When Tyler Robinson appeared on screen blank-faced in front of a cinderblock wall, Velcroed into that green turtle suit— all I could think about was his mom.
I am not a political reporter nor am I an activist, but I did lock my office door once to log on to a computer in the middle of a workday so that I could watch my own sleep-deprived, disoriented son hear the consequences of his actions read aloud.
When the judge asked my son to state his name for the record, my face burned hot. I couldn’t even cry. My mind flashed to his baby book and the birth certificate that I had signed in a hospital bed, my legs beneath those warm white blankets. I thought about how he had written that name with wonky lettering in kindergarten. By the close of that hearing, my son’s name had become a condemned person’s name, and one that I did not get to define for the world anymore.
You look at things differently when you no longer have the luxury of assuming that it would never be your kid in the prison slides and ankle chains. God knows Amber Robinson never did.
I’ve read her braggart posts over those pictures of her awkward teenager holding his college scholarship letter. I would have loathed her carefree certainty just a few years ago— my son already in prison while all of her hopes and dreams still soared above the clouds. Looking at her leaked family pictures this week I had thought, Welcome to the Thunderdome, lady.
And then I checked my whole self.
Because none of us ever think we’ll ever see our kid in a mugshot, and God willing you never will. But you might. You just might. And in that moment, you will begin to grieve as one does their child's death except it isn’t an actual death so no one cares that you are gutted and can't think straight and consider maybe your own death would be easier than seeing your child walking toward the hell they have created; to watch them be buried and forgotten and cursed.
Let me be clear—
I am, in no way, about to request sympathies nor co-opt a national tragedy for likes and follows. On the contrary. The events of the past week have landed in my backyard, and I am questioning how I untangle the mess that's there. If I ever thought I had found traction as a writer of justice-related matters, the past nine days may test my resolve as well as strain my readership.
Critique of punishment paradigms isn’t en vogue when people are brutally and publicly assassinated. And while it is never inspiring to be the mother of someone in prison, Charlie Kirk’s murder begs loudly for arrests and arraignments and well-secured prisons. It is open season on the bad guy, and I fully understand.
So, I have considered that maybe my voice should just hush for a minute or a month or forever, because no matter what I say I run the risk of being misunderstood— tossed into the basket of grifters and attention-seekers and ‘soft-on-crime’ folk. Best to say nothing, I have thought. Best to keep your head down and stay neutral on this because shame on people who have seized recent atrocities to push their agenda, cheer, or increase t-shirt sales.
But—
In spite of my desire to remain inoffensive, I don't think I am allowed a neutral position here. The mother of a man in prison is not afforded detachment this week, even if I want it.
As the school shootings continue (11 already this year) and people are being stabbed on trains and shot before our eyes, the screams to shake whatever demon has gripped our country have become deafening. The cries for big C change and capitol J justice for victims is not only warranted, it is demanded. But as people chant ye old worn-out battle hymns, I am sinking below the waterline into despair. I am still out here whimpering my futile pleas into the sea of relentlessly crashing waves—
“See, she’s a Conservative gun-toting Trump lover!”
—And—
“Shame she let the computer take over her kid’s life. Parents, watch your kids instead of letting the internet do it for you.”
Gosh, I really hope I never have pictures from my personal life screenshotted and lobbed about in an online volley between keyboard mobs. While some mothers are due scrutiny for their gross negligence, I am here to say that some of us gave all of the tough lessons and gentle affection and good education and bedtime prayers and limited screen time that we could muster— and we still feel like we failed the mission. Some of us even stayed at home to parent, volunteer in classrooms, and expose our children to purpose and meaning— like the time I took my child to the county jail for a tour (knowing his 7-year-old self wanted to be a policeman) or that time I had him serve a Christmas meal at the local interfaith shelter.
I don’t know what Tyler Robinson’s mom was like as a mother and I will not do her bidding, but neither am I in a position to judge her. I can't imagine the moment she saw her son's likeness being hunted by the FBI and for the life of me, I cannot imagine dialing the phone to turn my child over to a death sentence.
That said, I can imagine what she is facing now with collect calls and sleepless nights. I know what it’s like to watch the fruits of my young parenting years rot before my eyes and feel the scorn of judgment burrowing into the back of my head in court. I know what it is to replay every parenting decision that I ever made, and to look at an old 2nd grade school picture with a profound sense of loss. I, too, have silently sobbed in defense of my right to not have had a crystal ball— because oh the things that I would have done differently had I known what I know now.
No, I don’t get to post some warm reflection with a soft VSCO filter about hugging the kids extra tight tonight because my innocent mom era is gone too.
Cast immediately as failed parents, the phenomenon of shaming the family members has a name. Social psychology calls it “courtesy stigma” when we automatically assume that the mothers (and fathers) of inmates raised killers and drug addicts and menaces to our peaceful society with some sort of intention or willful negligence. They must come from ‘bad stock,’ we conclude.
And mom is (as always) the first place we look for error. Even I, Ms. Black Sheep Mom, scanned the internet for Amber Robinson's face to judge. Shame on me.
We come at mom like she is the missing piece to the puzzle, the clue that unlocks the mystery of what’s gone wrong. She must have been too busy or too coddling or too religious or too uninvolved. She's probably too rich, too poor, too fragile white, too angry black. Of course the echoes of Freud still ricochet in society's considerations too: mothers impart neuroses, mothers perpetuate psychopathology, mothers create these monsters with their hovering and their coldness and their cunning female ways. Eve is still the source of all of man’s failures. Mom is either a saint or a sinner, Jezebel or Mother Mary— there is no in between. When a woman’s kid does something bad, well, that is because she failed at the one thing she was expected to offer to this world.
It is far too painful to consider that good moms with good hearts can raise people who choose to do bad things. That would make us all capable of feeling the full responsibility of what is happening in our world and no one wants to carry that burden until they are forced to. Best strap the mess to the scapegoat and loose that mangy beast into the wilderness alone.
I started this blog because I felt alone in that wilderness. All of those beautiful family updates on social media had gotten to me— the college admission letters, the wedding of someone's son, the full family at the Thanksgiving table all smiling and fulfilled. And then there were the friends screaming online for building more prisons.
I am happy to report that after 10 months of writing I no longer feel alone, and I want to thank you for making that so. I know that even on its best day Black Sheep Mom isn't fun. It is complicated and controversial to talk of crime and consequences, and some days I still question why I do when I could be writing about fashion or wellness or moon cycles.
But when I get messages and phone calls from decent parents who have a child awaiting sentencing or transport to prison, I know why I’m here. They don’t need to tell me how they feel nor do they need to explain the charges or their circumstances. I know that ‘my child is going to prison’ is an option on the menu for any parent alive— and even though I hate it, I am right there with them.
Even if they are Amber Robinson.
I thank you for sharing your experiences & look forward to reading more. I'm a mom of 4 sons (now ages 19-27) & I've written about parenting, raising, & educating boys for years. I so appreciate your perspective b/c we all go into (& often, through) parenting wanting to believe that IF WE DO EVERYTHING RIGHT, everything will be right, okay, good. And it's simply not true. There are no guarantees. Good parents, good moms, great families raise kids who overdose, who sell drugs to others who overdose, who die my suicide, who commit crimes. It's an unsettling truth most of us don't want to grapple with, but I think we need to, both as parents and as society, so we can better learn how to support one another.
You have a beautiful voice for a complicated subject, but your unconditional love for your son and compassion for other mothers in your position comes through in a very genuine and enlightening way. 💕