A Mother’s Tears
a. Todd Franklin
One of my mother’s favorite songs of all time is Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come.” Released in the winter of 1964, it became a civil rights anthem in 1965 and later served as the soundtrack for Barak Obama’s successful bid to become our nation’s first Black president. In 1965, my mother listened to the song and wept horrified tears as she saw Black people of all ages senselessly beaten by duly sworn police officers as they attempted to peaceably march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge and press the case for voting rights for all. Horrified as well, many across the nation answered the call for social change and supported the federal Voting Rights Act that emerged soon thereafter—for the time being, my mother’s tears were tears of relief. In the lead up to the presidential election of 2008 my mother once again faithfully listened to Cooke’s prophetic song; and once Obama’s presidential victory was assured and publicly announced, the joyful tears streamed down her face and gave free flowing expression to the way in which she relished the reality of this long awaited moment as the redemption of the struggles that she and scores of others had waged for far too long—for the time being, her tears were exuberant. Having traced a good part of the racially conscious arc of her existence from politically confronting national horrors to celebrating the symbolic significance of a Black person’s rise to the nation’s highest office, my mother has always held fast to the hopefulness of “A Change is Gonna Come.”
Encouraged by my mother, I too have long held fast to the hope that a change is gonna come. But like my mother, I have been no stranger to the horrors of a nation that offers its Black citizens neither protection nor relief from the racist violence meted out against them regardless of whether or not one of their ilk serves as the country’s commander in chief. Years ago, I chronicled the visceral trajectory of my own acquaintance with the horror of anti-Black violence in this society, and I did so in an effort to stave off apprehension and anger in a way that would hopefully redeem a mother’s tears and her heartfelt hope. Today, I look back on that effort and well up with sadness. . .
* * *
It’s strange isn’t it? To be a young child and forever in search of images in the public eye with which one can identify. In my case, the search was primarily a matter of paging through the popular press. Unfortunately, one day I chanced upon what proved to be an all too fateful image that forever changed the way I would see myself situated within my own society.
Growing up, my family owned a body shop, and as I would tell it years ago, this body shop was by and large a place of refuge from the anti-Black racism that utterly defined the racial landscape our little midwestern community.
Principals, politicians, preachers, and all of the other prominent Blacks in
town would at one time or another bring their cars in to be fixed; and when they
did, they always treated my father and uncle with the utmost respect. One of our
most memorable customers was Muhammad Ali. Accompanying my father to
deliver Ali’s freshly painted Cadillac was a real treat; for not only did I get to meet
the Champ and hear him playfully spout off a few lines about how he was the
greatest, I also got to listen to him tell everyone that when it came to painting cars,
my father was the greatest! Seeing my father and my uncle interact with so many
different members of the Black community and seeing how well treated and well
regarded they were filled me with a sense of pride and left me blissfully ignorant of
the dangers associated with being Black. My bliss, however, proved short lived;
for soon after meeting the Champ and marveling at how lucky I was to come face
to face with one of the most awe-inspiring exemplars of Black manhood, I sadly
happened by chance to come face to face with one of the most heinous and
horrifying examples of how being Black rendered a boy like me vulnerable to
blatantly racist acts of violence.
Hanging out at the body shop on Saturdays was the highlight of my week.
Usually, I’d spend most of my time there fetching tools, sanding fenders, and
snickering in the background as the colorful cast of characters who worked there
played the dozens and took turns telling Richard Pryor jokes. Sometimes,
however, my father would send me up front to the office and have me straighten up
things in the waiting area. Like most Black owned businesses, ours had a longstanding
subscription to Jet magazine and we always had an assortment of issues
on hand. Given that a new issue came out every week, the magazines always piled
up fast. One day, while I was moving a stack of them to a big box where we saved
all the old issues I started to pull out a few at random and flip through them. As it
turned out, one the issues I happened to grab was the one dated September 15,
1955.
Many years have passed since my youth and many of my memories of those
days have become fuzzy and faded, but one of the things that I will never forget is
flipping through that magazine and seeing that gruesome and grotesque image of
Emmett Till’s face. Seeing that image scared the hell out of me. Who could do
such a thing to a fourteen-year-old boy? What in the world could he have done to
deserve something like this? As I turned to the article in search of answers nothing
about the case seemed to register. The more I read and the more I looked at the
photos, the more I couldn’t help thinking about how similar he was to me. Emmett
was just a young boy, he was Black, and he was his mother’s only child. I was just
a young boy, I was Black, and I was my mother’s only child. Looking at Emmett
was like looking at myself—and seeing what happened to him gave rise to the
terrible and terrifying thought that something like that could just as well happen to
me. 1
Standing before a crated coffin holding the corpse of one’s only child—what would a mother do? Despite knowing that her son was brutally murdered and that the sight of his body would be horrific, Emmett’s mother simply had to see her son—she had to.
