by Till-Mobley, Mamie; Benson, Christopher; Jackson, Jesse Rev (FRW)
I looked at Gene. He nodded. “That’s Bobo,” he said. “I know that haircut.”
Everyone, it seemed, would recognize the parts of him they knew best. That’s when it occurred to me that I had never used the photos I had brought with me. In the end, we didn’t need that kind of aid. In the end, we already had committed Emmett to memory.
I couldn’t help but think of the first time I laid eyes on my son. I remembered my reaction to his distorted little face and how I made him cry. I would have given anything to take that back. That face seemed so adorable now. My first look and my last look at Emmett would forever be fused in my mind.
I kept looking at him on the table and I thought about what it must have been like for him that night. I studied every detail of what those monsters had done to destroy his beautiful young life. I thought about how afraid he must have been, how at some point that early Sunday morning, he must have known he was going to die. I thought about how all alone he must have felt, and I found myself hoping only that he died quickly. I can never forget what I saw on that table and how I felt. And I can never forget the complete devastation I experienced when I realized for the first time something that would haunt me for such a long time to come. At some point during his ordeal, in the last moments of his precious little life, Emmett must have cried out. Two names. “God” and “Mama.” And no one answered the call.
CHAPTER 15
They say there’s something to be gained from all of life’s experiences. Even the bad ones. Especially those, really. But if the bad experience is a great loss, then what do we gain? Could it possibly be enough to make up for what is sacrificed? If it is, if things somehow balance out between what we lose and what we gain, if we only break even, then are we truly better off?
There were so many questions during that time, so few answers. The coming months would be such an intense period of hard questions, and answers that never seemed to come easily. I had prayed for answers and when they didn’t come right away, I became angry. I became angry with God. Why had this happened to Emmett? Why had this happened to me? What could I have possibly done to deserve this? What would become of me as a result of this?
So much was running through my head at the moment I stood there, at the funeral home, with A. A. Rayner and Daddy and Gene and Rayfield all standing by as I gazed at the mutilated body that once had been my son. At that moment I didn’t see what I possibly could gain from the worst experience anyone could ever have. All I felt was the vast emptiness left by what had been lost.
Into that void, I kept pouring so much pain and, oh, yes, so much anger. Emmett hadn’t done anything to deserve what was done to him. What was done to him by those men was savage, it was barbaric, and I wasn’t about to let them get away with it. Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam had been arrested on Monday and charged with kidnapping. On Thursday, the day Uncle Crosby boarded the train in Mississippi to bring Emmett’s body home to Chicago, on that day the charges against Bryant and Milam were upgraded to murder. Even so, before they’d stand trial, they’d have to be indicted by a grand jury in Tallahatchie County. The place where Emmett’s body was found. Just miles from the place where I was born.
I told Mr. Rayner I wanted an open-casket funeral. He looked at Emmett, that horribly distorted face, then he looked back at me. He asked me if I was sure. I was never more certain of anything. He asked me if I wanted him to retouch Emmett. If I wanted him to work on my son. If I wanted to make him more presentable.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. That was the way I wanted him presented. “Let the world see what I’ve seen.”
I didn’t really know what was motivating me, what was making me do what I was doing during this period. It was something I can’t explain, something working through me, something that would cause me to say things that would only become clear to me the instant I’d speak them. But the feeling was strong in me and I understood clearly what had to be done. It would be important for people to look at what had happened on a late Mississippi night when nobody was looking, to consider what might happen again if we didn’t look out. This would not be like so many other lynching cases, the hundreds, the thousands of cases where families would be forced to walk away and quietly bury their dead and their grief and their humiliation. I was not going quietly. Oh, no, I was not about to do that. I knew that I could talk for the rest of my life about what had happened to my baby, I could explain it in great detail, I could describe what I saw laid out there on that slab at A. A. Rayner’s, one piece, one inch, one body part, at a time. I could do all of that and people still would not get the full impact. They would not be able to visualize what had happened, unless they were allowed to see the results of what had happened. They had to see what I had seen. The whole nation had to bear witness to this.
