Valerie Castile is a mother of the movement. She was thrust into that role after the July 6, 2016 killing of her son, Philando, by Jeronimo Yanez of the St. Anthony police department.
Like Sybrina Fulton, the mother of Trayvon Martin, and U.S. Rep. Lucy McBath, the mother of Jordan Davis, Ms. Castile has since used her personal tragedy as a platform for advocacy and policy change.
Ms. Castile founded the Philando Castile Relief Foundation, not just in the spirit of her son’s sense of philanthropy, but as a policy-shifting mechanism in Minneapolis and across the country that can be described in three words: Feed the children.
Why We Wrote This
Nine years ago, Valerie Castile lost her son, Philando, at a traffic stop gone horribly wrong. She is determined that his life will not be forgotten. His legacy can be summed up in three words: Feed the children. Part of an occasional series.
Mr. Castile had a reputation of making sure no child was hungry under his purview. The standard he set during his time at J.J. Hill Montessori School was maximized statewide through his posthumous foundation. Ms. Castile’s donations toward removing student lunch debt – clocking in at more than $200,000 – inspired Minnesota to become the fourth state to pass a free breakfast and lunch program at all public schools in 2023. Other efforts include a memorial scholarship and holiday giveaways.
“Whatever I do, I have the community in mind. I want my people treated with the same respect and dignity that you give other people,” says Ms. Castile. “That’s the warrior spirit, and it’s embedded in all of us. But there are certain things that may happen to you in life to bring that spirit forward.”
That sense of reflection has grown into a series of memorials and reminders, one of which is the Philando Castile Peace Garden, adorned with African Adinkra symbols, at the site of his death. On July 6, there was a Restoration Day and candlelight vigil. It will be followed by a community cookout on July 7, on what is called Unity Day.
“The garden is a place of self-reflection and to come to your own conclusions about your life and what you can do to improve the community,” she says.
“I wanted my son to have a chance”
In a room in her home full of mementos of her son, she talks about a nickname that suggests her sense of leadership predated her son’s death.
“My mother called me ‘Valerie.’ … But my father called me ‘Captain,’” Ms. Castile says, surrounded by paintings and proclamations in a place she says is “Phil’s Room.” “He called me that because I had a lot of friends [growing up] and they would come to the house with me. He called them my ‘scurvy crew.’”
She laughs and smiles wide at the memory of her father. It is a smile similar to Philando’s, despite her insistence that her son looks like his dad “down to his teeth.” It is also a grin that belies her hard upbringing in St. Louis.
“My parents were living in what they called Cochran [Gardens] in downtown St. Louis. It was a project. … We grew up in poverty,” she says as she straightens her back. “Everything was brick. Even the playgrounds were brick. No such thing as dirt and grass.”
“Every project was concrete. They just threw down concrete and stacked Negroes on top of themselves.”
As one of six children, Ms. Castile’s sense of community and family was forged out of necessity. She and her family lived on the 11th floor.
“The [project] only went up to 11. Mind you, there were two elevators, and they were always broken. If they weren’t broke, they stunk,” she says with a laugh. “When my mom went to the grocery store, we had a system. … One of us would have to walk from the first to the third floor, then hand the bags to someone going from the third to the sixth floor. Someone would eventually come down to nine and take them up to the 11th.”
Ms. Castile’s father moved to Minnesota in the late 1960s, and whenever she visited him, she noticed a dramatic shift in the way of life. Minneapolis represented something different, and she vowed that whenever she had children, they would live there. She became pregnant at 26.
“I wanted my son to have a chance. … I wanted to have a fresh start,” she says. “Because in order for you to change your life, you have to change your environment. You have to change the people that you hang out with, regardless of who they are. You have to transition yourself.”
“He’s a miracle baby”
Philando Divall Castile was born July 16, 1983, his name a reminder of the relationship between mother and son. “Phil” is a root of the Greek word “philia,” meaning friendship and affection.
“From the very beginning, he was a surprise. He’s a miracle baby,” Ms. Castile said. “Back before I got pregnant, I would go to the clinic, and they said I couldn’t have kids. For me to get pregnant, I thought that was special within itself.”
His birth changed everything for the Castiles. Mom got a job – two jobs – to make sure her son had everything he needed. Her daughter and Phil’s sister, Allysza, was born almost a decade later. And then, Phil wanted what so many kids wanted in 1996.
A pair of Jordans.
“I said, ‘I can’t afford those shoes! Because when you get done wearing them, you can’t eat ’em. You need a job,’” she recalls. “I went to downtown Saint Paul and signed the paperwork [for him to work] right there at Selby Avenue.”
His first job? Helping to repaint and repair discarded bikes for kids. It was the start of a lifetime of service to children, plus a few odd jobs here and there.
Selby is a somber spot now. According to Ms. Castile, the building that housed Philando’s first place of employment now features a mural of people killed by police.
Eight colorful bells lay in a corner in Philando’s room, one for each letter of his name. In 2022, kindergarten students at J.J. Hill Montessori School, where he worked as a cafeteria supervisor and mentor, were the stars of a video called “Bells for Philando.”
Protection and healing are a common theme in this room. There’s a shiny green amulet that Ms. Castile wears as part of her necklace. It matches the tattoo on her right shoulder – the Eye of Horus, an ancient Egyptian symbol that represents well-being and protection.
“I know how to fight”
July 6. It’s always a tough date for Ms. Castile and her family. In recent years, they have partnered with Falcon Heights to honor Philando on the 6th and 7th.
And even though it’s been almost a decade since Philando’s death, one question remains – a question that has fueled Ms. Castile’s “warrior spirit.”
“How can a simple traffic stop go from zero to a murder? How could that happen?” she says.
Mr. Yanez, then a St. Anthony Village police officer, pulled Mr. Castile over on the pretense of a broken tail-light near the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, Mr. Yanez said later. Mr. Castile, who had a permit to legally carry a firearm, disclosed he had a gun in the car. Within seconds, Mr. Yanez shot him several times in front of Mr. Castile’s girlfriend and her 4-year-old daughter.
A year later, Mr. Yanez was acquitted of manslaughter and charges of recklessly discharging a weapon. Protests erupted across the Twin Cities.
“The easiest thing that I could have done would have been nothing,” says Ms. Castile. “But hell no. I know how to fight. I’m gonna fight you the way you fight others – with knowledge, with respect, with integrity.”
She and the foundation made national news in 2019 after Ms. Castile made an $8,000 donation at Robbinsdale Cooper High School to clear students’ lunch debt. The Foundation’s work ultimately led to Gov. Tim Walz signing the Free School Meals for Kids bill in 2023, but not before the Castile name was heard on the Minnesota State Capitol floor.
“He was known as the lunch man, or Mr. Phil, at J.J. Hill. He knew every student’s name and he never let any of his kids go hungry,” said state Sen. Clare Oumou Verbeten in March 2023.
“I knew they would pass that bill after her speech,” Ms. Castile says. “She shamed them. We shamed them.”
Ms. Castile describes her crusade as a “journey.” She has met with the actor Kerry Washington, the late civil rights icon John Lewis, and others. She also mentions the singer Alicia Keys, whose “Giants” exhibit is currently on display at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Phil’s room was there once as well, so to speak, in a 2018 exhibit called “Art and Healing: In The Moment.”
Her Phil is resting in Calvary Cemetery in St. Louis now, alongside giants including Dred Scott. The Supreme Court decision that bears Scott’s name was also a miscarriage of justice. But Ms. Castile remains undeterred.
“I know what my destiny is now. God has revealed that to me,” she says. “He has given me an assignment and a mission, and I’m just playing follow the leader.”
