On
the hot summer night of August 20, 1980, I was jogging with three
friends in Liberty Park in Salt Lake City, Utah. My friends Ted
Fields, who was twenty years old, and David Martin, who was eighteen
years old, were both black. My girlfriend Karma and I were fifteen
years old and considered “white,” although my mother is a first
generation Mexican American. On our way home from the park, we were
shot at in the crosswalk on 900 South 500 East. At first I thought
the shots I heard were leftover firecrackers from Pioneer Day, July
24. I assumed someone was throwing them at us because we were “race
mixing.”
With
the first shot, my arm, neck, and legs were bleeding and felt like
they were on fire. I couldn’t figure out where the firecrackers
were coming from. There were no cars on the street. I couldn’t see
anyone near us. Dave said, “They got me.” We all laughed
nervously and said, “Good one.” He fell. His blood was everywhere
and the shots kept coming. We all tried to catch him and carry him to
the end of the crosswalk. The blood was such a brilliant red color
against the black pavement. Then Ted fell. Both of the men were on
the ground, and I went into a state of shock. All I could hear was
gunfire. All I could see was Ted’s face.
Ted
kept telling me to run. I couldn’t hear him but I could see the
words he was saying when I looked at his contorted face. It took a
second for me to absorb what was really happening. “I can’t leave
you here!” I said. The shots kept coming. I had the strongest
telepathic message from Ted at that moment. “If the situation were
reversed you would want me to run. RUN!”
I
ran as fast as I could into a field of four to five foot tall grass
facing the crosswalk. I thought I could hide from the sniper there,
but something made me come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the
field. I didn’t know it at the time but I was running right to the
killer. I felt like I ran into an invisible wall and I stopped. I
couldn’t move. I never saw him. Karma ran into the field and
grabbed my arm. A brave woman came outside and ushered us into her
basement apartment.
I
kept hoping I was having a nightmare. “This isn’t real,” played
on a loop over and over in my head. But it was real: by the end of
the night, Ted and Dave were dead and I was covered in bullet
fragments from bullets that passed through Dave and shattered on the
pavement all over my petite, ninety-eight pound body.
We
had been shot by Joseph Paul Franklin, a racist serial killer who
killed at least twenty-two people in twelve different states. He was
the man who shot and paralyzed Larry Flint for printing pictures of a
black man and a white woman having sex in Hustler magazine. He was
trying to start a race war all over the country.
He
wasn’t captured until October that same year, so for a couple of
months, I was blamed by the local media and my community for setting
up the murders of my friends. It was a perfect example of victim
blaming. My father was the president of a local motorcycle club and I
was still alive. The survivors were pretty “white” girls and the
murdered were college bound young “black men who were a credit to
their race.”
For
several days, the local newspapers printed my full name and address.
They told my mother the public had a right to know. The other
victims’ addresses weren’t given. The reporters made up stories
when no one had any leads on the story.
I
was a responsible 15 year-old, volunteer tutor, head cheerleader and
honor roll student back then. I was also voted Miss Dream Girl at my
school. But none of that was ever brought up to describe me in the
misleading articles that painted me as white trash. I upset the court
of public opinion by “race mixing” and they made an example of me
in the worst ways.
I
wasn’t allowed to go to the funerals. The victim’s families
blamed my friend and me. The victims were dead and black. We were
alive and white. We weren’t considered victims even when the
shooter was charged for his crimes our names weren't on the paperwork
as victims. When the killer was identified, the news never retracted
the rumors they started. The rumors stuck to me like a scarlet
letter. By October it was still too dangerous for me to live in Utah.
There were cars full of people driving slowly by our house with guns
pointed at our home. I called the police and asked for protection,
but I was told, “Maybe you should have thought of that before you
hung out with those niggers. We’re too busy. Call us if anything
happens.”
It
was like a bomb was thrown in my family and I believed it was my
fault, (I am still overcoming that obstacle at the age of 49). I had
to move out of state and into hiding for our safety. Our lives and
relationships would NEVER be the same. Eventually I came back to Utah
and married a black man. We were friends from junior high. He and his
family embraced me like their own child and helped me heal.
Initially, I was fearful of tempting fate and I knew that I would be
judged harshly for “marrying outside my race.” But I loved him
and I refused to let a racist society dictate whom I was allowed to
love.
Thirty
years later, on August 20, 2010, I tearfully left a crystal, a
candle, and an unsigned note on the memorial plaque at Liberty Park
on the anniversary of the murders. I was vulnerable that night. I
came out on Facebook and told my friends what happened in 1980. Some
“friends” chose to “unfriend” me. The next day someone saw
the offerings on the plaque and called a reporter. But when the
reporter got there, the note was gone. She wrote an article in the
Salt Lake Tribune and pondered what the note said. A dear friend sent
me the link to the article. It took several hours to get the courage
to read the comments online. I felt fragile and didn’t know if it
would be wise to expose my heart to be broken again. There were so
many comments. When I finally looked, I was surprised to find that
95% of the comments were kind and gracious. I couldn’t believe it.
