Some thoughts on Trayvon Martin

I’ve been trying to figure out what to write about the Trayvon Martin situation ever since the Zimmerman verdict. I haven’t written much because it’s so utterly terrible that words, at least MY words, could never do it justice. My pain is most definitely palpable. My anger is righteous. Neither of those translate into a vocabulary to adequately explain how I, and just about all people who look like me, viscerally feel. This is not academic for us. People of color in the U.S. frequently feel what the government would call a “credible threat.” I’m about to be responsible for an online women’s mag that has ethnic/racial, orientational and ability diversity at its heart. At the same time, I know, even as a black WOMAN, that I damn well better make sure my hands are where a cop who stops me for any or no reason can see them and tell that cop everything I’m about to do when I reach for my wallet and driver’s license if I don’t want to end up injured or dead. Ironically, I’ve got a slew of cops–both active and retired–in my family.

Trayvon Martin. Killed at 17 years old.

There is an article on the Counterpunch website that comes closer to my feelings than anything else I’ve read. The only other person who’s been so spot on for me is President Obama when he said that Trayvon could have been him 35 years ago. He’s right. Any cop in Hawaii could have shot and killed him for virtually no reason at all and gotten away with it then and now.

I’m going to be brutally honest about something and it’s going to piss off my white friends. Non-white people are sick and tired of having to explain ourselves and our cultures to you. We learn who whites are and what it means to be white from the time we pop out of our mothers’ wombs. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t survive. For thousands and thousands of us, the lessons weren’t enough. There are too many black, brown and red males who have ended up in cemeteries or hospitals beaten within an inch of their lives. Certainly, there are far, far too many in prison after being convicted by juries terrified by the demonization of the accused by prosecutors who validated the fear many whites had already. Even though we are weary, we have no choice but to keep explaining because maybe one person will figure out that killing some kid coming back from the local convenience store because he wore clothing the white person did not approve of and whose skin was the “wrong” color IS NOT THE RIGHT THING TO DO! Damn! Is that lesson so freakin’ hard?! It would seem so because Trayvon isn’t the only black person killed or maimed within an inch of their lives by blue (aka police officers) and white people with guns, ropes, dogs, horses, batons and cars. (Sorry, but Zimmerman’s I.D. as Latino is a convenience in my opinion so that the jury saw him as another minority and, thereby, discounted the racial aspects of the case.) It happens in this country far, far more than most people know, but ask a criminal defense attorney and you’ll get a very different picture, Zimmerman attorney Mark O’Mara’s idiocy notwithstanding.

As I said, non-white people get tired as hell of explaining ourselves. Yet, this is what has to happen until the light bulb goes on in the collective white consciousness, assuming there is such a thing, and they discover what we’ve known for nearly 400 years now: there is a race problem in this country that has never been honestly addressed. I am amazed that whites are amazed that non-whites and in some parts of the country, Asians, have to walk a fine line between teaching our children how to be strong and teaching them to damn near say, “Yessa, Massa” and “Nossa, Massa” when confronted by people who are supposed to protect us, too. Why did white people not know this? How could white people not know this? It makes me Want. To. Fucking. Screeeeeeeeeam!!

Another thing that President Obama said in his surprise appearance in the White House press room eight days ago is that our society is evolving into a “more perfect union.” His daughters, 15-year-old Malia and 12-year-old Sasha, have no understanding of the bigotry in generations before. They have friends with same-sex parents and who are part of the wonderful patchwork quilt of races and ethnicities that make this country wonderful when seen from afar. On one hand, I am so very glad they have no personal basis for understanding. On the other hand, not having that personal basis means that, were they not part of the president’s family, they would likely face serious racism at some point in their lives. I wonder if they know about the enormous spike in death threats against the First Family which, by the way, includes them. Why? Because there is a lot of racial hatred here in this supposed “land of the free” and “home of the brave.”

According to an ABC News report that appears on their Chicago affiliate’s website, there were over 40,000 threats against the president and those around him between 2008 and the beginning of 2012. I cannot find the original sources for this number as many of the links from the Daily Kos article are suspiciously non-functional, particularly those to Talking Points Memo. However, a 2009 article that appeared in The Telegraph, a British newspaper, states:

Since Mr Obama took office, the rate of threats against the president has increased 400 per cent from the 3,000 a year or so under President George W. Bush, according to Ronald Kessler, author of In the President’s Secret Service.

Some threats to Mr Obama, whose Secret Service codename is Renegade, have been publicised, including an alleged plot by white supremacists in Tennessee late last year to rob a gun store, shoot 88 black people, decapitate another 14 and then assassinate the first black president in American history.

