By Dr. Yvonne Pointer-McCreary

On December 6, 1984, my 14-year-old daughter, Gloria Evette Pointer, was brutally raped and murdered. Her case remained unsolved for 29 years.

I spent over half of my life searching for her killer, telling the story of her homicide, and hoping that someone would hear her story and be moved to action. I came to realize that if anyone was going to do something to keep children safe and free from violence, then that someone had to be me.

My community activism to prevent violence became not only a saving grace for children, but for me as well. My mission was to keep another family from having to lower the lid of a coffin that contained their innocent child.

When I consider the number of children prematurely in their graves since Gloria’s homicide, I question whether my efforts have been in vain. However, when I come face to face with families in our workshops, I am encouraged to believe that the lives of their children—their brothers and sisters—will live on through these written stories.

They get the opportunity to tell you snippets that may not have made it to the evening news. After all, they only have sixty seconds to condense a lifetime. Those sitting glued to the television screen, listening to the horrific and graphic details, may never get to know that these same people once bounced balls, skipped ropes, earned good grades, started businesses, and, yes, even ate cold grits.

When I think of Gloria, many wonderful memories come to mind—the sound of her practicing her cheerleading routine over and over again. However, her love for grits is the one that will remain with me until I breathe my last breath.

Now, to those who may wonder what grits are, all I can say is that they are coarsely ground corn kernels and a delicacy in the homes of Black folks, mainly from the South. A soulful breakfast would not be complete without a helping of hot, buttered grits on your plate. (The age-old question of whether to add sugar or not has hung in the air like a dark cloud, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The point I am trying to make is that Gloria loved them.

She would rise early for school just to get the water boiling. Her morning was complete after her first bowl. If anyone knows anything about grits, it is that they expand like your waistband after a great meal. There is always some left in the pot.

This was part of her plan. Immediately upon returning home from school, she would emerge from the kitchen with a bowl of the remaining grits.

No problem, you say? But what if I told you that she would not warm them up—that the entire bowl was consumed cold?

Ugh, right?

To this day, some 40 years after her homicide, I still cringe at the thought. No one in their right mind would eat cold, clumpy grits. Yet I can still hear her laughter as she tried to shove the spoon toward my tightly shut lips, attempting to make me try them.

“Not in this life, nor the life to come,” was always my response.

But what would I give to have just one morsel fall from her spoon to my waiting lips?

The stories written by mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers share that same sense of humor and insight. We want you to know our loved ones the way we remember them—not only for how they died, but as they lived—in a way that could only be written by those who knew them best.