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I killed Trayvon Martin...
I KILLED TRAYVON MARTIN by Eddie HatcherI’m a racist. There is no known cure, so best I can hope for is to minimize the symptoms. I’ve struggled my whole life to do just that, but I still can’t help but feel partially responsible for Trayvon Martin’s death. I carry this guilt because nothing I do is enough to combat the system I once gladly took part in.
I grew up in a small North Carolina town surrounded by farms and factories. What I learned about racism, I learned hanging out in hunt clubs, on farms, in country stores, and in gun shops. We often talked about race, but never about racism. Everyone knew that racism stopped existing after Integration. In our minds, we were not discriminating against anyone because of their skin color; we were simply describing the way people acted, their mannerisms, language, dress, etc. Nothing about that seemed racist. Sure, the N word was thrown around occasionally, but black people use that word to describe themselves, so we thought it was OK.
*snip*
It’s hard to pinpoint all the things that led to me questioning the mentality I grew up in, but I clearly remember a critical turning point in elementary school. It was Black History Month and our librarian, an intelligent, well-spoken woman, was talking to the class about Dr. Martin Luther King Junior. Like a good white kid, I was brazenly proclaiming my disdain for him. In a display of patience that was no less than heroic, she waited until the class had dispersed and she sat down to have a chat with me. Her first question was simple and direct: “why don’t you like Dr. King?” Since “racism” was not a possibility in my mind, I justified myself by claiming that it was his methods. She continued asking questions about why peaceful marches and civil disobedience bothered me so until the only answers left were, “I don’t know, just because.
Now that the verdict has been read, I can’t help but be filled with personal guilt. For years I have struggled to own racist upbringing and I have spoken out when people around me say things that demean cultures they know little about. I guess I hoped that my efforts had combined with those of millions of other Americans and that we were moving toward a better world. Maybe I didn’t do enough. Maybe I should have gone to more marches, should have gone to law school, should have been a school librarian. Seeing Trayvon Martin’s murderer go free leaves me feeling hopeless, as though no amount of effort as an adult can undo the damage I did as a child.
I’m like an alcoholic trying to change my life. I’ve walked through the door, but there are 11 more steps and I have no idea what any of them are.
I killed Trayvon Martin.
I grew up in a small North Carolina town surrounded by farms and factories. What I learned about racism, I learned hanging out in hunt clubs, on farms, in country stores, and in gun shops. We often talked about race, but never about racism. Everyone knew that racism stopped existing after Integration. In our minds, we were not discriminating against anyone because of their skin color; we were simply describing the way people acted, their mannerisms, language, dress, etc. Nothing about that seemed racist. Sure, the N word was thrown around occasionally, but black people use that word to describe themselves, so we thought it was OK.
*snip*
It’s hard to pinpoint all the things that led to me questioning the mentality I grew up in, but I clearly remember a critical turning point in elementary school. It was Black History Month and our librarian, an intelligent, well-spoken woman, was talking to the class about Dr. Martin Luther King Junior. Like a good white kid, I was brazenly proclaiming my disdain for him. In a display of patience that was no less than heroic, she waited until the class had dispersed and she sat down to have a chat with me. Her first question was simple and direct: “why don’t you like Dr. King?” Since “racism” was not a possibility in my mind, I justified myself by claiming that it was his methods. She continued asking questions about why peaceful marches and civil disobedience bothered me so until the only answers left were, “I don’t know, just because.
Now that the verdict has been read, I can’t help but be filled with personal guilt. For years I have struggled to own racist upbringing and I have spoken out when people around me say things that demean cultures they know little about. I guess I hoped that my efforts had combined with those of millions of other Americans and that we were moving toward a better world. Maybe I didn’t do enough. Maybe I should have gone to more marches, should have gone to law school, should have been a school librarian. Seeing Trayvon Martin’s murderer go free leaves me feeling hopeless, as though no amount of effort as an adult can undo the damage I did as a child.
I’m like an alcoholic trying to change my life. I’ve walked through the door, but there are 11 more steps and I have no idea what any of them are.
I killed Trayvon Martin.
http://elleloquent1.blogspot.com/
just in case: I am not Eddie Hatcher.
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