Dating site murderer stories from the bible
Almost every white person I spoke with in Charleston during the trial praised the church's resounding forgiveness of the young white man who shot their members down. No one made mention that this forgiveness was individual, not collective.
Some of the victims and their families forgave him, and some of them did not.
He did absolutely nothing that would trigger any attention except that he compulsively used hand sanitizer.
A communiqué that was a part of the bond that mothers have, one that was brought up by the radiant shame one must feel when your son has wreaked unforgivable havoc on another mother's child. When Dylann Roof's mother fainted in the courtroom, a reporter from ABC and I called for a medic, and not knowing what else to do, I used my tissues to put a cold compress on her forehead and started dabbing it—before I felt out of place, or realized that I was too much in place, inside of a history of caretaking and comforting for fainting white women when the real victims were seated across the aisle, still crying. Over and over again, without even bothering to open his mouth, Roof reminded us that he did not have to answer to anyone.
To try to understand the place where he wasted 21 years of a life until he committed an act so heinous that he became the first person sentenced to die for a federal hate crime in the entire history of the United States of America. It was a city full of relics and buildings that reminded him of a time when white men were mighty, and the masters of their dominions, a time when they had prevailed. Behind the lot, there is a small apartment building that is lit up with too many halogen lights, probably to keep people from loitering and doing the dumb shit people do when they think nobody can see them. There is nothing else at the end of the street except the Roofs' little house. On the mailbox, there is a route sign: end 1 key west. A detail I could take with me to help make sense of impossibly awful things.
And on the door there are two faded Ron Jon Surf Shop stickers and a smaller, “I Voted” sticker. Wrapped in that moonless night, I knocked on the door of the yellow house, and in the confusion of having an unknown black woman at his door a few hours before midnight, wanting to talk about his son, Bennett Roof let me come in and handed me an ice-cold beer that tasted like relief in my paper-dry mouth, parched from nerves.
Felicia Sanders, one of the few survivors, told the courtroom early on that Roof belonged in the pit of hell.
Months later, she said that because of him she can no longer close her eyes to pray.