When I was a kid, growing up in upstate New York, I was always fascinated with politics. I'd dream of growing up and getting involved in my community, helping to create policies and supporting ordinances that would make the world around me a better place. I grew up watching strong Republicans and strong Democrats working together, creating change.
I remember bringing a book home from the Ogden Free Library in my hometown, called "Four Days". It was a book about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I wanted to know everything I could, about how it happened, and why, and how people moved through it, past it, above it. Or, if they didn't, if they couldn't.
What I remember most from the book was a poem that spoke to the sense of loss, of the futility of working to discover how best to describe what has gone out of the world.
"Who would disgrace the tragic majesty of his passing, with words so weak and worn as those we know?"
On February 1, 2023, Sayreville Councilwoman Eunice Dwumfour was murdered. Eunice was 30 years old, a conservative Black pastor, a Republican, a mother and a daughter, and a person committed wholly to leaving the world better than she'd found it.
I wish I'd been able to call Eunice a friend, I do. But we were not friends, we had a pair of interactions with one another in her role as Councilwoman, both centering on a topic that became controversial, but ultimately was not.
On June 15, 2022, I appeared before the Borough Council to speak about the flying of a Pride Flag at Borough Hall, to commemorate Pride Month. The flag had flown for the previous two years, but halfway through the month, for some reason, it was still not there. As one of two dads of an elementary-school student, I needed to show up, to introduce our Council to the people behind the policy. and to call for a vote to fly the Pride Flag once again. Because representation matters.
My comments from that evening are below.
I'd hoped to do the best job I could for my family, for my town, because lifting others up is how we become stronger, together. I anticipated, wrongly, that the votes would split evenly, with Republicans voting 'no', and Democrats voting 'yes'.
When given the opportunity to speak before voting, I listened to the political calculation and dissection by members of our Council, relegating this to a policy issue, of setting bad precedent. But then, Mayor Kilpatrick asked Councilwoman Dwumfour, Eunice, for her thoughts.
“Honestly sir, I really, really want to commend your bravery. I’m a pastor, and I’m excited to vote ‘yes’, and I’m proud to say ‘yes’. Because on behalf of God, he represents everyone on the face of this planet, and I’m glad that you came up here, and I’m super excited once again, on the record, to vote ‘yes’. And I don’t have any hesitation with saying this in front of my congregation. Thank you so much, and also, greet your son Gabriel, for me.”
To people viewing the immense number of issues facing a town, a vinyl rectangle on a flagpole probably doesn't seem like the most important issue to vote on. But I remember standing at the podium that night, needing to be in control of the emotions I was projecting, needing to be brave, but being smacked with the humility that I'd been totally wrong about what can live inside a person's heart. I had been seen, and invited to be part of this community, by a woman who knew what it felt like to be seen as different, and who wanted more for the people she served. And who made it so.
I hadn't earned the vote of a Black, female, conservative, Republican pastor. I'd earned the vote of Eunice Dwumfour, a mother, a daughter, because she believed fundamentally in love, in family, in progress together. She believed in leaning into her lived experiences, and voting with her heart and her conscience, and she understood that her position carried with it a responsibility to her people, not her party. And she lived her promise. The Pride flag was set to fly the next morning.
I drove back home and kissed my son on the forehead to say goodnight. He hugged me and asked, “Daddy, did you do it?” I was able to say, “Gabe, we did it.”
And so, when I learned of Eunice's murder, I didn't have the words to describe what had happened. No one could fathom that the unthinkable had become real, and to someone so vibrant, so shining, so, so good. And I had to explain to my son that we'd lost someone who cared deeply about us, and our town.
Gabe looked at me, and he asked, "Daddy, can Sayreville have her back?"
Eunice was murdered on the first day of February, the month where we celebrate the many and varied stories of those in the Black community who have made immutable differences in our world, whose service, whose fearlessness, whose bravery created changes in the world that we all must seek to defend. If the intent behind Eunice's murder was erasure, the impact is that she's been made a forever part of the history of this place. Now, though she has been taken away, she will never be gone.
I wish I'd known her better, I wish I'd been able to set aside my respect for the service, to share my gratitude for the servant.
One of the guiding principles in my life has been a quote by Shirley Chisholm, and it's fitting that I'd again return to her words when thinking about Eunice and the work she did for our community, that she should inspire us all to do.
"Service is the rent we pay for the privilege of living on this Earth."
In the days that are laid out in front of us, suddenly feeling less bright than before, we owe it to ourselves, to our community, to those who knew Eunice most deeply, and to the servant we've lost, to choose to shine.
We have to be the sun, guided by kindness and conscience. Eunice Dwumfour planted seeds in a garden she'll never see grow, but it is now our obligation to keep her memory, her spirit, her principles, at the forefront of how we choose to move forward, why and how we choose to serve. To choose community over conflict, and to remember the fundamental bend towards goodness that lives inside us all.
The last words Eunice said to me were simple, and they are a promise I will keep, and keep proudly.
"Greet your son Gabriel, for me."
I will, Councilwoman. For you.
To help support the establishment of a trust for Eunice's daughter, please consider donating at this link.
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