Peyton Jones (’25), Staff Writer
The 16th Street Baptist Church is the oldest Black church in Birmingham, Alabama. On the morning of September 15th, 1963, the church was bombed by four members of the Ku Klux Klan. The explosion killed four young Black girls: Addie Mae Collins (age 14), Cynthia Wesley (age 14), Carole Robertson (14), and Denise McNair (age 11).
With the 61st anniversary of this tragedy approaching, this poem was written in their memory.
The photo used in this document was taken from Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday Dress
You looked so pretty in your Sunday dress your mama turned that department store upside down to find it for you neat lace trim, perfect white like angel wings paired with black buckled shoes – you loved the way they shone.
Sweet girls, four doves on the wind,
four little dreamers, four pretty Sunday dresses with ivory lace socks.
Stained red like summer roses and black with the ashes of a House of God turned into a tomb.
“…Let the little children come to me”, said Jesus, “and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.'” Did you learn that verse in Sunday school? If you did, then you know how precious you were.
They knew how precious you were, too.
See page for author, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
That’s why they sought to steal your light, put it out before it could shine, eclipsed it before you could grow into phenomenal women.
You were so confused, far too small to understand why sanctuary walls came crumbling down around you in the blink of an eye, why your bones were shattered, why your pretty Sunday dress was torn to shreds, why heaven’s gates opened for you so early.
It was an act of hatred that tore you from this world but darlings, you were loved, loved loved more than you’ll ever know. They prayed for you,
marched for you,
fought for you, remembered you.
That’s why I know who you are, although we come from different worlds. That’s why the world sees your faces in museums, and in the statues outside the church you once called home.
Little souls, but no doubt big dreams stolen by those who didn’t want to see them come true dearly missed, painfully mourned but deeply cherished, and forever adored.