I decided to respond and include the letter I left.
I
had to create a user name to respond. I used the name OneLove and I
thanked the commenters and reporter for their interest. I didn’t
leave my name or number. But I was required to leave my email. What
unfolded after that comment was miraculous. Within 15 minutes of the
post, the reporter called. She wrote another article based on that
interview. My only stipulation was that she use my maiden name.
The
victim’s families got in touch with the reporter and asked for my
contact information and we spoke for the first time. All was
forgiven. Every day the reporter wrote a new article to update the
community about what was happening. By the second or third article a
woman from Utah Progressives said she would like to create a march in
the park for Ted and Dave, which coincided with the 48-year
anniversary of Martin Luther King’s, “I Have A Dream” speech.
She asked if I would speak in Liberty Park on August 28, 2010, eight
days since I left the offerings on the plaque. I accepted with the
exception of using my maiden name rather than my married name.
Ted’s
family flew to Utah from several states on a moment’s notice.
Dave’s mother was there as well. When my father and his brothers
rolled up on their Harleys wearing their colors, everyone tensed up,
noticeably. My father got off his Harley and walked up to Ted’s
father with open arms. When they embraced he let out a sound that was
primal. It startled me. I turned to see my father crying in Ted’s
father’s arms. I will never forget it as long as I live. “It
wasn’t me. I wasn’t there.” Dad explained.
Dad
brought his brothers there to protect the crowd from any racist
antics from JPF’s admirers. When the printed program of the “March
In The Park” was passed out, my full legal married name was
included. At that point the tv news reporters gave out my name and
the paper asked if they could as well.
I
lost clients and business associates due to my “coming out.” I
was worried about my children and their safety more than anything. I
knew JPF said his greatest regret was leaving survivors. I was
concerned someone would hurt my children to seek his approval.
After
the dust settled, I decided to go back to college hoping to
understand and heal racism in my community. My first semester, I took
a race and ethnicity class as well as a design class. I learned a lot
about the world and myself.
I
learned that race is a social construct. It isn’t real. It was
built to keep people of color and immigrants of “undesirable”
countries from having access to democracy, wealth and education.
Irish, Italian, Jewish and Germans people weren’t even considered
white originally in America. Being white was a privilege then, just
as it is now.
The
first semester final project for my design class was to create a
mask. I made a mask out of the newspaper articles mentioned above. I
didn’t know it, but I would have to wear it and explain it to the
students in the class on the last day of school. It was challenging
to be that vulnerable in front of these people who thought they knew
me. Trayvon Martin’s story was reaching a fever pitch at the time.
I just happened to be wearing a hoodie that day. When I explained my
story to the class, I had to put the mask on. I couldn’t wait to
leave. A student followed me in the hall and asked if I would be
willing to consider doing an art exhibit. Another student asked if I
would lead and speak at the Trayvon Hoodie March. I accepted both
invitations. At the end of the semester the students in the Race and
Ethnicity class were surprised to know my story and came to the
Hoodie March. I found the more that I allowed myself to be
vulnerable, the more I healed my PTSD. Migraines, memory lapses and
nightmares were less frequent as I became educated and created art.
In June of 2013, I created an art exhibit with art created from the
newspaper articles in 1980, 1981 and 2010. I read the articles from
1980 and 1981 for the first time when I created the pieces for the
exhibit.
I
was shocked and grateful my parents didn’t allow me to read the
articles at the time they were printed. I really don’t think I
would be here if I’d seen them back then. Suicide or drug addiction
would have been a very likely outcome.
My
life changed again, for the better, in a dramatic way. Many people
attended the exhibit, including the Tribune’s editor and the former
mayor from 1980. I met a man whose aunt gave Dave mouth to mouth
resuscitation at the crosswalk. He said his aunt recently died and
she was deeply affected by the crime. A woman who worked at the
tennis shop in the park the night of the murders came to the exhibit
and told me how the crime affected her. A woman who survived
Auschwitz attended and told me her story and said that my art was
very important.
Many
times I was humbled to tears, listening to the stories of ripple
effects from JPF’s crimes in Salt Lake City. For 30 years I ignored
how the murders affected me. But I also ignored how it affected
others in my village. I created an art piece for JPF. I read an
article about his childhood abuse and neglect. One of the statements
in the article was from his aunt said that she knew of the severe
abuse he had endured and regretted not helping him. I thought of the
ripple effect of his child abuse. What would his life be like if help
had arrived when he was at the mercy of the merciless? How many lives
would be different?
I
realized he was to be imprisoned from the cradle to the grave. The
child victim in me saw the child victim in him. I couldn’t hate him
anymore and my heart felt full of Light. Joy replaced hate in the
hole in my heart. He received two life sentences for murdering Ted
and Dave. I received a life sentence as well. So did all the victim’s
loved ones. The child abuse he endured had a ripple effect that
proves no one is immune to the effects of a village turning their
backs on the suffering of others.
