Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil

by Lezley McSpadden

  8/12/14

  Dear Parents,

  I’m a 67 year old white woman from Virginia. I don’t know anything I could say that would make you feel better, but my heart hurts for you and Michael. I’m not going to be “Politically Correct” so here goes . . .

  The sorry bastard who murdered Michael should go to the electric chair!!

  I would be first in line to pull the switch! I mean that! Most of the cops are just like him! Cowards who use the badge to look tough while 5 of 6 of them are beating one person who is handcuffed! All the time yelling “Stop Resisting” so any witnesses would have to say that if it ever went to court. Very little change of that. Not five minutes before they reported it on TV. I bet $100.00 that the police would say Michael tried to take the killer’s gun, and sure enough there it was. We know he’ll get away with it and they know it too! If you compared them to any gangs, etc. it would have to be a 50/50 mix of the KKK and the Nazis! I’m so very sorry I’ll ask Jesus to ease some of your pain and hold Michael in His arms! I believe He will.

  I opened another letter from a union.

  August 19, 2014

  Dear Sister McSpadden,

  Our hearts are breaking as we think of your struggling with the terrible loss of your beloved son, Michael Brown, Jr.

  As mothers, daughters, grandmothers, aunts, granddaughters and Union sisters, we grieve with you and for you. We wish you peace and justice as you, your family, and our entire community move through the challenging days ahead.

  We hope our words help lift you up and help shoulder your burdens.

  Fraternally and in sisterhood,

  Coalition of Labor Union Women, St. Louis Chapter

  I was feeling stronger with each word I read. Louis brought me an iced tea and a sandwich and laid across the bed. He became my one-man audience as I read and laughed and cried. Letters were from Oregon, California, Mississippi, Atlanta, Oklahoma, even Ferguson. I was reading letters from old people, young people, other mothers who had lost a son or daughter. Some had been shot in the streets, some were victims of police brutality, some just had been sick. I spent hours sitting on that floor opening letters and cards and looking at pictures kids in elementary schools around the country had drawn of Mike Mike and Canfield Drive.

  My hand landed on a large plain envelope. I opened it. The words SHAME IS UPON YOU were scribbled across the top.

  From Anonymous:

  Lesley McSpadden shame is upon you for inciting riots and looting and burning of the business. You have ruined their families. The people have no connection to your son. You are saying in essence that you and your family are the only ones that have a right to life. You failed to teach your son lessons in life. You taught him to disrespect the law and to hate white people. The people of today had nothing to do with slavery. Many things happened in the past. We of today have no connection to. It is wrong to steal and to tread upon the rights of others. Your son stole from a business. He shoved an owner. He prevented people from going down the street. That’s a public street. He blocked it.

  The policeman was upholding the law as he was trained to do. Your son attacked the policeman and tried to take his gun. If he had been successful the policeman would have been dead. What would you have said about that? Would you have cared? Your son would have been charged with murder! You should pay all the people for the havoc you have reaked upon those people. They are victims of your hatred you should repent of these things you have done. Take a good look at what you and your husband have done. If you have any bit of conscience.

  Do you really want the legacy of your son to be that his actions caused to Ferguson and other cities? Truly the blame lies on you. You should stop listening to race baters like Obama, Holder, Sharpton. These are the scorge of America. Listen to your own conscience. The money that is sent to you by the public should be paid to Ferguson you should not profit from your son’s death. That is a blight upon you and your husband. I should think that you would feel bad every time you used that money. Think of small children of the ruined business. They will be without homes food and the things you have denied them. Think about it!

  I balled it up and threw it across the room and began pacing and punching the air.

  “Fuck these racist-ass white people, Louis! I lost my baby. Who would write some shit like that? What kinda person? No, that ain’t a person; that’s the devil, Louis!”

  I was sweating and breathing hard.

  “Hold up, Lezley,” Louis said, turning me around to face him. “Baby, I know them words hurt. I’m hurt with you, but fuck that racist bastard and his words. He a coward! And they just some fucked-up hate-filled words on a piece of paper. That’s all.” He pulled me close.

