Church Safety

Last night after I’d gotten home, I sat down and watched a re-broadcast of Chanel 7 News.  And I listened with particular interest to the piece on Church Safety.

Church Safety, in particular, the safety of the other parishioners in my Church was one of the reasons I stopped going to Church.    Every Sunday when I arrived at Church, The Stalkers were already there waiting and eager to get started with their screams and taunts.  I know they disrupted the Service for me and I’m sure the rest of the Church felt the same way.

But mostly, I was appalled at how little respect people have today for the House of God.  I felt so bad that my Church members had to listen to all their garbage but so did God.

I maybe crazy, but at least I have the good sense not to act a fool in God’s house.  I just wish others could put down their imaginary (and sometimes real ones) grudges and do the same.

Eliza D. Ankum

Why I Let My Hair Go Gray

George Wallace Governor of Alabama 1963-1967 and 1971-1979

Simply put, because of the stalkers, people tend to talk to me as though they were talking to a twenty year. And when I snap back at them for this incredibly stupid behavior, they seem somewhat surprised.

Truth is, I was ten years old when George Wallace, the man in the above photograph took office as the Governor of Alabama for the first time. And I was thirteen years old when we left The South.
Below is an excerpt from STALKED! By Voices

“I REMEMBER THE TRAIN was very crowded. It was the summer of 1966 and the train leaving out of Mobile, Alabama for Chicago was segregated according to color – Whites in the front and Coloreds in the rear.
There was no air-conditioning in the Negro cars. It was hot and crowded. All manner of luggage blocked the isles because there wasn’t enough room in the overhead compartment for everything people wanted to bring.
With some difficulty we took our seats. I was sitting on my suitcase holding Kathy. My mother was struggling to hold the shoebox containing our lunch along with my sister Debra on her lap. Precious and Ricky were seated in front of us bouncing up and down in their seats, waving to our grandparents out the window.
There was a loud noise from the rear of the car and the train door opened. The conductor came in dragging behind him a middle-aged White woman with black hair. She was crying and screaming, “I’m not going to sit with all those niggers. You can’t make me. I’m not going to sit with the niggers.”
My mother’s face went rock hard and she pulled me around in my seat. I wanted to ask the White woman what niggers are you talking about. But a young Black man stood up and said, “Throw her off the train if she don’t want to sit with us niggers.” I knew then that we were the niggers she didn’t want to sit with.
I spent the remainder of the trip wondering what was wrong with us. I’d seen the stares, heard the whispers, and read the signs. But never had I heard it said quite so vehemently before. NIGGER! She’d said it as if she believed that just by sitting in the same train car with us, our color would rub off on her. Did she believe that Blackness was a disease that one could catch?
(Every now and then, I think about that poor White woman whenever I hear the hate mongers quoting the Bible as the source of their prejudices. I wonder at their shock and horror upon arrival in Heaven to find a very bronzed Jesus seated at the right hand of God and a very White Satan standing to his left.
(Revelation 1:14-15 His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and His eyes like a flame of fire; His feet were like fine brass, as if refined in a furnace, and His voice as the sound of many waters; and Revelation 4:3 And He that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone: and there was a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like unto an emerald..)
By the way, the woman, faced with the option expressed so boldly by the young Black man, decided to quiet down and sit down. She made part of the journey sitting with us, Niggers, and no one bothered her. But the jovial mood in the train car, before her arrival, had definitely disappeared.
When she finally left the car, I stared at the door for an hour, waiting to see if her fellow White people would refuse her entry into their car now that she had been with the NIGGERS.”

People, stop calling me a girl. I am not a girl, and I haven’t been a girl for a very long time.

I can’t help it that in the mind of the stalkers I’ll always be a young girl. That’s how they are. Once they fixate on something or someone, that’s it. They want the person to stay the same. They want the situations to stay the same. They repeat the same thing. There is no changing or evolving with them.

Question. Did you miss it, like so many other people, that the stalkers could have just stayed in Alabama, and they would never have had to listen to my thoughts again.

Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
STALKED! By Voices
Ruby Sanders
Flight 404
OneThreeThirteen – Master of the Day of Judgment