There is not a word in the American lexicon for such gatherings—the semi-spontaneous assembly of people in the wake of tragedy, who are united by both grief and by anger, and whose public mourning serves to reaffirm their civic bond to one another. But we need such a word, because this ritual happens frequently enough to be familiar—so frequently that its purpose need not be explained to those in attendance. “Are people here to protest against Donald Trump?” I asked a man in the crowd. “They’re here because of everything,” he answered.
Jelani Cobb, "From Charleston to Pittsburgh, an Arc of Premeditated American Tragedy." The New Yorker, 11/1/2018.
I could not make it to services tonight, but I am sitting here thinking of Joyce Fienberg, Richard Gottfried, Rose Mallinger, Jerry Rabinowitz, Cecil and David Rosenthal, Bernice and Sylvan Simon, Daniel Stein, Melvin Wax, and Irving Younger; of Maurice Stallard and Vickie Lee Jones, each a victim of the poisonous hates that are being encouraged in our country.