Watching ABC News, I stare in utter disbelief at the details continuing to emerge in a calamity that is all too commonplace for the American people.

I don’t know how to feel. First, I am seething with anger. Then, fear creeps into my mind…an undoubtable, inalienable fear. Then, compassion, as I worry and hurt for the families of the victims who have lost their lives. Eventually, even thoughts of guilt begin to seep into my soul because I know I have never been judged by my color to the extent that others have, and it is absolutely sickening to me that someone would have the urge to hurt another based on the tone of their skin.

This evening, the conversation in my circle of friends was not about the simplicities of summer. We did not laugh; we did not make jokes toward one another. Quaint memories were not made on this night. Instead, we decided to look danger in the eyes and dared to ask it when it would creep into our lives. I was sick to my stomach, alarmed at the reality of the world we find so familiar. We were filled with panic and completely dumbfounded upon the awareness that we might not know what to do when the danger and devastation that sits seemingly far away today could likely become entirely second nature in our futures.

And this is why: on June 17, while millions of Americans across the nation were spending time laughing with friends, having dinner with family, watching television, or even commiserating about having to work the night shift {as I was}, a man opened fire in a church.

Thoughts of other occurrences came to mind, from crimes like the Newtown, Conn. tragedy to the lives lost at Columbine. But there was something different about it all this time because this place was a church in my state: South Carolina. A church that is two hours away from the front door of my house. So instead of viewing this as “just another tragedy” in a pile of many, my world was turned upside down. The reality I began to face was that this was far too close to home.

And instead of attempting to identify with these strangers, I began to think about how long it would be before I got a phone call that someone in my family was shot or wounded. I started thinking about the day when I will have to hear a coroner pronounce my pastor dead because someone with inexcusable ideals chose to end his life. A day where I am standing at the hollow end of a gun begging for mercy from a death sentence I don’t deserve.

I speak out today as many others have done all across the nation, offering another voice in the crowd as a plea. A plea to stand together. Americans for Americans, no matter what our differences. No matter what the gender, sexuality, race, religion, political views, or economic status we each possess, we need each other now more than ever to preserve and protect the rights and liberties granted to each of us. Our nation was founded upon certain stances that make our nation so profoundly exceptional, and among those are rights to protection of all citizens.

While we may disagree on the solutions to this problem and how we will change the face of hate crimes as we know them, I can be sure of these things: I vow to be unified through the diversity of our nation, focusing not on how it hinders us but on how it grants utmost freedom. I vow to stand with the African-American community, as American heritage runs through their veins just as it flows through mine. I vow to stand with Charleston as they navigate through this devastating period of loss. I vow to stand for justice in this situation. And I vow to stand up to anyone who thinks they have the right to infringe on the human right to life.