The idea that we are in a “post racial” United States is a complete fallacy and always will be as long as there are people of any race/ethnicity unwilling to leave someone of another race/ethnicity to go about his or her business without having to worry that some bigot wants them dead for having been born the “wrong” color. Obama is half white, an inconvenient truth for many race-baiting Republicans, Tea Partiers, conspiracy theorists, birthers and members of various militia groups in this gun-crazed country. The rest of us have had to learn a whole new vocabulary to navigate the muddy waters of the Obama era. The one that just slays me every time I hear it uttered by some late middle-aged or elderly white woman is, “This isn’t the America I know.” Yeah, the America you knew would never have had a black man stride confidently into the White House, family, (including his mother-in-law), in tow and set up housekeeping for eight years. Sad.

If the president of the United States faces such racism, believe me, the rest of us are feeling it as well. Granted, we usually aren’t targeted by potential assassins, but we do have the George Zimmermans and Archie Bunker-wannabes to deal with. We have to be afraid that our sons, husbands, brothers and uncles will get stopped on a day when some cop thinks he’s driving the wrong car in the wrong neighborhood and “reasons” that the nigger must have stolen it, thereby making him primed to draw his weapon to face a perceived hostile car thief. If the driver protests his innocence, even if he can prove it, he risks serious injury or death simply because of the color of his skin and how much money he has in the bank. A rich, educated nigger gets under the skin of many a white male who can’t manage to hold down a job or makes less money at the job he has. All of my male relatives have been through scenarios not unlike the one I’ve described above, including the cops, the judge and the lawyers in the family. I cannot name a black man in my general age range who hasn’t been pulled over without probable cause. There is something supremely wrong with that fact.

As President Obama said, Trayvon could have been him 35 years or so ago. Trayvon could be a kid in my extended family. It would not matter one wit that his father, uncle, brother or grandfather was a cop–assuming he even got a chance to say so. Indeed, there’s no guarantee that the relative isn’t receiving harassment on the job as many black officers do in smaller departments, especially those in predominantly white suburbs. If they can’t count on their fellow police officers, why should any non-white person think s/he is immune from a cop having a bad day? If the president is threatened over 30 times a day, stretching the Secret Service beyond its limits, (something they deny, by the way), why should we expect justice for a 17-year-old kid going back to his father’s house in a gated community wearing a completely innocuous type of outerwear who was shot and killed by a vigilante who will not go to prison because a six-member, all female and mostly white jury decided that Zimmerman was reasonable in his belief that his life was in danger from the unarmed teen?

Trying to persuade another person to walk in your shoes for a while when they already have pre-conceived ideas is difficult at best. There have been times when I’ve simply thrown up my hands and said, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t try to teach someone with no context at all how I feel.” It is at those times when I barricade myself in my house and/or my bedroom and cry. That’s the only thing I can do because I get so tired and so angry. However, in the end, I go through the same shit again, but maybe with a different person. Occasionally, I’ll make progress. It is for those times that I keep trying. Like Obama sees hope in his daughters, making even a small dent in the preconceived notions held by others about what it means to be black in America is a major victory in my eyes. I just wish more whites would take on the burden of learning and stop putting the burden on non-whites to teach them because, really, it isn’t our job. We do it, nevertheless, because there is no other viable choice. It is a tragedy that a boy died because no one taught his killer to have an open mind and open heart instead of a closed mind and a gun. This article would not have been written and a boy might have grown into a wonderful, proud young man and had a family of his own. Instead, he was taken from the world by someone not fit to shine his shoes. I pray that Trayvon Martin’s death will not have been in vain.

Peace, my children

I awoke this afternoon to news of a terrorist attack during the Boston Marathon, this country’s premier track event and one of the most challenging marathons in the world. Runners from across the globe come to Boston in hope of just finishing the 26-mile race, forget about winning, while the elite of the elite dreamed of taking home the grand prize, usually to another country.

Two explosions rang out at and near the Finish line killing three people, including little 8-year-old Martin Richard of Dorchester, and injuring over 130, causing the sidewalks to run red with blood as disembodied limbs severed by the shrapnel-heavy blast littered the street. Richard attended the race with his mother and sister to cheer his father as he crossed the Finish line. The Boston Globe is reporting his mother and sister as being “grievously injured.”

I went about my daily chores with MSNBC in the background providing audio coverage I could hear in the kitchen and video coverage I could see when I sat down to eat. The attack itself is tragic, but hearing that an 8-year-old little boy lost his life is just devastating. As Rachel Maddow is now reporting, there are several other children with very serious injuries, some of whom may well lose one or two limbs.

