I started posting rainbows in text messages and found pictures of everything from rainbow-colored Christmas trees to bagels.
After Freddie Gray, an unarmed young black man in Baltimore, was killed when the police broke his neck, I was invited to attend a special concert on Mother’s Day in Baltimore. I thought I had been nervous about these kinds of events before, but this time it was Prince and Beyoncé who wanted to meet me and a couple other mothers who had had son’s killed in nationally publicized cases, backstage.
So here I was at a Prince concert, and now meeting Beyoncé, and she was so down-to-earth and kind. She cried with us and embraced me. I’ve never been a person who got starstruck, but I didn’t know how much of a diva she’d be. She wasn’t like that; she was just a regular woman, a black woman who was a mother now herself. She shared her Mother’s Day with us.
As I stood off to the side, taking in the moment of how a little black girl from the hood could have become a world traveler as a result of her son getting killed, more tears filled my eyes. I was sad yet thankful that I was working through the grieving process better now. Thankful that I hadn’t given up.
I felt a light tap and turned to see Beyoncé’s mama, Tina Knowles, standing there. She immediately wrapped her arms around me. She wasn’t an old woman by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, she looked fabulous, better than a lot of women my age, but she still had that experienced “mama” vibe. For the next few minutes she shared something very special with me.
“What are you going do now? You have to do something,” she said, looking me in the eye.
“I know. I started a foundation, but I’m still figurin’ it all out,” I said.
“Listen, Lezley, there was an organization that started back in the 1980s called Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, MADD. You should look it up. It could inspire you.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tina, for being an inspiration yourself. I have been working on getting my foundation set up and it’s almost ready, but I definitely think a new movement for mothers is what the country needs,” I said. The wheels in my head were spinning.
I took that moment to heart. I was seeing that God gives us little messages when we least expect them. I didn’t waste no time looking up MADD. Those mothers had gotten together to fight drunk drivers because too many of their babies were getting killed with a drunk driver behind the wheel, or they were underage getting alcohol, getting drunk, and killing themselves. Their mothers created a movement.
I got back to St. Louis on a mission. I already had my foundation name, but I wanted my first program to be the Rainbow of Mothers. That name came to me in the middle of the night. I hadn’t been this excited in months. I was smiling again. I wanted to use my voice to bring together a rainbow of mothers from all races and backgrounds who had either lost a child to street violence, gun violence, excessive police force, or just untimely death due to illness. I saw services for counseling, programs for our surviving kids, physical activities so that we could keep our bodies and minds occupied. I wanted this to be a support network for mothers across the country, maybe even the world one day.
Sometimes when you have a dream, you just have to step out there. I was stepping out on faith. I just prayed I could make a difference.
August 7, 2015
As me and Louis turned onto Washington Avenue, the street was jam-packed. Women were lined up at the door with their after-five best, dressed to the nines, hair whipped. Butterflies danced in my stomach.
I was relieved to see that the police had everything under control. I spotted Captain Ron Johnson, waved and mouthed “thank you.” The day before, after I was finishing up a local TV interview to promote the event, I looked up and Captain Ron Johnson was standing near the front door, waiting to talk to me. A year ago, on August fifteenth, after tear gas and riot police in Ferguson set off criticism from all over the country, the state sent Missouri Highway Patrol Captain in to oversee the police presence there. Captain Ron, as we all call him, was African-American and had grown up in north St. Louis County. So when the governor put him in charge, we all knew he was the police, but we was proud at the same time, ‘cause he was one of “us.” He had to do his job, but he brought understanding to the situation in his role. Captain Ron even marched with the peaceful protesters.
So, I was speechless when he had called and offered to support the event by making sure we had proper police presence to secure the event. Before I could get a word out, he had reached out and gave me a warm embrace.
“You okay?” He asked with a smile.
“Yeah, I’m doin’ pretty good. I really thank you for offering to take care of things for the event.”
“Look, I know you’ve suffered a lot, and I just want you to know that I’m here for you.”
We finished going over the logistics for the event and I even cried a little bit. It was a huge moment, because when everything happened with Mike Mike, the public perception was that me demanding justice and for the officer to be prosecuted, was me being anti-police. First off, I got police officers in my family. We need the police, but what we don’t need is no more bad policing. Captain Ron was real and compassionate. Before he left he vowed not only his support, but the support of the St. Louis City Police Department for the event. That was the kind of respect that I had been asking for all this time. It wasn’t too much to ask for either. Finally, somebody in a position of authority was doing the right thing. I quickly made my way to the back entrance of the building. Suddenly, I closed my eyes and could see Mike Mike’s face, smiling. He was my oxygen tonight. I reopened my eyes and looked around in amazement at the room.
Wanda Johnson, the mother of Oscar Grant, who had been killed by police at the Fruitvale Station subway stop in Oakland, California, took the mic and gave us the opening prayer, and the mothers gathered in a circle with candles and photos of their lost children, calling out their babies’ names.
