Michael Thomas
If closure is forgiveness, it makes it hard to move on. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I have to forgive in order to move on or that forgiving is the godly thing to do. I ask them, “Are you able to forgive if you’ve never even gotten an apology?” “I’m sorry, I made a mistake. It should never have happened. I should have thought before I pulled the trigger”? To be honest, if Darren Wilson were to say that he was sorry, I wouldn’t believe him. The autopsy doesn’t show me that you’re sorry. Where you put bullets into my son’s body doesn’t show me that you’re sorry. Having to make funeral arrangements, buy a casket, and explain to my younger son that his older brother’s not here anymore doesn’t show me that you’re sorry. It’s too late for an apology, because the damage is done.
I called my son Mike Mike because I always thought people with nicknames were special. Mike two times—he wasn’t a junior, but his dad is Mike, and he was Mike, so I said, “We’re going to call him Mike Mike.”
I got pregnant at 15 and had Michael at 16. It was a frightening time for me, and on top of it, I lived in Walnut Park, where I’d seen people get killed, get shot, all over gang activity. But the thing that scared me the most was they were all black men, and I was having a black boy.
Eventually, I moved in with Michael’s father and his parents in Pine Lawn. Michael’s father was being raised by two parents, completely opposite of where I was coming from in my household. Ultimately, I thought it would be better. My mother ended up moving in right around the corner, which made it even nicer.
Michael had a dog from the age of 1, a miniature Doberman. He couldn’t say “puppy,” so it was a “pushy.” And his name was Spike, but his name was Pike to him. He would follow this dog everywhere. One day, my mom was in the back, hanging clothes on the line, and I was in the house. I thought he was outside with her. I said, “Mom, where’s Mike Mike?” And she said, “I thought he was in the house.” And I said, “No, I thought he was out here with you.” I was frantic, and I ran to the corner. Oh my God, I was so scared. I looked to my right, and I see a Pamper and a tail.
I’m not from Ferguson. Growing up, it was a place I considered a sundown town, and I continue to be on the outside. Running for and getting elected to office would have put me on the inside, to see what has changed. If I had been elected, community policing, economic equality, and health care would have been my priorities. All the babies who were there to see Michael in the street and the events that took place during that time—are we worried about what they’re thinking and if they need mental health care?
“The most important thing to me is to secure the lives of other children. My son is gone—I can’t bring him back—but how can we put something in place where other children are protected?”
I think decisions are being made in Ferguson without thinking them through. We’ve seen a decrease in the number of Ferguson residents. I feel we have yet to see follow-through with the consent decree. I don’t see a change at all, but people claim they have done so much. It must just be on the inside, because on the outside, we don’t see anything different.
In terms of hiring black people to police Ferguson, I feel like they got that part wrong. They chose black people to fill up those positions because they were black. But did you find out where their heart is? Are they from this community? Are they willing to get out and communicate with the youth and get them engaged?
We thought the police were going to be trying to bridge the gap. That’s not how you build a relationship, just hiring someone the same color as me. We can be the same shade all day long, but can they relate to what is happening?
Michael liked music—rhythm and sounds were of his nature. When he spent that last summer with my mom, Michael took an old computer and some headphones, and he recorded over two albums of songs that you can listen to on SoundCloud. He was a genius with how he went about recording. People ask all the time, “How did he do this with the earpiece of a headset?” It was something that he had taught himself how to do. That had always been a thing of his: putting things together and taking things apart. He was very hands-on. He figured out how to use what he had to get what he wanted. That was genius to me.
My heart isn’t ready to hear Michael’s voice, but those songs are there whenever I am.
When I started my foundation, I wanted it to be a place for grieving mothers. When we lost Michael, I had no outlet—I had nowhere to go. I met with Sybrina Fulton, Trayvon Martin’s mom, and Gwen Carr, Eric Garner’s mom, and Ms. Carr asked me, “Do you know what you want to do after this?” And I said, “No, I don’t have a clue what I want to do or what I should be doing.” She said, “Maybe you should start a foundation.” So I formed Rainbow of Mothers, where moms who have lost a child can begin their healing and talk to a therapist. That’s a stigma for black people—we don’t feel that you should talk to a therapist if you’re not “crazy.” But this is something that could absolutely drive you crazy.
The most important thing to me is to secure the lives of other children. My son is gone—I can’t bring him back—but how can we put something in place where other children are protected? I started working on the Mike Brown Bill. If passed, it would take away federal funding from state and local police who do not work with an independent civilian review board; require mandatory data collection from law enforcement to analyze racial profiling and use of force; require all state and local law enforcement to have a use-of-force policy with force proportional to the suspected crime; end police militarization; and establish the Mike Brown Fund, modeled after the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund.
I hope and pray that one day I can see the bill become the Mike Brown Law. That may be the first and only time I feel that my son has gotten justice. I feel powerless without anything changing. Nothing has changed—nothing’s happening. I just get to visit a gravesite, every birthday and every August 9.
