Has anyone else noticed lately how those committing, advocating for, or orchestrating violence against minorities are rewarded?
The past few months have been especially mind-boggling, mostly because state governments seem to be forcing their citizenry into bizarrely sadistic square dances, all the while spinning some hidden roulette wheel and waiting to see where the ball lands–and which of the dancers become the next target.
Swing your partner round and round,
Throw the minority to the ground
Just hope they don’t make a sound,
As the bullet chamber voids another round.
Eyes, ears, and hearts have been glued to Florida as so many awaited the verdict. I’d hoped that the jury would see through the scare tactics, would realize the defense was doing nothing but attempting to paint Trayvon in a less than flattering light–as if occasional profanity, hooded or loose clothing, or photos on social media warranted the brutal, excessive, disgusting act of injustice that stole his last breath.
How can people be so gullible? How can the jurors look themselves in the mirror knowing they gifted a known violent man–someone with a history of violence toward authorities and family members–with freedom?
And how can anyone celebrate the verdict?
A boy is dead. His death is what Zimmerman apologists and revelers are celebrating: not Zimmerman; not the verdict. They celebrate violence: violence against minorities; violence they now know they can get away with if they hold their guns close enough, align themselves with fat cats, and argue that they are the victims–not the dead.
Because, in their eyes, cases like Trayvon’s prove the dead elicited the violence.
They deserved it.
Just like a black man deserves to be highly surveilled.
Just like a woman deserves to carry the child of her rapist.
Just like a trans man deserves to be accosted at his job.
Bigots and fear-mongers know that the spotlight on Trayvon’s case will dim soon enough–that a white celebrity will die, or a rich white kid will go missing, and all attention will be turned away.
Which will be enough time for them to play neighborhood sentry: taunt the gay boy next door, nag the black neighbor, intimidate the Planned Parenthood employee who just moved in across the street–all the while keeping a hand behind their back, a finger on the trigger.
Hoping for a response. For resistance.