So I wanted to make it as real and as visible to people as I could possibly make it. I knew that if they walked by that casket, if people opened the pages of Jet magazine and the Chicago Defender, if other people could see it with their own eyes, then together we might find a way to express what we had seen. It was important to do that, I thought, to help people recognize the horrible problems we were facing in the South.
We gave Mr. Rayner the clothes to be used to dress Emmett. The black suit I had bought him for Christmas. The last Christmas. The best ever. I also gave him three photographs from that holiday. The shot of Emmett in his fine clothes, the shirt and the tie and the hat we had given him. The picture of Emmett leaning on his television set. And, of course, the one of Emmett and me together. Our mother-and-son portrait. I wanted the photographs displayed inside the open casket. People needed to see those, too. People needed to see what was taken away from me, what was taken from us all.
Aunt Lizzy wasted no time getting out of Mississippi. She had come to Chicago and would be there at Bo’s funeral. The boys would join her. But Simeon would stay behind for a while with Uncle Moses. They were waiting behind, the two of them, to serve as witnesses against Bryant and Milam. It was a very dangerous thing to do. Aunt Lizzy would write to Uncle Moses every day, begging him to leave. But he wanted to stay, to see it through. He didn’t always stay at his house, though, and Simmy stayed with other relatives. That was a good thing. One night after Bo’s abduction, cars and trucks had pulled into Papa Mose’s lane. White men had come knocking on his door, looking for him. He had slept in his car, parked next to the cemetery behind his church, where nobody could see him. There were other restless nights. Nights when he slept in the house with his shotgun under the bed. Times when he might stay in the wooded area outside his home. One morning he came back to the house and found his screen door cut and the house ransacked, beds turned. He knew then that his days in Mississippi were numbered.
It was late on Friday when I viewed the body. Mr. Rayner did some work to prepare Emmett for the public viewing, despite our talk. Looking back on it now, I think he probably felt he had to do something. Emmett was in such bad shape when we got him back. Monstrous condition. But Mr. Rayner did what he could. That tongue had been removed, I guess, and put somewhere. The mouth was closed now. And you could see on the side of Emmett’s head that some coarse thread had been used to sew the pieces back together. I guess it was like that on the right side, too, but I couldn’t see that. The eye that had been dangling, that was removed, too, and the eyelid closed, like on the other side, where no eye was left. I told Mr. Rayner he had done a beautiful job. You would have to have seen Emmett when I first saw him to really appreciate what Mr. Rayner had done before my son’s body was viewed by the public and photographed for public view. What I had seen was so much worse than what other people would ever see. And what tens of thousands of people filing past Emmett would see would make men cry and women cry out.
It was reported that about five thousand people viewed Emmett’s body that night, and they would go on until the chapel closed at two in the morning. As I left close to midnight, it seemed that there were hundreds still waiting to get in. I stopped to speak to them. I felt
that I had to. As I had looked upon my son, something was shaken in me. Things had changed for me in an instant. They would never be the same again. I understood now that this was about more than Emmett. There was nothing more we could do for my baby, but we could honor him by recognizing that we all had a responsibility to work together for a common good. I could not accept that my son had died in vain. We could not accept that. So I told the crowd that the first step we had to take was to make sure the people who lynched my son were convicted, to make sure the world would be safe for so many other young boys. I was so caught up in my own passion and the energy of the crowd at that moment that I never paused to consider just how difficult that first step was going to be.
