There’s so much to say. I don’t know how to begin.
I can’t believe this boy was murdered over a month ago and his killer has still not been arrested.
I see people – if Geraldo Rivera still counts as a human being, and I’m starting to doubt that – blame his hoodie for his death, that the hoodie is responsible for the fact that he was killed. I’m flashing back to every story I’ve ever read where a rape victim was blamed for her revealing outfit or the stiletto shoes she chose to wear. A woman who is raped is blamed for her revealing clothing, and a black man who is killed is blamed for his concealing clothing.
I feel proud of our president for appealing directly to Trayvon Martin’s family, for saying, “If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon,” for connecting with them on a personal level while they experienced a terrible tragedy, for letting them know that the President of the United States cares about them and is paying attention. I was proud even though I knew in the back of my mind that it would only be a matter of time before someone accused him of “playing the race card.” (I was right.)
I feel shock and disgust, and surprise at my own shock, when I see people actually asking the questions, “Why doesn’t the media pay this much attention when there’s black on white crime?” I feel even sadder when I see these comments coming from people I like and respect.
I feel torn about how to respond when I see these comments. A part of me wants to write a 2000-word rant riddled with profanity pointing out my contempt for this blatant display of white privilege and telling these people that I expect better from them. A part of me wants to simply write in a deadpan tone, “You’re right. There are not enough media articles about white people.” Another part of me doesn’t even want to begin the conversation because I know it will result in a deluge of comments in my inbox from friends of friends and I don’t want to even look at those. That part of me usually wins.
I feel sick when I see the anger from fans of The Hunger Games who were surprised and ANGRY that Rue was black, that Rue being black made them angry that they had wasted time being sympathetic to her character when they read the books. I feel sick because it makes me wonder how they react to Trayvon.
I feel like crying every time I see a picture of Trayvon’s sweet little face. Sometimes I do cry.
I feel angry knowing that, by admitting that I sometimes cry when I think about Trayvon, I am opening myself up to criticism that I am “too emotional” to see the facts of the case, that I am “biased,” as though emotion and logic are two mutually exclusive things.
I feel disgust for people who pat themselves for not being emotionally invested in this case, as though not caring that a seventeen-year-old boy was murdered is a sign of strength, a sign of being “cool.”
I feel my eyes roll to the top of my head when I see the misguided attempts to “talk about both sides of the story” and “see both sides,” as though being middle-of-the-road is a virtue in of itself, as though Zimmerman is on trial and people are playing jury – when, in fact, Zimmerman has yet to even be charged with a crime.
I feel scathing contempt for the “Trayvon attacked Zimmeran first!” idea, and disgust that anyone with a brain is treating that assertion with anything but the highest suspicion, as though a police department that didn’t check the alcohol level of the shooter, that still can’t account for the whereabouts of Trayvon’s phone, should be given the benefit of the doubt when they bring up this “evidence” that they withheld from the public for a month after Trayvon died. No, there’s nothing suspicious about the timing of the “release” of this information at all, none whatsoever.
I feel annoyance and sadness that so many adamantly insist that this tragedy has nothing to do with race, nothing at all, look the other way, why does race have to be a part of this, we have a black president and that cured racism forever, Kumbaya and Black History Month and why isn’t there a White Entertainment Television!
I feel exhausted when Zimmerman supporters trot out the “Zimmerman’s black friend says he’s not racist!” excuse. (Really?)
I feel a desperate attempt to find anything, anything, that can make the situation lighter, and I laugh at the (fake) headline, Joe Arpaio Demands to See Birth Certificate of Obama’s Hypothetical Son. I attempt a joke of my own on Facebook, writing that Springfield USA is reconsidering passage of the “Release the Hounds” law but that Mr. Burns was unavailable for comment. For a few minutes, I feel better.
I’m surprised that I feel neither hatred nor anger towards George Zimmerman. No, the feeling I have for Zimmerman himself is one of contemptuous pity. When I read about the number of times he made 911 calls reporting “suspicious” people, I could only think, “What a sad, pathetic life he must lead.” How can someone who regards everyone with suspicion and fear possibly be happy? What happened in his upbringing that made him view fellow human beings this way? [ETA: I originally wrote this post before Zimmerman started opening his mouth and proved to be a rather terrible person. Sometimes pity CAN be misplaced.]
Finally, I feel a sense of hopelessness at the idea that, even if Zimmerman is arrested, tried, and convicted, there will be far too many people in this world ready to slap a Band-Aid on the issue and pretend that the problem that led to this tragedy is solved forever…until the next young black man is shot by a self-appointed watchdog, simply for being in the wrong skin at the wrong time.