Sharing her painful recollection of standing there as the sealed casket containing his body was pried open, she describes how she confronted the situation as follows:
I decided then that I would start at his feet and work my way up, maybe gathering strength as I went. I paused at his midsection, because I knew he would not want me looking at him. But I saw enough that I knew he was intact. I kept on up until I got to his chin and then I -- I was forced to deal with his face. I saw that his tongue was choked out. I noticed that the right eye was lying on midway his cheek, I noticed that his nose had been broken like somebody took a meat chopper and chopped his nose in several places. As I kept looking, I saw a hole, which I presumed, was a bullet hole and I could look through that hole and see daylight on the other side. And I wondered was it necessary to shoot him? Mr. Rayner asked me, he said "Do you want me to touch the body up?" I said, "No, Mr. Rayner, let the people see what I've seen." I was just willing to bear it all. I think everybody needed to know what had happened to Emmett Till. 2
* * * *
Shortly thereafter, Emmett Till’s body would be on public display during his funeral for all to see. As a result of Mamie Till’s insistence, one of our nation’s most haunting images would thereafter make its way into the pages of a magazine that I would many years later terrifyingly encounter. Although the trauma of that experience was something that as a youngster I labored to suppress and forget, once I grew up and became a critical race theorist, the tragic ways in which anti-Black racism continued to precipitate the senseless and callous killing of Blacks forced me to find ways to make others reckon with the villainy of it all and prod them to actively confront it.
Years ago, I thought I knew just what to do. Taking my cue from Emmett’s mother, who bore and shared the horrific sight of her child’s bloated, bludgeoned, and bullet-torn face, I figured that I would pay viscerally homage to her effort to spark change. In order to do so, I would frame her call to “let the people see” what society’s racism had done to her son and then follow her lead by deliberately sharing the shocking image of him lying in state so as to spur people to not only see anti-Black racism as repulsive and but to also spur them to self-consciously strive to eradicate it. The hope back then was that through my efforts, future generations of folks in society would truly see the vicious reality of anti-Black racism and rise up against it. Year after year, I would speak and teach so as to lead others along and enlist them in the crusade; and year after year, people would shriek in horror, shed tears in sympathy, and proclaim themselves in solidarity with all of the mothers and others who struggle mightily to bring an end to the nightmare of our nation’s malignant and murderous racism.
Teaching at an elite predominately white liberal arts college, I’ve managed to engage and influence a number of young people—many of whom are white, and all of whom are well poised to enter roles and stations that will allow them to help shape and have a significant impact upon the nature or our society. Some of my students are now in classrooms, some are in boardrooms, and some are in courtrooms, and almost all of them are in some way active in the struggle against anti-Black racism. Seeing their noteworthy growth and the breadth of their efforts often brings me to tears and provides me with a measure of solace.
Today, however, my tears are vastly different. Today, my deep and sober sobs harken back to a heart-broken mother’s tears; for once again I find myself face to face with the horrific handiwork of anti-Black racism. Here again, the police are the plainly visible agents of heinous violence against Blacks. This being the case, I see no conceivable way of abating the widespread anger and apprehension that has resulted; and frankly, I have absolutely no desire to temper it or tone it down.
A change is gonna come. . . Is it? If it is, it’s gonna require far more than modest but well-meaning efforts to eek out reforms. Up until now, there have only been moments of respite for tears beyond recompense. Now, however, it’s high time that the precious tears shed by countless Black mothers and others who have suffered the senseless and vicious loss of Black loved ones are in some measure redeemed. Truly, we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that if a change is gonna come, it is only gonna come by means of resolute and revolutionary action.
Hearing of the killing of Ahmaud Arbery by white vigilantes with ties to law enforcement and then in quick succession the killing of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd by active duty police officers simply proved too much to bear. Like many around the country and around the world, my mother shed tears of pain, shed tears of frustration, and shed tears of outrage. Well into her twilight years, my mother has been very reluctant to go out in public and risk exposure to the virus threatening us all. However, having faced the vicious, virulent, and long-standing plague of police violence against Blacks for far too long, my mother could not remain hidden away at home. To the streets she went, and with me in tow. Together we marched more than four miles through our little midwestern community. Together we braved the sweltering summer heat to join with others loudly demanding change and silently kneeling for eight minutes and forty-six seconds to make manifest the cruel inhumanity of the police slowly and sadistically suffocating a Black man rendered helpless and prone as he desperately, but hopelessly, cried out for his mother. Together my mother and I marked the horror of all of this and together we cried.
The protest we participated in was moving, but protests flash and fade. We cannot rest content to call people to take to the streets and demand change. We must also call people to take to the local, state, and national polls so as to meaningfully make change to our public institutions. More specifically and most immediately, we must collectively begin marshalling and exercising political power so as to effectively seize control of the police and replace the age-old predominately white fraternal orders that deploy deadly force against far too many people in virtue of their race with new maximally inclusive and multidimensional professional collaboratives that extend fraternal concern to everyone by serving as a social force for the good of all, irrespective of their race.
Years ago, many across the nation witnessed the horror of police officers brutally beating Blacks pressing for the right to vote and answered the call to join them in pressing for change. Today, many across the nation are witnessing the horror of police officers brutally killing Blacks who in the years since have gained scarcely more than the right to vote. Once again, far too many of those called to serve and protect people are violently ill-disposed toward Black people and it’s high time for this all too tragic nightmare to end. Too many mothers have shed too many tears. The unbridled anti-Black brutality of the police has persisted unabated for far too many years. Once again, people of all backgrounds and hues must answer the call and join those pressing the case to do away with the police as a precursor to radically reconfiguring the ways in which public resources are deployed in the interest of the public good.
1 A. Todd Franklin, “Emmett Till’s Body,” in Black and Male: Critical Voices from Behind the Racial Veil, George Yancy editor, Philosophy of Race Series (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, forthcoming in 2021).
2 Mamie Till, The Murder of Emmett Till, Directed by Stanley Nelson (Boston, MA: PBS, 2004), DVD.