Trayvon Martin was My Son

I am saddened by the death of Trayvon Martin and sickened by the circumstances that led to his death, and the handling of the case. At this point, I don’t find it necessary to write all of the details because his name alone has become a household word. Although his death was clearly racially motivated in the very least, it seems to me that it was a calculated and sinister execution. The coward that killed him should have been arrested that very night, or maybe I’m confused because my experience with law enforcement has always been viewed through the eyes of a black woman. In my experience, black men have always been arrested first, and then the details are sorted out. In my experience, young black boys are harassed, frisked, and questioned without parental consent. In my experience, young black men are killed and authorities try and find evidence that the deceased was a problem child with poor character, and a history of some form of delinquency. In my experience, many young black boys have been arrested, beaten, and charged with misdemeanor offenses like disorderly conduct, for denying an officer the opportunity to search them without probable cause.
As a result of these personal experiences, I grew more concerned about my son as he entered his teenage years. Of course, all parents worry about their children, but for minority parents, teaching our sons—and daughters about racial profiling by people and law enforcement is a rite of passage. I’m raising my sons in a suburban neighborhood—a gated community. They are intelligent, articulate, respectful, and personable. However, my oldest son is seventeen and stands nearly 6’4 inches tall. Unfortunately, because of the color of his skin, in a hoodie, he fits the description of a criminal. He cannot congregate in front of the movie theatre with a group of black boys and laugh and crack jokes the way he can if he is out with his white friends. The behavior is viewed as obnoxious in the least and even menacing by some.
As a pre-teen, the neighborhood boys would play a game called “Manhunt”. This is a game that has to be played outdoors and in the dark. I don’t remember all of the details of the game, but from his description, it sounds like “Hide and Go Seek”. When he ran anxiously into the house for a flashlight to look for his friends and explained the game, I told him he could not play. He couldn’t understand why and thought that I was overreacting. I recall him being very upset. It didn’t matter. The rule still applied. I knew that we were new to the neighborhood, and one of only three black families living here. I was not willing to take the chance that people would see my son hiding in the bushes and have an initial thought of him being an innocent kid playing a game. He didn’t understand it then, but he does now.
Prior to him getting his car, we described what he should do if he was stopped by a police officer. Part of this dialogue that nearly every minority parent has with their kids—no matter their social or economic status, included: Keep both hands on the steering wheel, answer every question politely, don’t make any sudden movements, if asked to get out of the car or for permission to search the car, ask if you can contact your parents because you are a minor and may need an attorney. However, if all of this is disregarded and you are taken out of the car, do not resist. If they ask you to sit on the curb, sit on the curb. If they ask you to lie face down on the pavement without probable cause, lie face down on the pavement. It’s better to be arrested than to be killed. My son knows those rules like he knows his name. Sadly, for the rest of his life, those rules could be the difference between life and death for him.
Trayvon Martin was my son. Trayvon Martin was your son. What can we do differently to ensure that young black boys have a fair chance at living? That is certainly not too much to ask. No one should die because of the color of their skin. Regardless of the color of your skin, it is my hope that you can either relate to, or understand this plight. I hope that it sickens and outrages you to the point of action. I hope it moves you to do something. It really is up to us. Lady Justice is supposed to be blind, but I hate to say it, she’s cheating. She has managed to slip that blindfold just below her eyelid and we have got to put it back in place and tie it tighter. Would you join me in signing the petition for justice on behalf of Trayvon Martin? We are the change, and together we can make a difference. Go to www.change.org and sign the petition.