What I Learned Meeting Death Penalty Survivors

by Lauren Boyer

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“No one could ever give me back what had already been taken from me. No one could erase that I had been raped, that I had been kidnapped, and that everything was better executing a man that I didn’t know…and he looked at me and I said, ‘I forgive you’...And in saying that all that hate that I had, all that anger that I had just fell off my shoulders and I felt whole again — a feeling that I had not felt in such a long time. And I know that he was probably not forgiven by many people in his life…he just started crying. I started crying.”  –Dina Windle

Washington, DC, is no stranger to protests. As a DC native, I wasn’t either. I recall truckers and environmentalists blocking the road on the way to the airport or school. Perhaps most famously, I remember driving by the marchers on January 6th. To me, protests were important, but a disturbance nonetheless. I wanted people to block their own roads and interfere with their own children’s attendance at the local schools. In short, I was cynical. Never before had I experienced the awe that follows passionate protesters as they march, gather, and speak up. At Starvin’ For Justice (a several day anti-death penalty vigil) that cynicism ended as I witnessed love instead of anger, forgiveness instead of vengeance, and a desire to help others understand the dangerous flaws of America’s  justice system.

The heat was unbearable as I approached the United Methodist Building. Next door, the plaza of the Supreme Court sat covered behind a series of tables where a group of people had planted themselves with their signs and petitions, warriors against the weather. The church, which had decades ago sheltered the protestors planning Dr. King's March on Washington, now housed a handful of sweaty protestors who sat drooped against foldable chairs and a hundred year old walls. Nearly all of them had traveled to be here. Why?

They were happy to tell me. I listened to story after story as different people with different backgrounds stood united around one cause: life. George White spoke of the love of his kids that helped him endure and overcome his anger at his life-sentence in an Alabama prison as he waited years before he was exonerated for his wife’s murder. Reverend Jack Sullivan Jr. demanded the government defund the death penalty, redirecting the money to support victims like his niece who had lost her mother to murder. Juan Melendez talked about the toll on his mother while he spent years on Florida’s death row for a crime he didn’t commit. SueZann Bosler shared how she decided to fight for the life of the man who had attacked her and killed her father, spurred on by a comment her father had made before the tragedy.

At the end of the line of remarkable people and their stories of strength, a bell was rung. The Delaware bell stood in allegiance with the voters who that day were attempting to make the death penalty unconstitutional in Delaware. As a part-time resident of Delaware, I was proud. A train formed as people slowly stepped up to tug the rope. They listed names, one woman speaking of the 14 people on death row she knew in the last four years. They spoke of states. They spoke of America. Some pulled it once, some pulled it thrice. The clang seemed to jar us then swallow us like a funeral shroud. 

There is power in stories and these people were brave enough to share their most sacred traumas because they believed in what stories can do. They whip us back to reality. They remind us that there are real people on death’s row and they could be anyone.

One man, Charles Keith, spoke to me about his brother. “It started back in 1994 when there was a crime committed,” he began. “My brother was accused of it, basically because he was considered a large black man. But at the same time, there was another agenda attached to it. President Clinton had his crime bill come out.” 

The situation for Keith’s brother only worsened. “Those that don’t have the capital get the punishment,” Keith said. “It’s been thirty one years and they still haven’t questioned him or even asked if he did it.” 

Regarding the years many spend on death row, Keith commented, “They won’t take [his life] when he immediately commits a crime because everybody would be shocked at you killing an 18, 19, 20 year old or a younger person. So they sit there and let you age, and as you age, you get older, you become an adult, you learn things, you know, you’re sorry for your crimes, but they can’t forgive. Now it’s time to kill.”

Keith’s brother was exonerated on September 2nd, 2010 — 13 days before his execution date. 

The more I spoke with those attending and organizing the event, the more I realized (and they told me) they were like a family. So many of them were returners, people who had been coming since the beginning. It was like a reunion. 

I nodded along as one speaker questioned why we teach people not to kill by killing them. I laughed as one sign called for the government to “DOGE the death penalty” and soberly read many others. A woman pulled her kids up to a sign full of statistics and told them, “Read that.”  

Before I swore off protests, I attended one, years ago. It was violent and circus-like, full of gymnastics and violent images. I was surprised by the poor logic used to defend such a noble cause. You can be on the right side for the wrong reason. The realization startled me. Starvin’ for Justice was nothing like the protests I remembered and envisioned. It was a beautiful sharing of stories, binding people closer and closer together with the dizzying effect of a top spinning. These people had chosen to be driven by love instead of anger. It is a notion that lies at the core of the movement itself. The idea that humans have worth and the right to live and change is fundamental to why the death penalty is so disturbing to us. It is a sacrifice that these survivors leave their peace and dig up their trauma so that we might wake up to the harsh realization that the government can execute any one of us. So that we might help them save our country and our lives. What a blessing that we are free to speak and listen to them.