I
created an art piece for him and placed it in the gallery on the last
day of the exhibit. Then I immediately drove to Millcreek Canyon. I
meditated that his suffering be eased. Three weeks later JPF was
given his execution date for the murder of a Jewish man. He was never
given a death sentence for killing black people. He chose solitary
confinement for 33 years.
I
believed execution was the only way he could be released from the
suffering of this lifetime. I still do.
About
a month before the execution I was looking at my Facebook feed and
found an article from Southern Poverty Law Center. It said, “Joseph
Paul Franklin Denounces Racism and Asks His Victims for Forgiveness.”
I lost time. My husband walked in the room and said, “What
happened? Why are you crying?” I didn’t even know I was crying. I
literally couldn’t talk. I couldn’t find the words. I knew this
was an answer to my meditation.
I
included a comment to the writer along with a picture of the piece of
art I created. I told him to tell JPF I forgave him and to go in
peace. I said that I always wondered why he didn’t kill me. Later
an author, writing a book about JPF, commented on the same thread. He
mentioned that JPF admitted he couldn’t get me in his scope because
the light was in his eyes. Light? It was dark and there were no
street-lights that would get in his eyes at that time. I couldn’t
help but think Light energy protected me. What happens when we die?
Where does our energy go? Will his energy bind with more hate and
make it stronger? I think of my higher power as Light. My baby book
said “Light” was my first word. I had dreams of Light that helped
me get through the worst of what happened to me after the murders.
I
wanted to heal JPF. I wanted to ask him to choose Light when he died.
I thought I could give him some of my Light before he died so that he
would choose Light and it would tip the scales of healing for
everyone who was affected by his murderous rampage. My family was
understandably fearful of me talking to him. At one point my sister
said, “What if you give him your Light and you have none left for
you?” “It doesn’t work that way. A candle does not lose its
flame by lighting another candle”, I said. I sent him a couple of
books to ease his fears while he was waiting in his cell next to the
execution room, “Feelings Buried Alive Never Die” by Karol Truman
and “The Great Divorce” by CS Lewis.
JPF
wanted to talk to me in person. The week before and the
day before the execution, we spoke for about 2 hours each time, over
the phone. I tried to be the embodiment of compassion while I spoke
to him. He told me about his life in and out of prison. Listening to
him talk sometimes it felt like I was forever falling. I could smell
the burning crosses when he described being inducted into the KKK. I
could see and hear a thousand white hoods chanting their hate. There
were moments of our conversation that I felt dizzy and nauseas from
it and wanted to hang up. He told me that he was changed by
meditating, reading about different religions. He even read the Koran
and thought it was beautiful. He said he regretted his ignorance
tremendously. He said he would do anything for me. I asked him for
one favor. I asked him to choose Light when he died. I knew he
believed in reincarnation, as I do.
I
come from a family of sisters, no brothers. I have daughters, no
sons. I have granddaughters, no grandsons. I told him, “every time
I hold my grandchildren, I will love them the way you should have
been loved. If you choose Light, come to me as my grandson and I will
love and protect you the way you should have been from the beginning
of this lifetime.”
He
knew I had biracial children and he didn’t care. He kept thanking
me and saying that no one was ever so kind to him. He said he loved
me and thanked me over and over, many times. He was as happy as a
child on Christmas morning.
I
dodged the press and stayed busy as much as possible that day. I
withdrew from everyone close to me while dealing with school tests,
flashbacks and migraines.
The
last time we spoke, I told JPF to come to me in spirit if he chose
Light, so that I could finally sleep.
The
day of the execution was challenging. He was given two stays of
execution the day before he was scheduled to die. But in the early
morning of November 20, 2013, I awoke to the news that he’d been
executed.
That
morning, I saw the interviews he gave on TV. I was grateful I didn’t
speak to him in person. He looked like a broken, neglected animal
that hadn’t been groomed in thirty-three years. It reduced me to
tears all day. My greatest comfort came as I held my infant
granddaughter close to my heart while she slept for hours and hours.
The
following night, I told my husband, “I feel so light in my chest.
Have I carried this heaviness in my heart since the murders? I didn’t
even realize the weight of it until it was gone. I don’t know if
it’s gone because I forgave him or because he is dead.”
“I
wonder if he chose Light?”
At
that moment, a tsunami of what can only be described as intense love,
joy and gratitude knocked me back into a chair behind me. It was a
thousand times more powerful than the way it felt when my newborn
children were handed to me at their births. I didn’t think anything
could compare to that feeling. But there are no words to describe
that moment adequately. I sat and quietly wept with the deepest
feelings I’ve ever encountered in my life. I sat with my face in my
hands until I could stand again. I felt so humbled and honored to be
a part of this journey. My husband was speechless and didn’t know
what to say or do, staring helplessly at me.
Finally,
I stood up and said I was going to bed. I was tired to the bone. I
fell asleep quickly. It felt like I was being watched. I could sense
someone standing at the doorway watching me. I could feel him, like a
parent looking at a sleeping child. He came towards me and traced my
nose and my cheek with a fingertip as I slept and said, “Don’t
think of it as a death. Think of it as a birth. Thank you. Thank
you.”
