by Gwen Carr
•reforming the criminal justice system and eliminating barriers to reentry;
•combatting voter suppression;
•expanding access to world-class education from pre-k through postsecondary level;
•expanding access to quality, affordable health care and eliminating racial health disparities;
•expanding access to 21st century technologies, including broad- band;
•strengthening protections for workers and expanding access to full, fairly-compensated employment;
•expanding access to capital, contracts, and counseling for minority-owned businesses; and
•promoting U.S. foreign policy initiatives in Africa and other countries that are consistent with the fundamental right of human dignity.
For the 115th Congress, the CBC has a historic forty-nine members in the U.S. House of Representatives and the U.S. Senate, representing seventy-eight million Americans, 24 percent of the total U.S. population, and seventeen million African Americans—41 percent of the U.S. African American population. In addition, the CBC represents almost a fourth of the House Democratic Caucus.
The CBC is engaged at the highest levels of Congress with members who serve in House leadership and are full committee and subcommittee ranking members. Representative James E. Clyburn (D-SC) serves as the assistant Democratic leader in the House, six CBC members serve as ranking members on full House committees, and thirty-one CBC members serve as ranking members on House and Senate subcommittees.
While the CBC has predominately been made up of members of the Democratic Party, the founding members of the Caucus envisioned a nonpartisan organization. Consequently, the CBC has a long history of bipartisan collaboration and members who are both Democrat and Republican.
As founding member Representative William L. Clay Sr. said when the CBC was established, “Black people have no permanent friends, no permanent enemies . . . just permanent interests.”
The next year, 2015, I was officially retired from the MTA, where I had worked for twenty-two years as a conductor and then a train operator. It took some getting used to since going to work had been part of my routine for so long. I felt a little lost at first. I was already without my son, and now I no longer had a job. In my mind, I kept thinking that once I got back to work, things would settle down and get back to normal.
I wasn’t sure what normal meant anymore, but I knew I just wanted to get back to a routine, a daily schedule where I knew what I was going to do and when. That type of structure can be very helpful when dealing with tragic situations. It helps to provide something else to focus on and somewhere to channel that pent-up energy. So when I retired, it meant that my time was now truly my own. It was up to me to decide how I would spend it.
I certainly didn’t plan to fade into the background, especially after that energizing convention I’d attended a few months back. Since that time, I’d kept in touch with Sybrina and Lezley, and I was enjoying that friendship. I didn’t know the women very well, but I felt an instant connection because of our shared experiences. I kept thinking about all the powerful people I had seen and met— the members of Congress, community leaders, and so many others. They were working for change and that energized me, which I guess is the ultimate goal of those conventions. And it worked on me.
I also began meeting other women who had gone through similar ordeals as me, Sybrina, and Lezley. There was Maria Hamilton, whose son, Dontre, was shot and killed by police in Milwaukee in April 2014. There was Lucy McBath: her son, Jordan Davis, was only seventeen when a man shot him outside of a convenience store in Jacksonville, Florida, over a dispute about playing a car stereo too loudly in 2012. Cleopatra Cowley-Pendleton’s daughter, Hadiya, was fifteen years old when she was shot at Harsh Park in Kenwood, Chicago, a week after performing at Obama’s second inauguration in 2013.
Like most of America, I had heard about these incidents, some more than others. I’m not sure how that happens, but some seemed to garner more attention from the press than others. Some linger while others seem to fade from the public more quickly. I suppose it depends on what else is happening in the country. However, I did realize that as more people began recording these incidents, they really started to get more coverage from the press.
Hearing some of those horrible stories was of course upsetting and disturbing, and when they were accompanied by the undeniable images, it just amplified everything. People kept saying that it was for the better because that meant more attention and focus, which could ultimately result in changes that would help stop the deaths. That was probably true, but it was difficult to see and hear more and more cases.
Meeting these women and hearing their stories usually left me speechless. I was trying to get over that habit that I had, to retreat and stay quiet, but it was not easy. I understood the pain these brave ladies felt, and it hurt me to see them still dealing with it years later. I think that’s because I saw my future in them. I had been telling myself that things were going to get better and time would help to ease the pain; the horrible images would gradually fade into some area of my brain where it wasn’t the only thing I could think about. Then, after meeting the other women, I realized that was just wishful thinking. It was obvious that this was my future. I would always have this pain to deal with, just like these strong women were doing. It would never get easier.
That’s when it really started to click for me. Why did it have to get easier? That would just lull me into complacency, into acceptance about what happened to Eric. I did not want that to happen. I shared a commonality with these women, and I could see that they had already come to the realization that they had to do something. Sitting on the sidelines was not an option. Hoping things would get better was not an option. More deaths were not an option.