Congresswoman Maxine Waters, Ben Crump, Anthony Gray, Daryl Parks, and Reverend Al Sharpton were all there to stand with me. I had been dreaming about all this since the beginning of the New Year, and with the help of my gala committee and board members, I had made it happen.
It was August 7, 2015, two days before the anniversary of Mike Mike’s death, and as I was celebrating my son’s legacy with all the other mothers in the room, I thought about the fact that it had been a year, and still no justice for Mike Mike. In fact most of the mothers in the room were still in desperate need of justice for their beloved son or daughter. Tonight was the fuel I needed to take my fight to the next level.
Making it through the one-year anniversary of Mike Mike’s death was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. But somehow, whether it’s a pep talk from Louis, Brittanie, a board member, or my therapist, or just seeing my other kids smile. I push past it. Also, when I saw the turn out at the gala, I understood that I did have a voice that could reach people.
I had been talking with other Rainbow Mothers, more recently like Lucia McBath, mother of Jordan Davis, the unarmed seventeen year old boy, shot by a white man at a gas station in Florida in 2012 because he and his friends were playing their music loud. Lucia is an advocate for gun legislation. So, when I see her speaking in front of Congress, or on panels, I’m amazed how she is still fighting, regardless of the pain, and I know I can do it, too.
Now, I’m determined to make real change through the Michael O. D. Brown We Love Our Sons And Daughters Foundation. One of the big things that legislators like Missouri Congressman William Clay, Jr., and Missouri State Senator Jamilah Nasheed had all begun pushing for is the mandatory use of body cameras. If the officer had had a body cam on the day he shot Mike Mike, we’d know the truth.
I had never even been active in politics, but now was my chance. If I had to bang on every Missouri politicians door, that’s what I was going to do. Luckily, both Congressman Clay and Senator Nasheed have opened their doors to me, and also my goal to get a bill in Mike Mike’s name.
Some hater migh
t say I’m never going to be successful ’cause I don’t have the education or background, or even the right connections, but I look back at my Granny’s life. She came up to St. Louis from Mississippi, and she didn’t have any connections or a lot of resources, but she made a way anyway. So, as I sat down to write to the powers that be, I was confident that if I could just get one legislator, the rest would follow.
Michael Brown was not some made up character like Hulk Hogan, but the cop who shot him tried to paint him that way. On August 9, 2014, there is no recorded account of Michael Brown’s last moments in life. I still do not have closure or the solid truth of what really happened that day.
But police worn body cameras are only a piece of the puzzle when it comes to the whole picture of police accountability and transparency. But body cameras are not a substitute for good policies, good training or good community policing programs.
I want lawmakers to think about me and my family, and other families that need closure and the truth. The death of my son and all the other unarmed victims to police involved shootings whose deaths must not be in vain. Their blood cries out for answers from the streets. And this isn’t a black versus white issue. This is an issue about Right versus Wrong. And anything done in the dark will always come to light.
CHAPTER THIRTY
STILL WE RISE
December 5, 2015
On the eve of December fifth, I stood in the middle of my kitchen surrounded by a sea of grocery bags, wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into. The clock on the microwave read 10:35 p.m. I had twelve hours before my second public event for my Rainbow Of Mothers Program.
The name Body, Mind, and Spirit had come to me clear as day while I was driving home from therapy one evening. I started to smile. Through my counseling, I was learning that a person couldn’t get better unless they start from the inside. This holiday I didn’t want to be all down and depressed. I needed to be lifted up, and I wanted to help lift up my fellow Rainbow Mothers. The idea was to give fifty mothers who had lost their children, a day of counseling and activities, holiday food bags, and a reminder that they weren’t alone.
The gift bags had been hard enough. Everyone the foundation team and I called to donate turkeys and other holiday fixings turned us down. Just hearing the word “no” made me start to doubt myself. I didn’t know how I was going to pull it off, but that’s the story of my life.
Then, my cousin and board member Sandra got her church to give us the turkeys and things started to fall into place. The only thing left to figure out was the luncheon we wanted to close the day with. After several dead-end attempts to get a sponsor, I found myself pulling out my old catering apron.
I got busy unpacking bags and before long, I was in my zone. I pulled out my cutting board and started chopping onions and celery, then the tender white breast meat from the chicken I’d just taken out the pot. I pulled out a huge bowl, poured everything in, added some scoops of mayonnaise and relish, salt and white pepper, and began to mix it all together. I carefully folded deli meats and cheeses and arranged them on platters. Next were my relish trays, my fruits, and veggies.
I don’t even know when I crawled into bed, but it seemed like no sooner than I had shut my eyes, I was waking up. Louis loaded up the car with everything, and on the ride, I was a nervous wreck. I had to keep shaking off disastrous thoughts. Today was another huge leap of faith and was praying that God had a safety net for me.
• • • •
Scented candles burned, soft music played, and the dance studio inside the Better Family Life building had been transformed into our own private sanctuary where we could all lay our burdens down. Twenty of us, sitting on yoga mats, the instructor coaching us to breathe in through our mouths, slowly, letting the air fill up our lungs, becoming still and one with breath, then releasing it slowly. When you lose a child it isn’t something that just sits in your heart. It’s in your mind. It darkens your spirit. So today was about healing.
