Learning to drive was hard for me, in part because of a particular habit of my father's. Whenever I sat behind the wheel, he would buckle himself in and hold tightly onto the handle above the window. He would always tell me, "If the police pull you over, always end your sentences with sir.' Don't make sudden movements, don't look them in the eye and tell them where your license and registration are before you reach for them."
I don't mean to blame my father, but his lessons made a nervous driver out of me. Whenever I'm behind the wheel, I do my best to always signal before turning at red lights and never drive above the speed limit. And I absolutely refuse to have my windows tinted any darker. I will not let the stories told to me by my father who was held at gunpoint twice during the Reagan era for "fitting the description" happen to me. I will obey all traffic laws, and everything will be fine. The color of my skin does not matter. The law will protect me.
It may be difficult for me, or for any of us, to grasp the questions that the Trayvon Martin case raises about institutional racism, the interpretation of "gang culture" vis-a-vis hoodies among self-identified white Americans or the history of police brutality against men of color. But in the face of all of this, I can't help but question my sense of security before the law. What grounding does my hope for being treated fairly actually have when time and time again, men of color from Rodney King to Harvard University professor Henry Louis Gates and the police just can't get along? Who am I to say that father won't be like son?
I know that Kevin Francfort wants to talk about the Martin case "post-racially" ("Moving Beyond Race," April 4). We're supposed to be living in a society where race has no meaning, where it practically doesn't exist. After all, we elected a black president. But the four years that have passed since Barack Obama assumed the presidency have still forced this "post-racial America" to remain an infant, and I have yet to see an infant so wise beyond her years. Furthermore, I keep seeing a contradiction in pointing to Obama's election as the sign of a new, post-racial America: He is supposed to be the sign of a society where race is meaningless, yet we use his race to show that race is now meaningless. I am also perturbed that we never specify the moment when Obama himself began to signify a post-racial America. Was it when his supporters cast their ballots? Did it happen even though everyone didn't vote for him? Was it during his inauguration, when he put his hand on the Lincoln Bible? We have to make up our minds. And if we admit that he is our first black president, then why are we wincing when he says, "If I had a son, he'd look like Trayvon?"
Just because I don't believe that America is post-racial doesn't mean I don't love her. But I would at least prefer that we stay honest when talking about her scarred history. If Martin is the innocent victim of a murder and George Zimmerman goes free, then his demise belongs to the long history of criminalization of men of color in this country. That said, I happen to think that recent attempts to "smear" Martin's character have no bearing whatsoever on the case. Why does it matter that Martin had a weed baggie in his book bag or that his emails and his Facebook "look suspicious?" Zimmerman didn't know anything about Martin when he shot him. The real questions we need to ask are these: If there isn't any evidence that Martin was the initial aggressor, how on earth can the "Stand Your Ground" law protect Zimmerman? And where are Martin's "Stand Your Ground" rights? What does "looking suspicious" even mean? And if I get pulled over by the police, will I, like Martin, "look suspicious?"