In April 2015, Representative Hakeem Jeffries, a Democrat representing New York, held a press conference to announce that he was introducing federal legislation to ban police chokeholds. It had been less than a year since Eric’s death, so I was very excited that some type of change was possible. The bill was called the Excessive Use of Force Prevention Act, and I was asked to join him outside of One Police Plaza in Manhattan as he made the announcement to the press. Cynthia Davis came along with me as she continued to mentor me and help me through this new chapter of my life. Minister Kirsten John Foy from the National Action Network was there as well.
The goal of the bill was to specifically define what a choke-hold is, because, as I had learned, if everything is not very clearly spelled out, it’s open to interpretation. This legislation defined the chokehold as “the application of any pressure to the throat or windpipe which may prevent or hinder breathing or reduce the intake of air.” Representative Jeffries had done a lot of research and said that there were police departments in many cities that prohibited the use of chokeholds, but there was no law against it at the federal level.
He pointed out that the majority of police departments don’t have a specific policy on chokeholds, and some only go as far as to “discourage” their use. I just hoped after everyone saw Eric on video receiving a chokehold that it registered with people just how deadly it is. Representative Jeffries pointed out what had become glaringly obvious—the police department policies were obviously not effective at eliminating the chokehold’s use by officers.
There was another important reason for the legislation. Since the New York grand jury had refused to bring about any charges, our only other hope was the U.S. Department of Justice. They were currently reviewing Eric’s case to determine whether his civil rights were violated by the NYPD. I was told that it was a long shot, but at that point I didn’t care. I would take that over nothing. The state of New York had let us down, so I hoped that maybe something would happen at the federal level, and I knew that this bill could help the Department of Justice by giving it clear authority to intervene in cases where the chokehold was used.
As I said at the press conference, why should someone be choked to death? Especially w
hen they are unarmed? I felt that this was a step in the right direction, and I was honored to be a part of it. That was also one of the first press conferences that I attended by myself. Before that, I usually had several family members with me to provide strength and support, which I desperately needed. This time, I was a little nervous at first, especially when I was asked to give my opinion, but after I spoke I felt much better. I didn’t prepare anything ahead of time. I just said what was in my heart.
Everyone assured me that I had done well, and I appreciated that because this mission began to feel much more natural to me than it had at first. With each event and each speaking opportunity, I became more at ease and more confident. I wasn’t totally there yet, because I still felt out of place among these people who had so much more experience than I did. However, standing up at that microphone and hearing my words amplified and watching reporters record what I had to say helped me realize that I did have something to add to the conversation. They were interested in my words and my experiences.
Another civil rights tragedy befell a major city that same month. In April 2015, a twenty-five-year-old Black man named Freddie Gray was fatally injured while being transported in a police van. His death sparked citywide riots in his hometown of Baltimore. It had still not even been a year since my son had died, and I think people were just so tired of the treatment we were receiving at the hands of police. I was sad for the riots because I didn’t think violence was the answer, but I did understand their frustrations.
In the short amount of time I had spent working to create change, I realized how slowly things moved along. I wanted things to happen right away, but once I got educated on how things work, I saw that to get something done and to get the cooperation of others, especially those in power, you had to follow established procedures and work within their guidelines. Otherwise you were just spinning your wheels.
During April, the National Action Network held its seventeenth annual national convention at the Sheraton New York Hotel. It was just after the fiftieth anniversary of the civil rights marches in Selma, Alabama. This meeting was more political because the presidential election was coming up in 2016 and candidates were starting to be more visible as they jockeyed for position in their respective parties. Candidates such as Ben Carson, Martin O’Malley, and Bernie Sanders were there as well as New York mayor Bill de Blasio and many other politicians. There were also many celebrities involved, such as director Lee Daniels and actor Anthony Anderson.
I was on a panel along with some of the other mothers and family members of police victims, including Sybrina Fulton (Trayvon Martin), Lezley McSpadden (Michael Brown), Valerie Bell (Sean Bell), and Samaria Rice, mother of Tamir, a twelve-year-old shot by police officers. We were often referred to as “grassroots activists,” and I was becoming more comfortable with the term. I guess I was officially an activist.
At each of these events, and with the guidance of the people at NAN, and especially Cynthia Davis, I would meet yet another mother whose child had been killed. There were just so many of us, and we all had that one connection—we had all lost a child to violence, often at the hands of the police. It never got easier to meet someone else and hear their story. It was much different talking to them directly as opposed to what was reported on the news. Hearing from them how their lives had been impacted was nothing short of heartbreaking.
But each time I heard another story, I realized that’s where our power was. That was the strength all of us mothers shared. We were able to humanize our children and show that they were much more than a news headline. Our children were people with hopes and dreams just like anyone else, and we all agreed that they deserved to be remembered for more than just their violent ending. That was our mission as parents, to not only help to bring about change but also tell the story of our children and give them the respect they deserved.
