There was a large black man at my front door
I had peeked out my blinds, and it was late in the evening. I lived in an inner-city neighborhood in Oklahoma City, a single white woman. My heart was pounding. I just stood there, not sure what to do. "Jackie," came the deep voice, "it's Mark ______."
Mark. My son's best friend since the 5th grade. He had lived a block behind us. I remember when his Mother died. My son and I brought food to the family. My heart broke for him. He was so young then, so vulnerable. Years had since passed, he had joined the army, and grown a couple of feet, and gained some pounds. And now he was there, at my front door, and I was afraid. I felt so ashamed.
Of course I immediately opened the door, and he stepped into my hug. Mark. He'd moved off to California, had become a journalist. I was so proud of him. Some many years later, he was the best man at my son's wedding.
Truth be told, had he been white, knocking on my door late in the evening, my response probably wouldn't have been any different. But still, it gives me pause.
Trayvon was a baby. A kid.
My heart breaks.
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