Today I went to a community discussion about Trayvon Martin. I was silent, I stared at the ground, I waited. I listened as mothers and wives and boyfriends and girlfriends and partners and daughters wept for their son and brother and father, expressed outrage at a system that let his killer go. A woman and poet whom I particularly respect was so moved that even her beautiful words were beginning to falter; she spoke of heartbreak and violence and rage and destruction of the majority.
And I came home and opened my broken wounds and cried. I cried because my racist family killed Trayvon Martin. My childhood friends (and childhood self) let his killer go. My teachers praised the ideology of “self defense” and a “right to bear arms.” I participate and integrate into a society that will remember Trayvon for the next… week or two, tops. No, it’s not really my uncle, but if you compare the words they are startlingly alike.
when you talked about killing the white people was i one of the white people would you shoot me if you had the chance should you shoot me if you have the chance a police officer will never consider me a perpetrator a police officer will always see me as an educated “yeller” girl a jury will never have a that image of me a jury will never will you shoot me should you will you