Trayvon Martin: Sharing My Heart. Again.

I wasn't pleased with the verdict, yesterday, but I don't think any verdict could've pleased me. Because Trayvon Martin's dead, and that matters.

We traveled to Baltimore, yesterday: five people; all manner of Pampered Chef tools; and a giant, cookie cake. I needed icing and birthday candles to decorate that cake, so Jim stopped at an Aldi in downtown Baltimore. He wanted to know if I felt alright about going inside, and I said something about having worked in the heart of Dallas in the middle of the night.

People don't generally scare me. Maybe they should, but I'd rather err on the side of comfort than on that of fear.

This is the kind of store where every item's still packed in a big, brown box with the rest of its kind, and I don't get that. Why is that? Do they think someone's going to want the whole, brown box full? There's nothing aesthetically pleasing about a space with so many brown boxes, and trust me, no one's confused. Not even the food's confused; it's ready to get in a moving truck and get the h-e-double-matchsticks out of there.

A young, thin black man and I nearly bumped into one another in the aisle. I can't remember who said sorry or excuse me or what, but I looked brightly at him and reached out, brushed his sleeve. "Do you know where the birthday candles are?" I asked, and I thought of Trayvon.

"Birthday candles," he repeated, his tone rich and warm as melty chocolate. "Not sure. You'd think they'd be right here, though." I mmm'd my agreement; kept on studying the brown boxes full of smaller boxes; thought of Trayvon.

There was a woman pushing a baby in a cart. She had two other children with her, besides, and I'd heard her long before I saw her because she'd been screaming at Jabril. She was screaming at him, still, and I'd like to tell you she was threatening to spank his little hiney, but in fact, she was threatening to kick his ass: her expression as hateful as her tone. Jabril must've been accustomed to both because--when I saw him--he was climbing the big, brown boxes and paying her absolutely no nevermind.

He was six or eight, and I thought of Trayvon. I prayed right then and there for Jabril's mama; she looked young and overwhelmed enough to be those things for a very long time.

I asked a worker about the candles and she confirmed: they don't carry them, and what does that mean? Don't people in downtown Baltimore blow out candles on their birthdays? What a sad grocery store to assume its patrons wouldn't purchase candles (just food stuffs out of big, brown boxes), but I responded only with a thank-you and a smile. "You're welcome," she said--calling me Honey or Sug or some such--with her own smile. I thought of Trayvon.

The man in front of the man in front of me punched in the same, wrong pin number three times as I waited patiently in line with my can of vanilla icing. "Is there someone you can call," the cashier asked, "to get the correct pin number?" And then: "Will you come back for your groceries?"

"I'll have to, I guess," he said, scowling from under the brim of his hat. I thought of Trayvon.

"Yes," she said, "but will you?" She was cool as a self-assured cucumber in her cat eye glasses, only about eighteen. She didn't even have paper or plastic: just more brown boxes. I thought of Trayvon.

And it's all I know to do; understand? I'm too tired to preach to anybody. I'm just doing my thing: I'm deciding not to be afraid; making contact with my eyes and fingertips and smile. I'm praying and waiting patiently. I'm thinking of Trayvon because he's dead, and it matters so much.

Trayvon Martin: Sharing My Heart

I'd just finished telling Jim that I didn't feel the need to weigh in, regarding Trayvon Martin, when I saw a couple posts on facebook that got me all in a tizzy. The posts were comparing the amount of media attention regarding Trayvon Martin's death to (the lesser) amount of media attention regarding the deaths of a white couple who'd been mutilated by black men.

I was reminded of some posts I read after Whitney Houston's death.

Hang in there with me.

After Whitney Houston died, I saw many posts on facebook comparing the amount of media attention regarding Whitney Houston's death to (the lesser) amount of media attention regarding the deaths of soldiers and starving children.

That bothered me, too.

I don't understand the need to begrudge anyone his or her grief, ever. Yes, some deaths receive more attention than others, and that will never change. I think everyone would do well to focus on navigating his or her own grief, also to (unless attempting to comfort) leave others alone to navigate their own grief. Why the need to compare one person's death to another person's death? Why the need to compare one person's grief to another person's grief?

Now, in light of some of the "new information" circulating today, I know some of you are asking: what if the grief is manipulated? What if the media unfairly generates grief by portraying a young man as an innocent when, in fact, ___.

Here's my response: manipulation--when it occurs--is more than unfortunate.

But the bigger issue, here, is that a young man is dead. Does alleged crime or sin on his behalf make his death less tragic? Because I would argue: crime or sin (and let me be crystal clear: I'm not making a judgment call about Trayvon Martin) makes someone's death more tragic.

When I read questionable things about someone, I tend to think: there but for the grace of God go I. I tend to think: I hope that person knows/knew Christ as his or her Savior. I tend to think: that person is/was loved by people who are even now in a state of high grief, wondering if they could've somehow held on a little tighter, for a little longer.