The service was scheduled to start at eleven. We were all pleased that Uncle Crosby’s son, Crosby Junior, was able to fly in. “Sonny” had been training as a paratrooper at Ft. Campbell down in Kentucky and was only one jump away from qualifying when he got the news about Bo. His commander got the Red Cross involved and arrangements were made right away to fly him in for the funeral. He would ride over in the family car with Gene, Mama, Papa Spearman, and me. As I had done every morning since Emmett had left for Mississippi, I wound his watch and put it on my wrist. I could practically feel it ticking. My pulse timed to Emmett’s. Two hearts in sync. For all time.
The Saturday-morning service would be held at Roberts Temple Church of God in Christ. That was Mama’s first church in Chicago. It was the mother of all the Churches of God in Christ in Illinois. It had been the place Mama had been sent when she first moved to Argo from Mississippi. So I thought Bishop Roberts, pastor of that church, would preach the funeral. But Mama said he would serve as the host pastor and her new minister, Bishop Ford, of the St. Paul Church of God in Christ, would preach the funeral.
When we arrived at the church, it was packed, at least a couple of thousand people inside, a capacity crowd, with at least another five thousand outside, unable to get in. They were lined up around the block, four deep at some points, just to be able to walk through the church for the viewing. Loudspeakers were set up so that people outside could hear. We decided to postpone the burial until Tuesday, just to let everyone have a chance to see Emmett. So many people wanted to do that. At least they felt they could do that.
One report showed that more than twenty-five thousand people would view Emmett’s body that afternoon and evening. As many as one hundred thousand people would file past Emmett’s glass-enclosed casket during the four days he lay there. Emmett’s Argo friends were there. His Chicago friends, too. They would serve as pallbearers. There were so many people there. So many people who had known Emmett, so many more people who would come to know him only like this. I was told that every fifth person or so had to be assisted. Nurses were on hand to help. People were falling out, fainting. Extra chairs had been set up outside to assist the people who didn’t have the strength to go on. I could only imagine the reaction if they had seen what I had seen. On the one hand, as a mother, I couldn’t bear the thought of people being horrified by the sight of my son. He had always been such a fine young boy and I was so very proud of him. But, on the other hand, I felt that the alternative was even worse. After all, we had averted our eyes far too long, turning away from the ugly reality facing us as a nation. I know, because I was guilty of the same thing. But to let that continue, to think that even one more mother, one more mother’s son, would have to suffer, well, that was too much for me to bear. People had to face my son and realize just how twisted, how distorted, how terrifying, race hatred could be. How it had menaced my son during his last, tortured hours on earth. How it continued to stalk us all. Which is why people also had to face themselves. They would have to see their own responsibility in pushing for an end to this evil.
People had to consider all of that as they viewed Emmett’s body. The impact was like being hit by a sledgehammer. I knew how it had hit me that first time and how it kept slamming into me each time I would see that image of my son, and I would see that image forever. How else could I have made people understand something like that? Even after the viewing, so many people were left speechless. That’s not surprising. We’re taught to describe things by comparison. Something we’ve seen, something we’ve done. But what did we have to compare to Emmett? Nothing in our experience. Nothing in our expression. The English language is so rich with contributions from so many other languages around the world, yet it was inadequate for us when we needed it the most. We just did not have the vocabulary to describe the horror we saw, or the dread we felt in seeing it. Emmett’s murderers had devised a form of brutality that not only was beyond measure, it was beyond words.
Bennie Goodwin, Jr., was among the many people who came. He was the son of my pastor, Elder Goodwin, at Argo Temple Church of God in Christ, where I was still a member and where Emmett attended the service on the last Sunday before leaving for Mississippi. Like so many others, Bennie was shocked by what he saw. But he also was comforted in a way no one else might have recognized at that moment. As he gazed down at the casket, he could only wonder what had become of Emmett’s body, but he knew what had become of his soul. He remembered his encounter with Emmett on that streetcar from Argo one Sunday night, when they prayed together, when Emmett accepted Jesus Christ, when my son had the most incredible aura. Emmett was so calm, at peace, as he was when those men took him away. That experience on a streetcar from Argo would be the way Bennie would recall Emmett for years to come, and for that memory, for that awareness, he felt truly blessed.
