"Trayvon is your son"
Yes, he is. But in my house he is named Haven...and JoJo...and Manny...
I heard this quote tonight on the radio from Trayvon Martin's mother. Her voice, her loss, hit me like a baseball bat and tears just poured out of me. But tears don't matter. They can't heal what will be broken in that woman for the rest of her life.
What will this world be like in 13 years when Haven is the same age as Trayvon Martin? What will it be like when I can't protect him from the ugly face of racism? Will there ever be a time when he can safely walk alone down a street and not be someones potential target because of the color of his skin?
Have you seen my boys skin? Have you touched his sweet brown cheek and caught a glimpse of his dimples?
Now, picture my Haven dead on the ground. Don't look away from that image. You stop and look!
A facebook friend posted yesterday about a white man yelling the "N" word as she crossed the street with her beautiful black baby girl. I read her post out loud to some friends that were sitting in my office with me and it stunned every one of us in the room into silence.
Oh My Goodness. Where does that senseless hate come from? And how in the world as white woman will I prepare my sons for a future as black men.
So many questions that make my head feel heavy and make my shoulders sag under their ugly weight.
The only answer I can think of...we must never be silent. We can never pretend it doesn't happen or its not our fault or its not our problem.
Trayvon Martin is my son, he's your son.
And if he's not, then what does that make you.
