It's two o'clock in the morning. I'd recently gotten home from a nine-hour shift. I planned to edit and finish up some posts on my comic blog, but I just can't right now. My heart and mind are on Trayvon Martin and the criminal injustice system of America. I'm a Black man in America. I've seen this repeatedly.
I couldn't watch Anderson Cooper's interview with Juror B37 in its entirety but I caught pieces here and there. I jumped on Twitter to share some thoughts and check out other people's reactions. As I listened to the juror, I became more furious with every word she spoke. Her ignorance and support of Zimmerman was not subtle. Questioning Rachel Jeantel's intelligence while stating she couldn't understand her should reflect poorly on her, not on Rachel. Every word made me angry. Every word showed how wrong Zimmerman was in stalking this Trayvon Martin and taking this young man's life. Every word showed how wrong the jury was. Every word echoed those of the Zimmerman apologists. Every word showed the attitudes of many Americans. This is the America I've known.
I'm unaccustomed to sharing feelings beyond intimate relationships, so all this carries some reluctance. I'm angry and I want to let it out. My soul wants Trayvon to live on. If I can unleash this anger physically, I can fight for Trayvon. Maybe I can help him on that evening of February 26th, 2012. At the same time, I'm sitting here and I want to cry. My body wants to expel tears but I can't. I won't. As I struggle to negotiate between anger and sadness, I look to my words to take on the fight.
All politics aside, Trayvon Martin is dead. A young Black male in America didn't have a chance to grow up. Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin had to bury their 17-year-old son. An overzealous man with a gun stalked and murdered him. I want justice. I wanted the court to do its duty and lock Zimmerman up. I didn't want justice to take place in the street. I don't want anyone to riot. I wanted, and still do in fact, justice to take place not only in the courtroom but also in prison. I wanted Zimmerman to feel pain. I wanted men his age to terrorize him. I wanted them to beat him on a daily basis.
It's four o'clock in the morning. The orange "publish" button beckons me to click it. As I stare at it, I'm questioning if I should. The words are out. I needed to release them. But what did I accomplish? I think I'd be fooling myself if I said this therapeutic process worked. I can't even tell at this point. This doesn't put Trayvon back at home with his parents. And even after all this, I'm still left with questions. But you know what? It's all bullshit. I know the answers.
