I loaded my files and was surprised when the first one opened as a video. Generally, the files come only in audio form. I pressed play and the image of a black man in an orange jump suit came to life. He was so big, so tough looking, the scowl on his face revealing nothing. I listened intently and worked my way through the first few hours of the video.
Tough, a gang member, robbery, murder, drugs, guns, money; all things I would expect to hear in a case like his.
I was amazed at the way the cops unraveled his story, how every lie he told fell apart. His world fell apart at his feet, right before my eyes. It was only a matter of time before the truth began pouring out....and my heart began to ache for him.
As the truth began to reveal itself, the young man retreated to the corner of the room, hugging his knees against his chest, sobs racking his enormous body. He sobbed about his involvement (he had not actually been the murderer), he cried about his future, and he sobbed about the deceit by his so-called friend and brother that had landed him there in the first place. Most devastatingly of all, he cried for his mother. Rocking back and forth on in the corner of the dingy interrogation room, he pleaded with the detectives that he would tell them the truth if they, in turn, promised that he could give his mother a hug. (Much to my relief, the detectives vowed to make that happen.) The rough exterior gone, the vulgar language melted into tears; this hard, rough, man wanted not his freedom, not his friends, not his girlfriend, but his mother.
Tears began to pour down my cheeks as I listened to his pleading. I felt his tears in every inch of my being. His sobs spoke to the mother in me and I felt the familiar fierceness I often feel when I think about my own child and how intensely and wholly I love her. While his actions were inexcusable, I couldn't shake the actual physical pain I felt in my heart for him. I felt his longing, and it will haunt me forever.
I know many mother's, including myself, that worry unceasingly that what we are doing actually matters. Does my child need me? Am I ever doing enough? Does what I'm doing actually make a difference? In that young man's tears, I understood that, yes, I am and yes, it makes all the difference.
