Birmingham Church Bombing ~by Kameron

Thirty-eight years after two men killed my daughter, they were finally been convicted.

I sat quietly in the courthouse with Thomas Blanton Jr. and Bobby Frank Cherry, the two men who bombed the church in which my daughter was killed. The judge called me up to tell the story of how my daughter died. I was terrified. What if they thought I was lying? This was during the 1960's, and it was well known that Americans never believed blacks. What if Thomas and Bobby didn't get convicted of murder or even the bombing?What would happen to me if they were set free? I was a black man living in the south during the more violent times in our history. I was about to testify against two well known KKK members. I walked up to the stand slowly, thinking about how I would tell my story. Despite the stress, I told my story, the truth, and it went like this.

My daughter and I were walking to the 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963. I went into the church service upstairs. My daughter walked downstairs to Sunday school with three other girls like she did every Sunday morning. I felt uncomfortable that day. I can't tell you why, but I knew something was going to happen. My stomach ached during the entire service. Right before church was over, my uneasy feeling had expanded. I had no idea what was going to happen, I thought I was sick. But the queasy feeling in my gut was something much more in-depth. As church ended, I was in no mood to talk. I headed for the door quickly, and waited for my daughter outside.

Then, out of nowhere, the staircase flew outward. I dodged rubble and used what was left of the stairs to enter the church. I had to find my daughter. I scrambled into the Sunday school classroom, bodies were everywhere. Some were on fire, and the amount of blood was sickening. Among the rubble I saw my daughter. I was devastated by what I was looking at. My daughter was dead, sprawled on the ground. I couldn't look anymore. I could hear sirens coming down the block getting louder and closer by the minute. When the police arrived at the church, they investigated. They said that dynamite was under the stairs. I told them in a sad voice, "I want to catch the people who did this. They should be punished." I wanted revenge. Unfortunately no one knew who it was, and I was out of luck.

For 38 years, I have been trying to hunt down the people who bombed the church that killed my daughter. One day I was talking to my neighbor he said, "I'm going to church." He ask me if I wanted to come, but I said, "No." I still hadn't forgiven God for letting my daughter die. Two hours later I got a call from the civil rights attorney. He said, "They found the men who bombed the church." He continued, "We are going to court to file the charges against them. We are going prosecute them." I was shocked. It had been so long, and I had all but given up hope. Suddenly, I felt so confident. I rushed to the courthouse. When I pulled into the parking lot of the court house, I started getting nervous. What if this isn't going to go the way it should. My attorney met me outside and took me in.

As I I walked in, I saw friends and family on the right side of the courtroom. However, white people who should have been wearing white hooded costumes were on the left. Their frowns were ominous. I sat down beside the other men and women who lost their daughters that day. The judge introduced the fellow families and myself to the jury. Then he introduced the two men who killed our children. The two men, Thomas Blanton Jr. and Bobby Frank Cherry, would finally be held accountable for their actions.

The trial went on for weeks. Finally, the judge called me up to tell my side of the story. I was shivering with fear. What if I don't tell the story right? What if they don't believe me? I shook my head, trying to rid myself of those thought. I straightened my back and confidently told my story."

When the guilty charge was given, the courtroom gasped. Some people cheered, and other's prayed. As the two men were taken away to jail, they pointed at me and yelled, "You'll pay for this." Everyone started leaving the courtroom, some of the KKK member made rude gestures at me. Despite that, I thought that I did a good job. My attorney congratulated me on how I did. I should have felt better than I did. For some reason, I started to feel guilty. I felt like this whole thing was my fault. I was remembering hearing the sizzling noise, if I had only realized that it was dynomite. If I had, I could have saved everyone. I fell to the ground in tears knowing I could of saved my little girl. We won the court case, but I still had lost my little girl. I realized that justice did not bring her back. I wanted to be with my little girl.


Later I was in a interview with the press. They asked me what happened that day when the dynamite blew. I told my story the same way I had 38 years ago, and the same way I did in court. "Why do you think the two men bombed the church?" the reporter asked.

"Funny you asked that," I answered. I had been thinking hard about that. "Now that I'm sitting here thinking about it, I realize it wasn't the fault of those two men. I think it was the clan's fault," he said. "It is difficult to be a bully without bystanders, and it would have been difficult to bomb the church without people egging them on. They should be held accountable for their actions, but we should all work to stop the KKK and other hate groups. There is no room in the world for hate."

I went home. I moved to a new house, that was smaller. I forgave God and went back to church; however, every Sunday I would skip the first half of church to go to the cemetery. I would sit by my little girl's grave. I prayed for her, for me, for the men in jail, and for the world. I prayed that hatred would end so ... And then, I would put flowers on her grave.

~by Kameron