The CLog
Many people will never learn the lessons the death of Trayvon Martin could teach them. Lessons about racial profiling, rushing too quick to judgment, and what happens when you take the law into your own hands.
But I've heard the lesson it taught me loud and clear: The world is more dangerous for my son than I ever imagined.
Being white carries a certain amount of inherent obliviousness. I've never been followed home because someone thought I looked suspicious. Old women don't clutch their purses or lock their doors when I pass. I go into stores and shop freely with no one hovering over me. If a cop stops me, he or she is usually fairly courteous to me, even if I'm openly rude to them.
Life won't be the same for my son, who inherited my smart mouth and his father's complexion. I never fully realized this until the first photo of Trayvon Martin surfaced - the one where he was a bit younger than 17, wearing a red T-shirt and smiling the simple smile of a child who was loved and content with his world. When I looked at it, I saw my son's face staring back at me and understood in an instant this could have been him. My baby. Suddenly, it became my duty to understand just how different America is for those with more melanin, especially young men.
Even if you believe George Zimmerman's version of events, the entire situation began because he assumed the young black guy in his neighborhood was up to no good. He believed so wholeheartedly that this young man couldn't possibly be in his gated community for any other purpose than something illegal, he thought it necessary to get out of his car and follow him.
When the not-guilty verdict was read, I sobbed uncontrollably. My tears weren't just for Trayvon and his family. They came because the case had been my last bastion of hope that things weren't as bad as they seemed. I knew a guilty verdict couldn't bring Trayvon back, but at least it would send a strong message that America no longer accepts this kind of behavior. These hopes were me being oblivious, of course. Equality isn't mainstream in America. As Geraldo put it: "If [the jurors] were armed, they would've shot and killed Trayvon Martin, too."
As the last bit of blissful ignorance to racial injustice left my mind, I grieved for its comfort. I felt like Neo waking up from life in the Matrix and realizing the real world was shit and he'd been manipulated to believe otherwise his entire life.
My grief turned to frustration. What do I teach my son to help him survive in a world this hostile to someone who looks like him, I thought? Before the case I would've taught him to fight if he felt his life was in danger and he couldn't get away, but now that didn't appear to be the right answer. "Trayvon shouldn't have ATTACKED," the pro-Zimmerman crowd would say. Because a 17-year-old black kid fighting a man who was stalking him in the night is considered an attack.
I could have taught him to run, but if he's shot in the back, the narrative would be "he shouldn't have ran if he wasn't doing anything wrong."
So I was at a loss. What prevents you from being shot erroneously if you're a brown young man in America? Is it strictly a game of chance?
I sought answers from the community Sunday night at the rally for Trayvon Martin in Marshall Park, organized by the Charlotte Solidarity Project. I went hoping for any insight about what my next move as the parent of a brown boy should be. The event featured poets and speakers who eloquently reminded us of events past in which justice was never served, whose lessons, like those of Amadou Diallo, Oscar Grant, Emmett Till, were also never learned by those who needed to heed them most. Speakers read quotes from Ghandi and offered hugs to help calm and soothe the 400 people in attendance. Almost everyone who grabbed the microphone spoke of the need to educate our children. Though their words and performances were beautiful, oftentimes giving me chills and causing my eyes to fill with tears, they never told me exactly what I'm supposed to tell my child. They didn't have the answers. I suspect no one does.
The rain fell over all of us in the park, just as it did the night Trayvon was killed. My son pulled his hoodie over his head to avoid the rain, just like Trayvon did the night he was killed. He held high the "Justice for Trayvon" poster he'd made, despite the rain soaking it and practically turning it to mush. In that moment I knew one thing I could tell him. That I was proud of him.
A video of Sunday's rally shot by Kendrea Mekkah:
