From Grief to Leadership: Building a Movement in Mike Brown’s Memory (Guest Column)

I still have chunks of the bloodstained road from where my son was murdered. I have lumps of asphalt and crumples of the dirt that was under it. The city gave it to me in buckets when they decided to put a new blacktop over just that one section of Canfield Drive. It’s hard to revisit that street, which is cracked and filled with potholes, except for that one spot. Looking at that rectangle reminds me that my son lay there for four and a half hours. I don’t need to be reminded of how my child was chased, shot down and left lying in the middle of the road like trash in a landfill. It was hot that day. The sun was baking at over 90 degrees and scorching his bullet-riddled body that was still uncovered for his closest relatives to witness and the world to see. I’ll never forget it. It’s hard for me to go back to that place, but every year I must remind those responsible for justice that it has not been served!

There is an annual memorial for Mike, and this year made the tenth. But it’s difficult for me to attend. It feels eerily reminiscent of the day he died — the day he was killed. I still mourn my son, and without accountability, “MikeMike” is killed again, making this a decade of no accountability, justice or peace. Instead of losing myself in the grief of his death, I celebrate his life and birthday instead, because the life he lived is more important than his tragic end. And there’s one thing I’ve learned since that day: I haven’t made plans since 2014. They say when you make plans, God laughs because He’s already made His own. I never understood that until Aug. 9, 2014, when a single phone call shattered my plans, changed my life and, in retrospect, changed the world. To this day, that call set me on a relentless fight for justice that would take me to the United Nations (UN), exposing the world to the brutal injustice my family faced. I’m still on a mission to reopen Mike’s case and demand the accountability he deserves.

That mission was born out of the immediate aftermath, a tornado of grief, confusion and overwhelming sorrow. Guilt, too. During all the chaos, with the Ku Klux Klan harassing my family, and people publicly supporting Officer Darren Wilson, I felt isolated and had so many questions. Why did my son have to die? Why is his death getting more attention than other boys under similar circumstances? That isolation, coupled with the relentless grief, also pushed me into a role I never expected — becoming a leader for other mothers like me and a protector for the children in our community.

I founded The Michael O.D. Brown We Love Our Sons & Daughters Foundation in 2015 to create a safe space for mothers like me. It was a way for me to work through the grief and loneliness I felt. There were a lot of demands on me suddenly. People crowned me “The Mother of a Movement.” Then, they said I wasn’t doing enough. But I wasn’t prepared for that. My heart was destroyed. I could barely breathe, and I felt like an unbearable weight was crushing me. Every anniversary of his death gets overstimulating. Everybody wants to talk about it again, and it seems like some have capitalized on the tragedy for their own fundraising. And that’s not right, because Mike gets lost in all of that.

I didn’t ask for my son to leave this earth before me, or for my family to become the faces of a national tragedy. I was consumed by rage, hopelessness and confusion all while trying to be respectable and strong for everyone else — just hanging on by a tattered thread. So, the first program I launched was Rainbow of Mothers for women of all ethnicities who have lost a child to violence. I’d learned while previously traveling for support that though Black people are killed nearly three times as much as other ethnicities, there were women of every background grieving like me.

Everything I do is in Mike’s honor, and his life has inspired the foundation’s four pillars: health, justice, family and education.

Health

Mike had hypertension and had been on medication since he was 14. I want other young people to be informed about healthy living. We’ve also partnered with the Jennings School District to form a gardening program to teach students about self-reliance, sustainability, and “farm-to-table” foods for healthy eating.

Justice

I initially worked with law students at Howard University for five years to push for legislative changes, like promoting the Mike Brown bill reintroduced by Congresswoman Cori Bush (H.R.8914). This bill increases access to mental and behavioral health services for people affected by violent encounters with law enforcement. It’s to change public perceptions and raise awareness about systemic issues, especially systemic racism.

Family

We offer grief management and self-care programs for mothers. We also provide support groups and financial assistance to help families heal and rebuild after loss.

Education

For children, we run tutoring, mentorship and financial literacy programs like Camp Brown Kids and Brown’s Cousin’s Candy, teaching them about entrepreneurship, finances and budgeting. I also created a Memorial Scholarship. Mike had just graduated high school the year Wilson killed him, and he could have received a scholarship like the one my foundation just awarded to 15 students. The requirements mirror his passion for the performing arts. They also include an interest in social justice/activism and were available for students with a minimum 2.5 GPA. We gave away $45,000 this year and are looking to grow to give more.

But honoring Mike goes beyond scholarships and programs; it also involves tackling the mental health challenges that have deeply affected our family.

Officer Wilson didn’t just steal Mike’s life — he stole my other children’s voices. For years, they were quiet and reserved. My other son will be 20 this year. When he reached the same age Mike was when he was killed, he felt overwhelming anxiety and a sense that something was after him. My boys have different fathers, and my other son’s father had also been killed 12 years earlier. The loss of his brother and father sat heavily on him as he prepared to cross the threshold into manhood, so I found a support group of men to center around him and help us through. During that process, he decided to get baptized again and felt called to ministry, which was surprising.

Even more shocking was his choice of a church in Ferguson. I think that’s brave of him and am proud of him for overcoming his trauma and embracing his faith.

We’ve all faced mental health challenges, each of us going through therapy at various points. My daughter initially went to college, but when other students discovered who she was, it became overwhelming, and she quit to come back home. I still have my moments, waves of grief that pull me down, but I do my best to cope. The world may have moved on, but the emptiness is our constant presence. I fill it by pouring it into others daily. Amid this personal struggle, the racism we faced only intensified our pain and isolation.

Racism is still alive and well; the harassment I faced and the division I experienced after Mike’s death made that clear. The first time I was called the N-word was after I lost Mike. Ferguson itself was once a “sundown town,” a place where Black people weren’t welcome after dark. Bob McCulloch, who was the seven-term St. Louis County Prosecutor, was known for never prosecuting a cop or letting Black people get due process because a Black man had killed his father (who was also a police officer) years ago.

Despite our progress, the fight for justice still faces obstacles. The legislative process is slow, and resistance is strong. The first bill I introduced was ignored because it bore my son’s name. That hurt, but we modified it to the Helping Families Heal Act and are trying again. I’m also working to change the street name from Canfield Drive to honor Mike — even if I can’t bring myself to visit that street anymore. I have argued this case all the way to the UN, and the world knows about this injustice. They care. Reopening Mike’s case so he can get a fair investigation has been a priority in my fight for justice. Officer Wilson was never charged. We never went to court because we never got a strong enough investigation. I don’t accept that.

I want people to know that we need to fight for laws that protect us as Black people, and we need them before the next tragedy strikes. If we really want to be valued as a whole person and not three-fifths of a person, we must tell them. If we want equality, we must demand that. If we want justice, we must go after it. The fight for Mike is a fight for justice that he and others deserve. I will not rest until my son’s legacy is one of change, unity, and hope for all families.

Lezley McSpadden-Head is a renowned author and social justice advocate, best known as the mother of Michael O.D. Brown, the African-American teenager whose tragic death at the hands of police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014, became a catalyst for the Black Lives Matter movement. Born and raised in a close-knit community, McSpadden-Head was just 16 when she welcomed her son, affectionately known as “Mike Mike,” into the world. His untimely death shook her to the core and propelled her into the national spotlight. In her memoir, Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil, McSpadden-Head reflects on her journey as a mother and the deep connection she shared with her son, offering a poignant narrative that highlights her unwavering strength and resilience. Through her powerful storytelling, she continues to advocate for justice and reform, amplifying the voices of those affected by systemic inequalities.