Emmanuel 9 - 10th Anniversary

I was contacted by a longtime colleague, Gil Shuler—known to many of us as a kind of Graphic God—and asked to participate in a collaborative design project. The occasion: June 17, 2025, marking the 10-year anniversary of one of the most horrific racially motivated acts of violence in our state’s—and this country’s—history. The massacre of nine Black parishioners at Mother Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston.

This wasn’t abstract for me. One of those nine was Cynthia Hurd—a librarian, a quiet force, and one of the first people I met when I arrived in Charleston during my time in the NAVY. That connection doesn’t fade. It doesn’t soften with time. It sits with you.

Gil, in honoring the Emanuel Nine, is best known for creating what has become an iconic image: nine doves rising from the palmetto tree, echoing the South Carolina state flag. It’s a piece that carries both grief and grace—something aspirational. He donated it to help raise funds for the victims’ families. It’s a visual that leans toward healing.

Gil Shuler homage to the Emmauel 9

So when he reached out, I was grateful. But if I’m being honest, I was also hesitant.

Because I’m still angry. Not politely reflective. Not gently grieving. Angry as fuck.

I initially created a piece, then scrapped it. It didn’t feel like it belonged in a collective that would likely lean toward empathy, reconciliation, and unity. My work didn’t do that. It didn’t comfort. It didn’t console. It confronted. And I wasn’t sure that was appropriate—or even welcome. This isn't about me - it's about them.

Truth is, I’m not there yet. And knowing myself, I may never be.

When Gil checked in on my progress, I told him exactly that. No filter. But I sent the piece anyway, with the caveat: if it fits, use it. If not, I completely understand. It’s rough. It’s unresolved.

He loved it.

He told me, simply, that “angry” is good. That it has a place. That I should keep going.

That affirmation mattered more than I expected.

This piece is one of the first where my work as a registered nurse directly influenced my art. The composition is intentional. Clinical, The church is rendered as a triage site. Not symbolic in a distant way—but immediate. Urgent. The kind of place where decisions are made quickly, where hands move instinctively, where life and death are not philosophical—they are practical.

At the center sits a reference to the caduceus—often mistakenly used as a medical symbol, but here I lean into that ambiguity. The staff is a cross and the serpent serves a dual purpose. On one hand, a nod to care, to healing, to medicine. On the other—an unmistakable reference to the presence of evil. The white snake winding its way through a Black congregation. Not metaphorical. Historical. Documented.

And then there is the blood. It continues to seep. Unabated. It does not stop. There’s an unavoidable tension here—between sin and salvation. Between the bloodshed that took those lives and the theological notion of Christ’s blood shed for all. The same visual language holds both truths, and they do not sit comfortably together. They shouldn’t.

At the base of the image are the words: Hold. Pressure. Here.

Anyone in medicine understands this immediately. It’s instinct. You find the source of the bleed, and you apply pressure. You don’t move on. You don’t look away. You don’t treat symptoms elsewhere while the patient is still hemorrhaging. You stay there. Because the bleeding hasn’t stopped.

And that’s the point.

We, as a culture, have a tendency to move on too quickly. To abstract tragedy into memory. To package grief into something more digestible—more presentable. But this—this wound—requires sustained attention. Relentless attention. As Toni Morrison said, “Healing must begin at the site of the wound.” Not adjacent to it. Not after we’ve softened it. Not once it becomes easier to discuss.

At the site.

This piece is not about resolution. It’s not about closure. It’s about refusal—refusal to look away, refusal to sanitize, refusal to prematurely heal something that is still actively bleeding. And maybe that’s where I am right now. Holding pressure. Here.