I sat in the Station museum, crying uncontrollably. As Nina Simone sang “Strange Fruit” and “Feeling Good,” pictures of a proud mother with her son and grandson populated a projector screen.
The middle son’s eyes stared back at me from the screen as if they were my own, piercing me with a kind of peace that was almost biblical. He had sleepy eyes, the kind that conveyed confidence. And he was handsome; I imagine he had no problems with women. His smile wasn’t the “light up a room” kind of smile, but rather the kind of smile that comes with warm, comforting laughter — the subtle kind of laughter that puts you at ease. In the pictures, he was happy.
But that was only one side of the story. We were celebrating the son’s birthday, but he wasn’t with us. Jordan had died two years earlier, snatched away by a trigger-happy off-duty police officer. The officer’s name doesn’t matter — it never does — but Jordan’s name does matter, because his name resurrects him, speaks him back into existence, even if this existence is one marred by tragedy. I cried uncontrollably because I saw myself in Jordan, a young black man who could at any time be snatched away from my family and friends.
We often talk about injustice in the abstract, even — and especially — when we discuss particular instances of murder and death. The news outlets report police shootings as if all the victims are the same — some unknown “unarmed black male or female.” We speak of injustice in terms of numbers: 116 people killed by HPD officers in the last 11 years with 0 charges. The stories start to pile up to the point where we can’t keep the stories separate: like a Black-ish episode come to life, black people cannot stay in front of the train of death headed our way. The stories run together, numbing us to the real human cost of a lost daughter or son, husband or wife, fiancée, cousin, or sister. The deaths pile up, becoming so heavy that our individual and collective psyches struggle to stand under their weight. And every time we hear about another death, we all die just a little more. I cried because I saw myself in Jordan, because Jordan’s life and death were — and are— my own.
And I saw my mother in Janet.
As the slideshow ended, Janet took the podium and began to tell us her story — the story of a mother who had lost her son too soon and for no reason. She didn’t speak in the language of the media — her story didn’t include “unarmed black male killed by police” or “police brutality.” Her story wasn’t sensationalized. She didn’t walk us through the “objective prose” of those Wolf Blitzer-like journalists who have no investment in or concern for the ones who have been lost. She didn’t give a damn about broken buildings. She only cared about broken relationships, particularly the relationships between a mother and son and father and son that were severed behind the cowardice of a man who thought his badge was a license to kill.
Janet isn’t a loud woman; she isn’t theatrical. Despite the loss she’s suffered, she is remarkably calm when she expresses herself. This is largely due to the fact that she is a woman of faith who will quickly and frequently retreat to her prayer closet when life gets hard. Even if you don’t believe in God or prayer, or if you’re agnostic (as I am), Janet’s serenity forces you to reckon with the possibility that there is something out there, pushing us, prodding us, holding us up when life gets to be too much to bear. Janet’s calmness is a testament to her faith and to the God in whom she puts her trust.
But don’t mistake Janet’s serenity and her calming nature for docility. Although she doesn’t yell, her words are powerful and poetic. As she took the podium, she spoke in hushed tones, so barely audible that we had to move the microphone toward her mouth so that we could all hear what she had to say. But the words she spoke pierced the hearts of anyone under her voice. When she spoke of her grandson, Little Jordan, who had lost his hero, she raised a question that still rings in my ears: “how do you tell your grandson that his superhero has been shot down?” and as she continued, she spoke from a position that only someone in her position could speak. She wonder aloud why she had been inducted “into a sorority that she never pledged for and never wanted to be in,” and tried to wrap her head around the grief she was experiencing. Tears streaming down her face, she reminded us that we have words like “widow,” “widower,” and “orphan,” but we “have no word for a parent who has lost their child.” She spoke of the limbo she lives on a daily basis, reminding us that grief has no timeline, and that the loss of a son is a debt that cannot be repaid.
We cried. All of us cried. All of us shared in the loss because Janet walked us through the emotions, allowing her vulnerability to pierce our hardened and angry hearts. The room was full of activists who were pissed about injustice, and Janet’s story softened that anger, turning it into compassionate empathy and inspiration to continue on.
Somewhere I read that black women have displayed and continue to display “unshouted courage,” the kind of courage that requires no attention even as it keeps the wheels of life moving. This courage isn’t “strong” in the masculine sense. Janet didn’t advocate the kind of coercive power intrinsic to patriarchal forms of expression. Instead, as the faith-filled woman she is, she invited us into her prayer closet. She closed her talk in hopeful tones, telling us that prayer could and would change the situation and bring justice to her family for Jordan’s cause. She invoked the three numbers 7-7-7, and invited us to pray seven words three times in a row: God will give us beauty for ashes. And as we entered in a collective prayer closet, we laid hands on Janet, praying with and for her, holding her up in the collective spirituality that filled the room. White and black atheists, humanists, agnostics, Christians, and Muslims laid hands on a woman who was a childless mother, who was our mother, holding us even as we held onto her. It was Janet who was able to bring that many different people to a room and unify them. She prophetically glued us together through a vulnerability shot through with love. In that room, Martin Luther King’s “beloved community” was actualized, even if for a few moments. And for that, I am forever grateful.
Janet has since started a radio show that brings awareness to the human cost of police recklessness, irresponsibility, and cowardice. Every Friday, she brings other mothers who have lost children — other members of this unwanted sorority — to her show. They speak candidly, vividly recounting their stories of hearing about their sons and sisters killed. In each of these mothers, we hear stories — not the cheap stories the media use as fodder for ratings—of human loss, of emotional tragedy and psychological struggle, of the perpetual fight for one’s own sanity in the midst of intense unshakeable grief. And every time I hear the stories, every time another sorority member speaks of their induction, I am reminded of the unshouted courage Janet displays.
This is for Janet, the woman who miraculously lives the limbo of being a childless mother with grace, serenity, and strength.
This is for Janet, the woman who humanized injustice for me, who put a human face and story to the grief I was experiencing.
This is for Janet, the woman whose faith is a testament to the reality of the divine.
This is for Janet, the woman who taught me how to truly fight for justice.
Although I haven’t known you long, I love you Janet. Thank you for being my role model, my teacher, my prophetess, and my inspiration.
And, in Janet’s own style, I leave this piece with 7-7-7: three prayers, seven words each.
May your radio show change the world.
May you know we are with you.
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