  “I just feel like, what if I wanted to go out and just kill some people? Kill somebody’s white son! I would be in jail. I woulda been hunted down and killed and thrown under the damn prison!” I shouted, breaking down into heavy sobs.

  Louis held me and cried with me for I don’t know how long, until finally I was too weary to stand up. Then we sat down on the floor together.

  “You ain’t that fool; you better than him. Who are you?” he asked, winking at me.

  “I’m Lezley Lynette Bingo McSpadden,” I said, between wiping my nose and eyes.

  “And who else? What you doin’ all this for? Why you gotta keep pressin’ on?”

  I knew exactly what he meant now.

  “I’m Mike Mike’s mama. And I’m Déja’s mama. And I’m Moo Moo and Jazzy’s mama!” I knew I had to be better than stooping down to this fool’s level. I was mad. Damn mad.

  “I liked you the first time I saw you ’cause you was strong, Lezley, strong like my own mama. So you cain’t give up.”

  “But I feel like it, Louis,” I said, breaking down again.

  “Damn, I didn’t know Mike Mike, Déja, Moo Moo, and Jazzy’s mama was a punk,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Boy, don’t play,” I said, swatting him.

  “Just think about all them other mothers that been where you been.”

  He kissed me and left me with even more to think about.

  I sat on the floor alone in the room for a while after that. I started going back through the bag. It was hard. For every ten or fifteen letters that gave me love, there was a hateful one. Then I just got tired of looking at all this shit. I scooped it all up and put it back in the bag.

  I checked my watch; it was almost time to leave and pick up the kids from school. I looked outside into the backyard; my thoughts were swelling in my head. The road ahead seemed so dark. The county had opened their investigation. The federal government had opened theirs too. I was behind on reading my e-mails from the lawyers.

  There had been too many conference calls to count, and I really didn’t remember any of it. But I guessed either I could let everyone else—the police, the lawyers, the media—talk about my son, people who didn’t know anything about him or where he came from, or I could pull myself out of this hole and do it myself. I didn’t know anything about the law, but I was just going to have to try to understand it if I wanted justice.

  It was going to be a hard. I didn’t even know how hard, but I’m not stupid and I’m not weak. So it was on.

  • • • •

  On September 27th, I accepted an invitation to attend the annual Congressional Black Caucus. I never imagined being in a place like this where the most powerful black politicians from all over the country gathered. My head was spinning from all the people offering their sympathy and the politicians pledging to help me fight for justice. By the time I sat down at the table for the big gala I was numb. Here I was all dressed up and feeling emptier than ever. Just then I heard a familiar voice.

  “Ms. McSpadden? I’m Attorney General Eric Holder.” I looked up and saw Attorney General Holder’s kind face. It matched with his voice that I had heard over the phone weeks ago.

  I was about to stand up, but he stopped me.

  “No, you sit. I just wanted you to
know that I’m here to help you in any way that I can.” He kissed me on my forehead before excusing himself. I felt that comforting feeling again. I knew this man worked for a big machine, and I was just this little person, but his words helped to keep my hope alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE

  Each day was a struggle, but I was coping. I was watching the news more, talking to my lawyers more, and just trying to push through the minutes and hours. The attorney general, Eric Holder, had opened his civil rights investigation for Mike Mike back in August and a full inquiry by September looking at the whole Ferguson Police Department.

  Governor Nixon’s state of emergency had since been lifted, and the National Guard and their tear gas, tanks, and machine guns had gone. But they were now back. The protestors weren’t laying down. The county prosecutor, Bob McCulloch, had opened the state’s grand jury investigation two months before, and I was trapped in the waiting game.

  Meanwhile, the officer who had shot Mike Mike was still on paid leave. It had also taken till September 24, seven weeks after Mike Mike was shot, for Ferguson Police Chief Thomas Jackson to give a so-called apology for what they did to Mike Mike. I got myself all wound up thinking back to the day I turned on the local news and saw him delivering the apology: “I want to say this to the Brown family: No one who has not experienced the loss of a child can understand what you’re feeling,” he said, facing the camera and standing in front of an American flag. “I am truly sorry for the loss of your son. I’m also sorry that it took so long to remove Michael from the street. The time that it took involved very important work on the part of investigators who were trying to collect evidence and gain a true picture of what happened that day. But it was just too long, and I’m truly sorry for that.”

