of anxious about our involvement. She was a teacher and even doing this kind of stuff over the summer came with risk. As someone who’s done both, I can tell you that it’s just as important for teachers and preachers to buy their alcohol in the next town over. Your reputation matters. Making a noise, even for a just cause, is a risk.
I was so, so grateful for Erica in that moment. I didn’t know it, but I needed somebody to talk to. I needed to share space with someone, even if it was six feet apart. We didn’t need to go deep, I didn’t need to share everything that was running through my mind in that moment, but I did need something. That brief conversation about hopes and fears was exactly what I needed. I had jumped all in with this group of strangers united around a common cause. I had been in the area a year, if that, but it only took Erica five minutes to make me feel at home.
I have a whirlwind of beautiful memories of her from the months that I knew her. Helping her make a sandwich board out of some packing tape and poster board, a “Local Making Good Trouble” as we started our daily protests about the statue.
Sitting on front porches, as close as guidelines allowed, talking about how we could keep each other safe, Erica sharing cheap, do-it-yourself security system ideas. At her suggestion, I hung my heavy DC Women’s Half-Marathon medal from my doorknob because I knew the noise would wake me up if someone were trying to sneak in at night.
Erica waving at every car that drove by our protests at the fountain, throwing out a “Hee-eey” whether they honked in support or gave us the finger.
Gathering around a fire after the interfaith vigil, laughing, telling stories and jokes, thinking through what our actions could look like, what they should look like, passing pizza and garlic balls, loving on a friend’s dog as the wood snapped and crackled.
Erica pointing out friend after friend, neighbor after neighbor, and giving color commentary.
Erica waving back at us and yelling, “Love y’all!” from across the road as she headed away from a protest after her shift was over.
Racial justice work isn’t easy. This past week has highlighted that for me, as we in Reconcile have been discussing how we resolve conflicts and learn together. I have learned so much since last May, so much about how entrenched white supremacy is, how it burrows deep down into us, how it waits to rear its head and spew pain and shame and make the work harder. It is a particular kind of pain, disagreeing with someone who you have so much in common with, knowing that you should be able to work things out, knowing that what is needed is more time to talk, to listen, to understand. Throw in a pandemic, where so many of your interactions happen on screens, and you’re left exhausted, frustrated, wondering. You remind yourself to be patient, to know that the work takes longer than you think it should, and to trust that the work is worth it, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the short term.
So what do you do when that time is stolen from you?
What do you do when someone is taken from you mid-conversation?
What do you do when there is still work to do, when there was still a role for her to play, when you were waiting on a visit that will never happen, for a meal you’ll never share, for conversations that will never happen, for love with nowhere to go?
When I joked about having to turn in my license after leaving my job, Erica was the first to lament the unfairness of the situation, to praise my work as a pastor and to wish that there had been a place for me at my churches. It was a comment born out of our conversations around the fountain, holding signs and waving at cars that went by, trying to figure out what the faithful and just response is to all those Christians out there who just aren’t a lot like Christ. She had been so generous with her thoughts, so willing to dive in to this topic that was so close to my heart. In these conversations, Erica trusted me as a pastor and it meant the world to me. She helped me see who I wanted to be, was confident in who I could be.
I never got to tell her.
I thought I had more time.
I didn’t believe it when I received the message about her death last night. I was sure it was a mistake. I set down my phone as others sorted out the information, gathered the details. I’m a state away. There’s not much I can do.
The word shocked was invented for moments like these. My brain can’t really process that she’s gone. I can feel my insides shutting down, closing the lid on emotions I haven’t learned how to feel. Grief and regret are in there, I know, and tears and sobs and shouts, but it’s like the parameters haven’t been met for me to be granted access to them. How can you feel something so deeply for someone you knew for less than a year? I don’t know how to process the injustice of the loss of this pandemic friendship.
But there are a few things I do know, even in the middle of this, even at this distance. Let me share them with you.
Say I love you. Say it to your family, your friends, everyone you feel it toward. Love is wild and unexpected and it deserves to be named everywhere it appears.
Keep on doing the work, even though you’re not perfect. None of us are. Keep showing up.
Be thankful now. Tell people about it now. Make it a practice of each and every day and don’t let anything get in the way of it.
Be bold. Be bright. Care for everyone you meet, even the random woman in a stole at the back of the march.
Erica, I’m so sorry. I love you. We’re going to miss you so much.
