Trayvon Who? Or More Tales From Racist America 2013

Last Friday, my husband Andre, and a couple of buddies, took the two and a half hour ride from Providence to the northwest corner of Connecticut, to see Soulive, his all time favorite band. 

Norfolk, CT, not to be confused with Norwalk, is a small rural place near the foothills of the Berkshires. Population: 1,709. According to the 2010 US Census, the racial breakdown is: 1659 White, 12 African American, 11 Asian, 2 American Indian, 7 Other and 18 Identified by two or more races.

In other words: 97 percent of the population is white.

In other, other words:  Andre, a black man, is probably gonna stick out a bit.

No biggie. 

One of the many beautiful things about my husband is, even after living forty-eight years in his dark hued body, that he doesn't look at life with the weight of some angry chip on his shoulder, expecting folks to react in a certain way. 

Andre is ALWAYS just Andre. Mellow. Accepting. Nonjudgmental. A quality cat.

His only expectation? That you'll treat him the same.

Friday night was no exception. After dinner at the restaurant downstairs, he started to lead his two friends, tickets in hand, upstairs to the concert venue. The ushers at the top of the stairs, the only official people in sight, were Andre's target. 

But apparently, because he'd never been there before, Andre misstepped protocol--and clearly the safety measures that had been put into place to avoid gate crashers.

Even though the place only holds 300 people. 

Even though these Three Amigos, one towering way over six feet, would have been pretty easy to spot in the half sold crowd of 150 people, should their intent be to slip past the first checkpoint, a woman who clearly wasn't manning her station. 

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" called the woman from off to the side. 

"I saw you talking over there," said Andre.

Translation: I didn't think you were working here.

"Yeah, well I thought I was going to have to wrestle you," said the woman.

"I get that a lot," said Andre.

And then? The 'oh, no you didn't moment.' The kind that stops time, where the speaker realizes what she said and the participants wait to see how each other will react.

To Andre, a black man, the white woman said, "Watch it, boy." 

Really, lady. What were you thinking?

Sure. I can pause and give her the benefit of the doubt for a (milli)second. What if she was just trying to be flirty? Or show my husband that she was 'down with him'. Sorry. Doesn't matter or work here. There's just certain things you don't do in life, whatever your intent: Say hijack in an airport. Yell fire in a theatre. 

And, especially if you're a white person, call a black man, 'boy'. 

Way too racially charged. Way too much history. Way too much context.

And truly, what's up with the timing here? Her sorry outburst came just hours after the President's speech on race. It came just days after the George Zimmerman verdict. Maybe its me--and apparently it is-- but is it crazy to think those situations would cause other people to not only reflect about their beliefs, but be a bit more thoughtful about their interactions with one another?

Luckily for her, Andre had that introspection piece covered for both of them.

No doubt, timing is everything. If she had uttered those words to anyone other than my husband, she may have gotten a hugely different reaction. Conversely, if any of this went down prior to the Trayvon Martin case , and his own deep reflections, Andre may have reacted differently. Truthfully, he probably would have opted to say nothing, silently steaming about this ignorant woman.

She would have become part of his negative history.

But instead, because of this Zimmerman verdict. Because of his anger over the senseless killing of a black teen who was much like him. Because of his recent experience developing and teaching a workshop on cultural and race relations, Andre did something a whole lot more powerful.

He looked her in the face and said, very calmly, "That's not very culturally competent."

Andre spoke the truth.

And for a moment, at least, it worked.

Why White America Blew the George Zimmerman Verdict

I could say the George Zimmerman verdict surprised me.

I'd be lying.

I'm generally optimistic. But when I heard the jury make-up: six women, five whites and one unidentified minority, in my head it was all a done deal.

Not guilty.

Here's the thing. I'm white. I've been partnered up with this amazing black dude for almost half of my life. I'm sympathetically aware of the bullshit challenges he sometimes experiences. Occasionally, if I'm outstandingly lucky, I even get to share in joint racial profiling. But, as a white woman, I can never fully experience his discrimination.

And neither could these jurors.

To prove the crime of Manslaughter in Florida, the State must prove that Trayvon Martin is dead. Check. And that Zimmerman intentionally committed an act or acts that caused the death of Trayvon Martin. Double check.

So what's the issue? Could the reasonable doubt have come into play because these women, the majority of them white, have absolutely no understanding of the hardcore profiling that black men and teens deal with every single day. And trust, even with a black president, we still live in an outstandingly racist society. 

Lately, I can't stop thinking about how many people don't want to accept their part in the ugly. Indeed. That would be you Mr. Zimmerman, last week's pariah Ms. Paula Deen, as well as all all of their supporters, including the peeps claiming no one's racist here.

Who exactly are you lying to?

Clearly, if we're living in a colorblind society, as so many people falsely believe, then my husband, Trayvon Martin, and millions of other people of color, who have similar stories to tell, should be able to go about their business without a second glance. 

Sorry. The numbers just don't match up.

The greater truth? No one wants to be labeled as racist. But if you've blissfully managed to live in self-segregation and avoid putting yourself into a situation, any situation, where your beliefs about race can be challenged, either good or bad, then you cannot, I repeat, cannot claim you're not racist.