  I damn near kicked a hole in the television. I was insulted and disgusted. First off, I’m not a Brown. Second, and most important, he needed to have enough decency to address me and Mike face-to-face. Our lawyers had issued statement after statement on behalf of the family asking for peace and justice. But there was still no justice and no peace. There wasn’t even respect.

  But today, I wasn’t going to focus on Mike Mike’s case. I woke up and didn’t even have a cigarette. It was Saturday, and Moo Moo and Jazzy had spent the night at Mama’s. I had eased them back into staying over there again but didn’t really allow Mama to let them go outside and play in the front too much. They were all doing well in school. Moo Moo was appointed to be student security guard, and he was taking his job so seriously that he was even wearing his badge and plastic orange vest at home. Déja was talking about going to college after she graduated. I was just as proud as I could be.

  I had picked her and her best friend up from the nail shop. I had decided to treat her to a manicure. Mike Mike’s death had made me a lot more sensitive to my kids and making sure I told them and showed them how much they meant to me.

  I needed some gas and decided to drive down West Florissant. The city had everything boarded up, and it didn’t look like they were going to fix it up around there anytime soon. I honked my horn at a group of peaceful protestors as I turned into the QuickTrip gas station. There were two within blocks of each other; the other one that the looters burned down after Mike Mike was shot was nothing but a burned-out parking lot. They had even torn the charred building down.

  I pulled up to a QT pump.

  “Mama, can we get somethin’ to drink?” Déja asked.

  “Yeah, but don’t be in there all day, Déja,” I warned. “I need to go pick up Moo Moo and Jazzy.”

  I had filled my tank and was still waiting on those teenage girls to come out. They were going to make me late. An SUV pulled into a spot next to me. Two white women were inside. I glanced over at the car and saw them pointing and mugging me down. The driver started to dial on her cell phone.

  I bit my bottom lip, trying to hold back my anger. I went inside to hurry the girls along. Within seconds, the woman driving was inside. I caught her cutting her eyes at me as she went straight to the soda machine and began refilling her jumbo-sized cup. I could tell right away that she was a regular. When you saw white people around there, they were either cops or people who worked for the police department or Ferguson City Hall.

  “C’mon, y’all, we need to go,” I said, hustling them out of the place.

  But then just as I made it to the door, a feeling shot through my body. I wasn’t going to let this woman intimidate or disrespect me.

  “What the hell are you lookin’ at, bitch?”

  The white lady twisted her mouth and turned away.

  I rushed Déja and her friend out.

  The clerk, a black girl, had come from behind the cash register. She touched me on the shoulder and said, “Ma’am, don’t let her get to you. I know who you are, and I want you to know that it’s more people with you than against you.”

  “Sometimes I just don’t feel safe,” I said, before thanking her.

  Then I got back in the car and lit up a cigarette, took a heavy pull, and let out the smoke and my anger.

  “Y’all OK?” I turned to Déja.

  “Mama, we good. Don’t worry about these small-minded people.”

  Déja was right. Sometimes our kids make a lot more sense than what we do as adults.

  I dropped the girls off, and made my way to Mama’s street. I tried my best to stay away from West Florissant and Canfield, but of course Mama was there, refusing to move, and as I had gotten older I really enjoyed visiting her. Going down Canfield Drive was always bittersweet. Residents were typically outside in their usual spots, watching over Mike Mike’s makeshift memorial of stuffed teddy bears, candles, balloons, and homemade signs stacked in the middle of the street.

  Mama’s house was further down, but I pulled over and got out. A tall, skinny dreadhead dude was sitting in a lawn chair with a sign propped up against it that read COP WATCH. It had a stick figure–type drawing on it with a cop character standing over a body lying on the ground.

  “Hey, you Mike Brown mama, ain’t you?” he asked, standing up, extending his hand.