The pastor who was also a Rainbow Mother walked up to the front of the dimly lit room. She gave a short opening prayer, every eye was closed and head bowed. A Rainbow Mother twice over, she lost one son when he was in college after he was fatally stabbed and murdered by a white supremacist. Her second son had had a pulmonary embolism and died suddenly.
“God took me out of the mode of hate and guilt. I searched myself to see if this had happened as a result of something I had done. Know that if God can forgive us, then who are we to hold on to the guilt?”
While the yoga instructor tiptoed through the room, reminding each of us to continue breathing, mothers started weeping, and then, they started comforting each other. Some just sat in silent reflection. My whole body shuddered, from a chill that shot up my spine, my eyes filled with tears.
Everybody up in here was a Rainbow Mother, most of us had lost sons to black on black street violence. There were two women who are best friends, whose sons were killed together.
Another mother’s son had been shot. The killer was never arrested and is still living in her neighborhood. The police simply closed the case because they said no witnesses came forth, or no evidence. But she knows who took her baby. The whole neighborhood knows.
There was one young mother who reminded me of myself so many years ago. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; she had three babies and had been left to raise them after her boyfriend was shot and killed.
All of us have a story and moments like this get me a little too full still. I got up and slipped out the room, into the hallway where I could take a quiet minute to myself. I leaned up against the wall and tried to do like the instructor had just told us—breathe in slowly, exhale, connect with my breath.
While the rest of the world has Christmas celebrations and parties to line up and shopping to do, most of us would rather skip over Christmas. That’s the time of family and gathering for good times and good food. But it is hard to enjoy any of that when your child isn’t here anymore. Holidays are days that Rainbow Mothers struggle through. So, I figured if I can help somebody feel better, even if I’m still trying to get help and feel better myself, then this is a testament of me planting that mustard seed of hope.
Around this time last year I went on CNN again, because yet another black boy had been killed by the police. Me and Sybrina Fulton were now embracing Gwen Carr, the mother of Eric Garner, and Samaria Rice, the mother of unarmed twelve year old Tamir Rice, the boy who had been shot and killed while playing in the park, by a white Cleveland Police Officer. I connected powerfully with Samaria, because we were not only close in age, but we had both been young single mothers. When Samaria sat down in the same seat I had sat in when I first met Sybrina and Valerie Bell months before I was struck again by the unending chain of mothers suffering the loss of their children at the hands of violence.
Louis saw me and walked over to check on me.
“You good, baby?” he handed me a Kleenex.
“Yeah, yeah, I just needed a break. It got kinda emotional in there.”
“Well, we need you to set the food up when you get a chance,” he rubbed my back, before walking down the long hallway to the main room, where lunch was going to be served.
I collected myself and headed over to get lunch ready. Board members were talking to Rainbow Mothers who had just arrived and checking people in.
Felice McClendon reported, “Lezley, the kids have started their arts and crafts session downstairs. The counseling sessions are starting next.”
I was still in amazement that the event was actually happening. She put her arm around me and led me over to where Sandra and Chevelle were gathered with a small group of people.
Better Family Life had helped us get to a network of black therapists who had agreed to donate their entire afternoon to us. I was so moved that they would give their time to help us. They saw us, the Rainbow Mothers, and they saw our need.
When I got into the main room there were more mothers gathered, they walked over to
me.
“Thank you for havin’ us,” one mother said, holding my hand tightly.
“No one ever thinks about us and how hard it is. We were at your event in August and we wasn’t gonna miss this one,” another one who was older said with tears in her eyes.
I threw my arms around her and we both rocked back and forth.
Back down the hall, the kids were happily doing Zumba moves and the counseling sessions were in full swing. Each counselor was talking to groups of two or three mothers. I saw women laughing and some crying real hard. I walked through each room checking on everyone and even joined in a few of the conversations.
I overheard a mother sobbing in a corner where she was in a one on one moment with a volunteer counselor. Her young son was shot walking to school.
I unwrapped the food and Louis helped me arrange it on the table. Déja and Brittanie were double-checking the food and gift bags. I suddenly got choked up looking at my daughter working her butt off.
It was time for lunch and the women gathered in the main room. We gave the blessing and then lunch was served. Folks were eating, having fellowship. Feel good music was pumping through the speakers and it was a good time.
At the end of the day, something came over me and I suddenly grabbed the microphone. I tried to keep my words slow and steady so that I didn’t mess up. Talking in front of people like this always made me a little shy.
“Um, I just, um, want to tell each of you how much I appreciate you being here today,” I took a deep breath before continuing. “I feel like I go to a lot of cities, and you see the mothers come out to these events for kids that have been killed, and they all together. But I get sad when I come back home, because I haven’t really seen a group of mothers do something collectively here.”
I was starting to get charged up. Some of the women began to shout out, “Amen!” and “That’s right!”
Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil Page 25