Racism is not some sort of abstract idea. It's concrete. It's ugly. And how you react in front of a real live person, who looks, on the surface, perhaps a bit different than you, particularly during a time of stress is the true test of character, and in my opinion, the only way you can discover where your racial prejudices really lie.

Zimmerman failed this miserably. 

Tim Wise, an antiracist essayist, author and educator said in this recent piece: "Which is to say, Trayvon Martin is dead because he is black and because George Zimmerman can’t differentiate — and didn’t see the need to — between criminal and non-criminal black people. Which is to say, George Zimmerman is a racist. Because if you cannot differentiate between black criminals and just plain kids, and don’t even see the need to try, apparently, you are a racist…"

Sure, George Zimmerman can claim that he's not a racist. He's got a Peruvian mom after all. But his true test came when he met up with a dark skinned youth, wearing a hoodie, who had the balls to walk through his neighborhood. Did Zimmerman see Trayvon as an individual just passing through. Nope. Trayvon was called out by Zimmerman, three days after the shooting during an interrogation with the police, as yet another of those "fucking punks". 

Racist.

The other piece of the whole mess that really disgusts me is this concept that persons of color have no right to defend themselves, during an attack. Especially during an attack that they didn't start. Indeed, Trayvon may have contributed to those wounds on Zimmerman's head--as self-defense during an fight. But I guess the protections awarded by the Florida Stand Your Ground Law don't apply to dead teenagers. 

Again, I defer to Mr. Wise: "They are saying that black people who fight back against someone they think is creepy and who is following them, and might intend to harm them, are more responsible for their deaths than those who ultimately kill them. What they have said, and make no mistake about it, is that any white person who wants to kill a black person can follow one, confront them, maybe even provoke them; and as soon as that black person perhaps takes a swing at them, or lunges at them, the white pursuer can pull their weapon, fire, and reasonably assume that they will get away with this act. I can start drama, and if you respond to the drama I created, you are to blame, not me."

Let that sink in for a second.

And can we be real for a second Zimmerman? When you pulled your gun on Trayvon, it's highly doubtful that he said, "You got me", as you claimed in the Hollywood western playing out in your mind. Do you really believe your story? I'm guessing that Trayvon said, in complete shock and disbelief, "You shot me."

Which you did. 

So, I wonder, do you still think he deserved it? I don't remember you apologizing. Even now that you're off the criminal hook.

My very wise girlfriend told me recently, about the perspective of one of her African American studies professors, a white man, who said black people are not going to end discrimination. The task lies with white people, the only ones with power to change the system. But to do that, injustices not only have to be seen, but acknowledged as such, even if you can't relate to them in the exact same way.

So to you, the five white jurors, who a real opportunity to leave your mark on history, you just blew it.

Again.

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

You can call me many things. Organized. A bargain huntress. A purveyor of fine coffee. But a smug married, a la Bridget Jones's Diary? 

Never.

Indeed, I am lucky to be partnered up with an outstanding husband. The type of guy I think everyone should hold out for. He's supportive. A wonderful communicator. He challenges me to dream big and be a better person. And, did I mention he cooks?!

Sure, Andre's a great catch. But I'm not waving him over my head like some sort of trophy only awarded to those who get to Love. You know, that exclusive place where the sun always shines, the birds are always singing and all you need is each other. 

Apparently, I missed the memo that being a wife means I give up all life outside of the homestead. My college roommate's ex-boyfriend (who famously made my freshman dorm room a quadruple) remarked, after spying my husband and I at a nightclub, "What are you doing here? You're married."

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

And then there's you, the so called Sex and the City inspired Meetup group, who, as far as I can guess, used my wedded status to deny me admission. Pl-ease. You're not the first, and probably not the last, who pathetically thought I couldn't relate to the single girl perspective, because I'm not one myself. 

(And by the way, cocktails and fashion are far from the only things needed to recreate  any Sex and the City vibe. That sisterhood, unlike yours, was carpeted in compassion. No one booted Carrie because she was exclusive with Aidan. Or married to Mr. Big.)

Can't we just say enough to domestication discrimination?

Just because I'm not actively dating, does not mean I can't relate to the trials that come along with it. Phew. All my experiences, still a bit too close. The dude with the foot fetish. The one who stood me up. The one that HAD a girlfriend. Really, I haven't traveled that far from my seat in the 'therapy chairs', two odd Native American inspired seats, at a URI beach rental, where my cousin and I analyzed it all. 

And even though I'm married, I'm still looking out.

I know that BJ's Wholesale Club on a Sunday morn is prime 'stalking' ground for single men on the prowl. (I'm still pondering the why.) I also know that an intro salsa class is not only an outstanding place for men to meet women, but one of the best I've seen to be statistically outnumbered by them. You're welcome.

The funny thing about dating is that it's probably the most popular activity, that no one wants to do. I also know that being married, or at least being exclusive, is pretty much the goal everyone's working towards. So instead of writing me off, maybe you should hit me up for some tips. (Obsessively driving past his house won't make that cut.) 

I may be married, but I haven't forgotten where I came from. 

Believe me. I've tried.