I Am Trayvon Martin…And So Is My Son
22 Mar
You all know, and I have said before, that I don’t usually cover race on my site. That is intentional. This site is about my writing, my musings as a mother, as a woman, and hilarious, if ill-fated, tales about dating. I keep it light. But like most of the nation, I have found myself in a bit of turmoil concerning the Trayvon Martin case. I’ve had to write this piece in two attempts because the subject, and my story concerning it, are just so damn heavy on my heart. That said, I’m writing this piece as a mother raising a black man. Fuck an opinion, this life is my fact.
March 21, 2012. Wednesday. And the news everywhere is blaring the details of the murder of a 17 year old black child named Trayvon Martin in Sanford, FL, by a non-black man named George Zimmerman. Some say he’s hispanic, some say white, some say hispanic passing as white. It matters not. Trayvon was killed while walking back to his father’s home in a gated community carrying nothing but Skittles and a can of Arizona Iced Tea. Deemed “suspicious” by presence of a hoodie by an overzealous neighborhood watchman, he was shot and killed in cold blood. You’ve heard the details. You know the story. You also know the outrage it has produced in communities all over.
But my 11 year old son does not.
And I can’t let television or newspaper stands we pass be the ones to tell him. I also can’t let the news come to him from his classmates, far removed in their Manhattan private school lives, just as he is. For the most part, their families can afford for this to be a passing headline that’s “such a shame and tragedy” till it falls from sight, if they so choose. Most of his classmates won’t grow up to be black men. But… I need to convey to my son that, in our case, it’s personal. He needs to understand that this case is about me…about him…about his father. Maybe that’s too much to ask from a 6th grader. I decide to give him the facts and see what he says.
As we walk the six blocks from the bus stop to school, we have a talk.
I ask if he’s heard about a young man named Trayvon. He says he hasn’t. I’m relieved. His mind will receive it without any minimizing views to erase. His reaction will be his own.
“Well, he was a 17 year old boy in a town in Florida. A man named George Zimmerman shot and killed him, claiming it was self-defense, while patrolling the area as part of a neighborhood watch program. He followed Trayvon, despite being told NOT to, because he said he looked suspicious in the hoodie he was wearing. A scuffle occurred, and Trayvon was dead when the police arrived. The man who shot him was not arrested and remains free. You might hear about this in school, but I wanted you to have the facts. You don’t have to argue anyone down if they try to tell you other details that contradict this, but I know some kids might not really understand what happened. Someone may make an inappropriate joke. Maybe his name is funny to them or whatever. They just don’t have the details in a very serious matter. That’s not your responsibility to school them. Simply state ‘he died – and this isn’t funny’, and walk away.”
He nodded.
“And also, we have somewhere to go tonight, if you don’t have a ton of homework. There’s a protest in Union Square that I want us to attend. It’s important to me that we show our support and agree publicly that what happened was wrong. They’re calling it the Million Hoodie March, and everyone’s going to wear hoodies to show how silly it is to think that hoodies worn by anyone of any color automatically make them suspicious.”
“Ok, Mom. But what did the guy who died do? What did he have?” He’s waiting for a thug tale.
My throat closes. I can feel my cheeks get hot and my eyes go blurry with the first salt of tears. I blink them back furiously because LORD, DON’T LET ME CRY WALKING DOWN 3RD AVENUE!
“A can of iced tea and a pack of Skittles,” I say quietly.
My son’s head snaps to face me and I see it. The look on his face. His eyes are wide as saucers and his mouth is agape in a gasp. It’s not a look of surprise alone, though. It’s a look of recognition. My son…sees himself.
“Wait, he didn’t have a gun, too?!” he asks in disbelief.
“No, baby. He went to a convenience store, bought some snacks, and was walking back to his dad’s house in the same gated community. Zimmerman felt he didn’t belong there. So you see, this wasn’t a fair fight, and even less fair that Zimmerman is free.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence. As we approach the building, my son turns to me and says, “I won’t talk about it in school, and if anyone brings it up, I’ll walk away. And look, I’m already wearing my hoodie, too.” He yanks the hood of his school emblem fleece out from under his jacket. A quick kiss and he disappears into the building.
As it would turn out, he worried through the day about me at a protest, and we did not go. He grew concerned on hearing that OWS was part of it and begged me that we stay home and safe from potential mayhem. I acquiesced. We supported with pictures of us in our hoodies, shared information from those at Union Square with Facebook and Twitter friends, and focused on his math test prep for the night – finding the area of triangles, parallelograms, circumference of circles and hoodrats.
But one thing stays with me: my son saw himself in Trayvon Martin. He eats Skittles. He drinks Arizona Iced Tea. He wears hoodies. He is black. I was proud and scared of his young wisdom at the same time. In one incredulous look, I saw the hamster wheel turn in his head…”could that happen to me?”
…and the fact that I CANNOT say 100%, “No, never”…is eating my heart alive.
An education won’t save you. (Trayvon is reported to have been an A and B student.) Being an athlete won’t save you. (Trayvon played football.) Living in a nice area doesn’t protect you. (This happened in a gated community where he was visiting his father, not on a street corner in South Central.) Would a suit have protected him? (Probably not. Dr. Henry Louis “Skip” Gates, Jr. got arrested on his own Massachusetts front porch. The Harvard professor is a SUIT, honey…)
This country has so much work to do concerning race. It won’t be solved in my lifetime, and doubtfully within my son’s. Racism has gone undercover, to match its deeply ingrained history in this country, and usually only raises its head in subversive day-to-day ways. An apartment rental denial here, a promotion bypass there, and always with the appropriate paperwork in place. No one wants to be a provable racist.
And then there are rare instances like this, where a child is hunted by an armed grown man on foot, and shot in the street like a dog…
It’s Emmett Till all over again.
And I’m preparing my son on so many different fronts that it’s exhausting…but necessary. The unspoken rules that black men have to follow to (hopefully) avoid suspicion and trouble. The respect for humanity enough to NOT condemn all of any one race, white, black, or purple. The discernment to know when to walk versus run – Trayvon did what I tell my son – why run if you’ve done nothing wrong! When is it enough? When are black boys safe?
I don’t have an answer to give my son. FUCK! I don’t have an answer to give my heart.
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