The Trayvon Martin case is everywhere right now, and rightly so. I heard a story on NPR a few days ago that hit me hard and has been on my mind ever since. It was a young white teacher recounting a field trip when he saw that people were visibly uncomfortable around his group of teenage, black students when they couldn’t see him. The very presence of a group of black teen boys was enough to frighten people, and the very presence of a single white teacher was enough to relax them. The teacher recounted how angry and upset he was about this, so much so that a student noticed his distress and came to comfort him. The student told him not to worry, this sort of thing happened all the time.
This story makes me angry, oh yes. But far beyond my anger is a deep sorrow and grief. What does it do to the sense of self of a person who grows up in a world that expects the worst of him? And for no other reason than the color of his skin?
I walk in this world as someone easily accepted, trusted, liked, and protected. Sure, we all have been the subject of another person’s projections and stereotypes, but what does it really mean to grow up the subject of another person’s fear? of their ignorance? of their hate? and to be painfully, horribly aware of it?
That is child abuse. It is wrong, it is gut wrenchingly sad and enraging in its injustice. Where do we even begin healing this history, which is alive and well today?
I don’t know the answer, but I can at the very least walk with eyes open and be conscious of what I am putting out into the world and what more I can give to it.
The You Are Love Project 