It took me a long time to finish this book. The first half traces Emmett Till's upbringing, through the loving, tender lens of his mother, Mamie Till-Mobley, as well as Till-Mobley's own youth. Her regard for her son is palpable; she takes him seriously, and their relationship is specific, symbiotic, and essentially lovely. The more emotionally invested I became, the more difficult it was to keep approaching the devastation I knew, by the very nature of this memoir, was coming: the brutal lynching of Emmett, miles from his mother, at the age of 14.
So, I took a few months off—a luxury Mamie Till-Mobley herself, of course, couldn't have chosen, to hit pause on the whole thing. I, too, know that that's not how it works. While Emmett's murder was racialized in a certain and devastating way that my father's wasn't, and while MTM lost her son as opposed to her parent, much about her experience of sending her son off to Mississippi, dread deep in her gut, resonated with my own of watching my father leave for his final trip to the Caribbean. Knowing I would be re-feeling all of this myself in addition to entering into MTM's own, keen grief, it was hard to continue. But, eventually I told myself that if she had to live this trauma, the least I could do was read her account of it. As expected, these chapters—Emmett's initial disappearance, the piecemeal updates sent to Chicago from the South, the found body, the returned body, Till-Mobley identifying her mutilated, murdered son, ankle by teeth by missing ear—wrung my fucking heart out.
Too often, Black women are dispossessed of the tenderness, pain, and vulnerability that constitute actual human emotional experience. We are not allowed the full spectrum of emotion without becoming weak or defective in some way. The same goes further for Black mothers; it's incredibly painful to read about the ways Mamie Till-Mobley, after her son's tragic death, had not only to put up with callous white southerners doubting her grief, her loss, her intentions, her very motherhood, but also the imperative placed upon her by the nation's gaze to act perfectly: did she cry enough in the trial, or too much? Was she greedy to ask the NAACP for fair compensation for the speaking tour she undertook under their authority, in order to increase their membership, after Emmett's death? Was she respectable? What about her divorces? Oh, but her father accompanied her to the trial; that must count for something. On the other hand, she dressed up pretty smartly; that seems suspect…and so on.
Point being, Mamie Till-Mobley's grief, her authentic presence, her very being, was subject to such heartless judgment in the time of her most excruciating heartbreak. And she bore up. She bore up under it all, criticism from all sides, all on top of the loss of her beloved only son, the shattering of her very world. She didn't have to, but she did, and for that, we should all be grateful.
After all, it was her decision to leave Emmett's casket open, an act of visibility, truth-telling, and defiance that served as a major spark to the Civil Rights Movement: "Let the world see what I've seen," she remarked to the press at the time. Mamie Till-Mobley refused to bear the pain of this white supremacist violence alone. She refused to let Jim Crow get away with its evil, again. She refused to let her son die quietly. She demanded her right to grief, to restitution, to self-articulation, and ultimately, to love.
I am fortunate to be working on a term paper about this memoir/Mamie Till-Mobley, and am deeply humbled by her courage, poise, grace, and determination. This text should be widely read.