While there were sometimes other family members in attendance who were related to those who had died, it was the mothers who really got people’s attention. I think it was for a couple of reasons. First, it is often a reality that many Black families are led by mothers since there is not always a father in the home. So, just by sheer numbers, there are usually more mothers at the events. Second, a mother’s love is universal. Everyone can understand and relate to the powerful connection that is shared by a mother and her child.
At these events, when there were several of us mothers present, we began to be referred to as “the mothers” and then “the Mothers of the Movement.” We weren’t an actual organized group, but we happened to be at many of the same functions, working for the same thing: justice.
I joined a large group that went to the New York State Capitol in Albany to demand that the governor sign an order that would bring in special prosecutors to handle police shootings of individuals. I was in the company of yet another mother I’d met—Valerie Bell, whose son Sean was shot and killed by police in 2006, on his wedding day, in Queens, New York. There were others in attendance as well, and we all had the same mission: to demand that Governor Cuomo meet with us to discuss our issues. We had tried to meet with him in the past, but he would not make himself available. He avoided us. This time, with a large group of us outside, we were not going to be ignored any longer.
Maybe the frustrations I saw in Baltimore helped to fuel my determination, but I was not going to leave there without speaking to the governor. After what I had been through and what so many others like Valerie had experienced, we deserved to at least meet with our own governor. Just because he might not like what we had to say didn’t mean he should avoid us. His job is to listen to all citizens, not just ones he agrees with.
We were all pleasantly surprised when, after first denying us, we were informed that the governor would make time to meet with us that afternoon to hear what we had to say. As promised, we were escorted into a room where we met with the governor and some of his staff members. He listened to our concerns, and I was very clear with my message: I did not feel like my son had received a fair ruling from the grand jury, and it was time for changes to be made regarding police incidents.
I was glad that he listened, and I thought that it was a move in the right direction. He even promised that he would be willing to meet again to discuss the matter in more detail. That was logical since we had basically shown up unannounced. I looked forward to a more organized meeting to discuss the topic further. Beyond that, the meeting gave me renewed hope that things weren’t as impossible as I had initially thought. Speaking out could actually make a difference. It was obvious that things were going to take some time, but I felt like we were laying the groundwork for something to happen, and I was right in the middle of it all.
Those were serious times, and most of the events, despite everyone being cordial and welcoming, had a somber tone. People were reverent in their dealings with me and the other mothers in attendance. They were considerate and polite and serious. Dealing with death, as I was still learning, was an ongoing process for me and others. This was my third time experiencing someone so close to me dying, and it didn’t get any easier along the way. So I was mostly invited to events like that. There were roundtable discussions, community involvement events, rallies, luncheons, conventions, and so on. They just kept coming, and I kept attending.
There were opportunities for other events along the way as well. I think folks wanted to show some appreciation for what the other mothers and I were doing, and they knew that any event we attended would help bring more exposure to the cause, even if it was a concert. On May 10, I was invited to Baltimore to see Prince perform. It was somewhat related to my mission because he was holding it for the fans in Baltimore after what they had been through with the riots. It was called Prince’s Rally 4 Peace, and it was to benefit the community. He was intent on bringing some entertainment to the city as well as raising money for local charities.
The concert was pulled together on short notice, but you would have never known by the sheer magnitude of it. There were
so many people there, and it was amazing to see everyone coming together and celebrating after what had happened there. Prince even wrote a song about the city and ending police brutality. At the concert, I was able to meet so many fascinating people, including Alicia Keys, JAY-Z and his mother, and Beyoncé. They were all very gracious, and I truly enjoyed meeting them.
That July was the first anniversary of Eric’s death, and it made me reflect on the year I’d had. Looking back, I couldn’t believe all that had happened. I was still trying to get used to the fact that Eric was not around, that he wasn’t calling to check on me or coming over to the house just to talk and catch me up on his life. We had such a close relationship when it was taken away so abruptly and violently; it didn’t seem real. Even after a year of not seeing him, it didn’t seem like that was my reality.
However, after taking stock of what I’d been through, I had surprised not only others but also myself with all the events I attended and the speeches I’d made. A quiet woman like me was speaking out, and people were listening. I was still getting used to that. It’s one thing when someone sets out to make changes and get active in their community. It’s much different when it is basically thrust upon you. All of this was dropped in my lap, and it was up to me how I wanted to handle it. I could have just hidden my head in the sand, stayed inside my modest home, and dealt with things myself.
I didn’t do that. When I realized that might be my reality, I took action to make sure that I did something unexpected. I got involved. It was very slow at first and took a lot of coaxing and encouragement from my family and experts like Cynthia, but with that help and confidence, I was able to keep Eric’s name alive and ensure that it meant something. He was so much more than a Black man in a T-shirt on Bay Street. He was a beautiful person, and he was my son.