Man comforting bombing victim. Photo by John Tlumacki/The Boston Globe via Getty Images,

I have wanted to have children since I was a child. I got pregnant while in undergrad, but lost the child almost as soon as I found out s/he was inside of me. I knew that I was pregnant even before I went to see a doctor. When the requisite blood work was done, the hormone indicating pregnancy was higher than it would be if I weren’t pregnant, but not high enough to signal a viable pregnancy. Sure enough, within hours, my baby was gone.

I can imagine what the parents of the injured children are going through. It is a pain like no other. There is little to do except sit with your child; hold his/her hand; pray to whatever higher power there may or may not be, and; will the child’s body to heal. In other words, parents are totally helpless. It’s up to the nurses, doctors and the child’s physical and metaphysical strength to determine the outcome. For at least one set of parents, the outcome was as bad as it gets.

I have never had a living, breathing child born after being carried inside of me for nine months. My baby never drew a breath. I never felt the flutter of him or her moving nor having his or her head pressing against my bladder and having to run to the restroom. I didn’t have the privilege of choosing furniture for a nursery that I’d painted, or had painted, in a beautiful sky blue and yellow. Nor could I pick out onesies in preparation for bringing him or her home from the hospital. The only thing I had was the blood of losing my baby. Even then, there were few signs I’d actually miscarried.

My body gave hints of carrying someone else inside of it. Just hints, but pretty significant ones. Nevertheless, I knew. I was so afraid because I was so young. I worried that my parents and other relatives would be disappointed in me. Our family, until relatively recently, didn’t have unwed mothers. Even now, the only unwed mothers come from one branch of the family tree. I was considering in vitro or simply buying the “genetic material” from a clinic in San Francisco I’d scouted some years ago, but had to drop all plans when I learned I needed a second operation on my spine. As afraid as I was when I got pregnant in undergrad I had every intention of keeping my baby even if the father did nothing but pay child support, effectively leaving me to raise our child alone. I am very much in favor of choice, but I wanted that child. If I wanted him/her so badly, why did I feel relieved when I miscarried? I wish I could answer that question, but I can’t because I don’t know.

What I do know is that I can feel the terror of those parents anxiously awaiting good news from doctors in charge of their children’s cases. I feel the longing and the empty space in the lives of the parents and loved ones of the little boy who was killed. I feel the rage caused by some maniac with no regard for life and willing to kill people who’d done nothing but stand on the sidelines of a race to cheer the runners on. How much more basic a scene can there be? But that’s one of the reasons why the bomber chose this particular target. Twenty-six miles is a long route to secure. Inevitably, there will be holes in that security. The bomber found at least two and probably three. One of those holes was near a little eight-year-old boy who will never see the inside of his bedroom again; will never be held in his mother’s arms again; will never learn to drive; never get grounded for staying out too late; never go off to college; never find his first love; never get married, and; never have children of his own. The bomber didn’t just kill one little boy for whatever cause he was protesting. He killed a family’s dreams for their child and halted a branch of their family tree as if with a chainsaw.

It took me about 20 years to grieve the loss of the child I would have had. The father just learned about it last week, not that he particularly gives a damn. However, do I care. I care because that baby was inside of me if even for a little while. I care because I never had a chance to know him or her as they grew up. I care because I didn’t have the honor of sitting next to a hospital bed holding his or her hand when s/he was sick nor worrying nor feeling jubilant when s/he got better. I wanted all of those moments, good, bad and horrible. But for whatever reason, I will probably never get the chance. My branch of the family tree will end with me.

What happened today is horrific. That the bomber killed at least one child makes it more so. For all we know, that kid could have invented a truly clean energy source when he grew up. Maybe he’d be the next Steve Jobs or the next Stephen Hawking or the next Ang Lee. The future was his to grab and hold onto as tightly as possible. Now, the only thing he’ll have is a funeral and, perhaps, a grave. His parents will have holes in their hearts that nothing and no one will ever remotely fill. They will cry for the rest of their lives as something or someone reminds them of the little boy they lost. That’s the part I do know. I don’t know it in the same way, but I know it nonetheless. I can think of nothing more sad than the wailing of a mother for the baby she lost and can never replace. May the spirits of the little boy killed this afternoon and the spirit of the child I lost both find new homes where they can be happy, loved and carefree as long as possible. In other words, a place where they get to live through their childhoods and, like other children, grow into adulthood and families of their own.

Peace be with you little ones. Peace be with you.