On Saturday the verdict came down.
Great seats at the Beyonce concert. But after a nice dinner with new friends, the droning of the opening act, and the first song or two… The rest of the night was a blur.
Stunned.
Speechless.
Disbelief.
Saddened.
Disappointed.
Not angry, but, oddly, afraid. Very afraid.
Is this fair? Is this right? Is this America – “with liberty and justice for all?”
Flashbacks of being frisked and searched by the side of the road for driving a new car… “Have a seat on the curb, hands behind your back! We’re going to take a look inside your trunk… You don’t have anything to hide do you?”
Reflections of a shotgun to my temple… “Hands on the steering wheel. Somebody driving a Toyota just shot at a cop a couple of blocks away – I think it was you! … Oh wait, the car was a Supra, not a Corolla… You’re free to go!”
Even memories of my grandmother shuttling my brother and I across the street as hooded members of the Klan approached. And the recent query of a neighbor in my new community asking “Do you belong here?”
All experiences intended to instill fear and elicit conformity. Designed to keep a brother in his place.
So, suddenly I had a new fear. A literal fear for my life. No confidence in those who “protect and serve”, and damaged trust in even those who wave “Hello” as I head out each morning.
But more than that, I had an intense fear for my boys.
At 12 and 14 years old, both of them are Trayvon! Protected, and even a little bit sheltered, frequently in the “wrong neighborhood” and fans of Hoodies, Skittles and iced tea. All it takes is one fool with a carry permit who decides that my sons are in the wrong place dressed the wrong way, being a little too loud, driving a little too fast or with the wrong girl on his arm and everyone’s life will change.
And teaching them to defend themselves may actually be the thing that gets them killed.
That’s scary!
I wish I had the answers. I don’t.
Stunned.
Speechless.
Disbelief.
Saddened.
Disappointed.
Not angry, but afraid. Very afraid.