In defense of the Baltimore mom

Like many Americans, I had a strong reaction to the video of Toya Graham berating and striking her teenage son on the streets of Baltimore to stop him from joining the rioting that erupted on April 27. But my reaction was not one of judgment. As a Baltimore mother myself, I empathized.

Consider the context: Freddie Gray, a 25-year-old African American man arrested by Baltimore police officers, mysteriously injured spinal cord during transit and died a week later as a result. Since his death, the city has been in deep mourning, and that mourning has naturally at times given way to violent outbursts of pain. More than any group, it seems, black men are at a loss. Aiding their frustrations are unanswered questions about what really happened to Freddie Gray in police custody. (We’re told we will know soon, if truth be told.) Most are fairly certain they already know. “Indict, convict, send those killer cops to jail,” the rallying cry of protesters has gone, “The whole damn system is guilty as hell.”

Graham, dubbed “Mother of the Year” in the media, understood that her 16-year-old son, like so many other young black men in Baltimore, would have to cope with this loss and might have the impulse to vent his anger. But what she didn’t want was for her son to recklessly place himself in harm’s way in the process. She’d taught him better, and she trusted he would make good decisions. The thought of losing her son to the wrath of a policeman’s baton or gun was too much for her to imagine.

“I don’t want him to be a Freddie Gray,” she said.

So she did what so many black mothers have had to resort to for years: a good old-fashioned spanking. I had my share of such spankings at the hand of my mother and grandmother as a young girl (nothing nearly as dramatic, however). And just like this young man, I knew better than to strike back. 

Black mothers are our jewels. These are women who for centuries have had to bury far more than their share of children, especially sons. In slavery, black mothers often had their sons torn from their arms immediately after birth and sold away to the highest bidder. And after emancipation and throughout the Jim Crow era, sons hung from trees after violent, bigoted white lynchers chased them down and hung them to die. Now on urban streets, the face of white fury is the white police officer. But black mothers refuse to sit idly by and see their young men destroyed unjustly by law enforcement, or by anyone else for that matter.

What alternative does a black mother have, then, when she looks across the street and sees her son running amok under the watchful eyes of white police? She grabs him up in her bosom — violently, if necessary — and takes her beloved son to the safety of home. For many, her actions are hard to stomach. Some critics want to cry child abuse or worse. And, quite honestly, we should check each other and hold each other accountable for excess.

But this was not excess; it was deep, abiding love. Black mothers across the country can closely empathize with Graham. They, too, have either raised or will raise black sons in this violent society that seems determined to severely reduce the number of black males from its streets, its neighborhoods, its places of employment.

Twenty-five years ago I remember stopping dead in my tracks as I walked across the campus of the University of California, Davis, where I was a graduate student.  A thought struck me: I was pregnant. With a boy. A black boy. How on Earth, I asked myself, will I be able to raise this child and ensure he reached adulthood safely? What must I do to ensure that he has a strong chance not only to survive, but to thrive through manhood? Overwhelmed by the daunting task, I began to weep.

Until the wretched racial divide and disparities known too well of this country are corrected, you are likely to see many more black mothers snatching up their misbehaving sons, giving them a slap or two, and leading them to safety. There’s no time to explain this to those who have never lived in fear of losing a son — not to a car accident or to a medical condition, but to the hands of angry white men with guns and batons.

We black women honor Toya Graham for her bravery and her steadfast love.  Do not judge her harshly until you’ve lived a day in her shoes.