  “Yeah,” I smiled, shaking his hand. “Somebody added more stuff, huh?” I asked, walking closer to the items piled in the street.

  “Aw, they be addin’ stuff every day. We got your back, Mama!” he said with pride.

  I waved good-bye and got in my car and headed on to Mama’s house. I was starting to feel down. Times like that make me feel like I just wanted to leave St. Louis, but where was I going to go? This place was all I knew.

  By mid-October, things were on edge on the outside of my household, but it was getting tougher to shield the kids, and even keep myself upbeat. An announcement came out that there would be a “Weekend of Resistance.” On my way to Mama’s, I saw the protesters revving up.

  “What you think about this ‘Weekend of Resistance’ Brittanie?” I asked, scrolling through my phone.

  “Nette Pooh, we should go out there,” she said, standing at the stove in Mama’s kitchen. “Everything you do is for Mike Mike, you know.”

  “Ugh, I’m just so tired of waitin’—waitin’ on information, waitin’ on somebody else to do somethin’ so that the lawyers can do somethin’.” I jumped up out of my seat and walked into the living room. Mike Mike’s picture was staring right at me.

  “Nette Pooh, you the symbol of Mike Mike’s determination,” Brittanie said, giving me one of them so-what-you-gonna-do? looks.

  Chevelle and Louis met us on West Florissant. The crowd was greeting me with hugs and smiles, showing me love. Chevelle even took me over to where Dr. Cornel West and Cornell Brooks, the national president of the NAACP, were preparing to lead the marchers. I felt honored they wanted to meet me.

  Then, I overheard some of the crowd’s comments about Mike Mike’s case. I had started to feel anxious and panicked. I wanted to leave.

  “That announcement gonna be comin’ from the county prosecutor any day, you know. Some shit gonna ju
mp off if they don’t indict that cop,” a black man said.

  “Yeah, well, I just hope we ain’t out here for nothin’. You know how these white folks are in St. Louis. They probably won’t indict him,” a woman replied.

  “Well, girl, I ain’t gonna stop marchin’. This is part of history! Ain’t you seen all them celebrities come out here? I just ain’t tryin’ to get locked up.”

  By the time we got back home, the news was playing in the background, announcing that Dr. West and Mr. Brooks had been arrested along with about forty others. I was realizing that even despite some folks who were protesting for the moment, or even in some sick way looking for gain off my son’s death, there were a lot more people who were out there with their hearts and souls, risking their jobs and families, just to see us have a victory.

  “What if they don’t indict, Louis?” I asked, sitting down on the living room couch.

  “You can’t think like that. We gotta hold on to hope. I’mma go pick up some food. You ain’t been eatin’ properly, and you need your strength.”

  I made up my mind that I had to figure out how I was going to do more. All this waiting around for the authorities to “maybe” do the right thing was going to give me a nervous breakdown. It was time, some kind of way, to take charge of my own destiny. I was working hard to get on with my life and make sure my other kids were going to be OK, but I was worn down from everybody else’s promises and no results. I was also becoming more and more aware of my power as Mike Mike’s mama. I wanted to get justice for Mike Mike and to earn a living again, to provide for my other kids’ future.

  I scrolled through the messages on my phone and saw that someone had tagged me with a quote from the famous writer Mark Twain. I read: “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” I have been trying to figure out so many “whys” in my life since August 9th. Why did this happen? Why Mike Mike? Why me? But the longer I sit here in limbo, waiting for someone to decide whether or not my son should get justice, the more anxious I get. I saw something online about family’s starting foundations after a loved one passes. I even recalled Sabrina Fulton talking about her foundation for her son. A foundation would help me keep Mike Mike’s legacy alive. I created the Michael. O.D. Brown We Love Our Sons And Daughters Foundation. I wanted it to create programs that advocated for justice and supported families. I’m Mike Mike’s mama and if I don’t take control of how my son’s death is being treated no one will. I thought about how a foundation could help me put my words into action. I knew that fighting for justice, education, health, and families was the goal, because those were all the things that embodied Mike Mike’s life before and now. Now I just had to come up with a way to pull it off.