When I stood at the casket, as I looked at Emmett, I felt a deep loneliness, like I was in a vacuum. There were no tears at first. I was reminded of what I had thought when news had reached me that Emmett’s body had been found, just after that initial shock, when I realized that I would have to take charge. I had a vision of my heart encased in glass—for protection, for preservation—so that nothing more could harm it. I gazed down at the casket, and there, encased in glass, I saw Emmett, my son, my child, my heart. At that moment, though, I began to feel my own resolve cracking. So much of my energy had been consumed by handling all the little things that had to be handled. All the details, keeping track, taking notes, making arrangements. I had lost myself in all those details. That had been part of my own defense. But, as I stood there, I had no activity to hide behind, no little detail to handle. I was defenseless. Something started coming over me. I couldn’t take it. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t get it through my head that this was a human being, let alone my child. I became hysterical, weak, and had to be carried back to my seat. I had no idea how I could make it through. But I knew that I had to do it. And I knew that it wasn’t going to get any easier as we prepared for what was ahead.
During the better part of the next two hours, a number of ministers and politicians made that point, and they told people about their responsibility in the struggle we were about to face. The funeral service became sort of a forum. At least in part. How could it not be? Illinois State Senator Marshall Korshak was there to represent Governor Stratton. He called Emmett “a young martyr in a fight for democracy and freedom, in a fight against evil men.” One minister, the Reverend Cornelius Adams, urged people to contribute “fighting dollars” to help with the legal efforts, the political organizing. Money would be collected throughout the viewing of Emmett’s body, and on into the weeks and months ahead. Bishop Ford questioned how this country could be a world leader if it couldn’t lead at home, if it couldn’t protect its own citizens and guarantee full equality. He recommended that President Eisenhower and Vice President Richard Nixon work on this Southern problem. Archibald Carey, a former alderman and a former alternate delegate to the United Nations, urged people to allow the legal system a chance to work. He cautioned everyone against trying to seek revenge. “A mob in Chicago,” he said, “is no better than a mob in Mississippi.”
There came a point, in the middle of everything, as I was listening to the speakers, when I had a sensation. It was something I could ju
st barely make out. Something fluttering somewhere. It seemed like it was in the corner of my eye, at the edge of my awareness. As my eye darted to get a better look and as my head turned to follow, the image seemed to move, just ahead of my glance, always just a flutter ahead like that, always on the borderline between conscious and subconscious. It would happen like that over and over again. And it looked to me like a dove. I wanted to see it fully, but never could. It would always move away just when I’d turn my full attention to it. I came to realize that it was a sign. The dove. A sign of peace. A sign from God.
Finally, with that, I was able to take a deep breath and draw in some measure of peace, place everything in the hands of God. Bishop Ford would reflect that feeling in his sermon, based on Matthew 18:6: “But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”
Bishop Ford did a masterful job. I will always be grateful for that.
Things had begun to heat up right away. Even while thousands of people were turning out in Chicago to view Emmett’s body, the press coverage of his death was spreading the word and the pictures around the nation, and people everywhere were outraged. The pressure had started coming down on the state of Mississippi even before the funeral service.
I had said that Emmett’s death was part of an oppressive pattern in Mississippi, “an everyday occurrence.”
My words echoed across the country in waves of headlines. The papers also carried the words of other people who condemned the killing and called on Mississippi for swift justice. Mayor Richard J. Daley had said it was a “brutal, terrible crime” and had sent a telegram to President Eisenhower calling for a federal investigation. Governor Stratton urged Mississippi authorities to investigate thoroughly. And the NAACP, through Executive Secretary Roy Wilkins, issued a blistering attack: “Mississippi has decided to maintain white supremacy by murdering children.” The NAACP statement said Emmett’s murderers “felt free to lynch him” because of the racist climate that state leaders there had accepted.