No sleep at the Cross Roads

This past week, I have been listening to and reading snippets of the trial for the murder of Trayvon Martin transpiring in Florida. It’s something that I cannot watch, especially with the vile, side-note commentary about witnesses from people who have only seen the inside of a courtroom on television. I do not want to watch. I ask myself if I would say the same thing if were someone I knew personally. As I somewhat pay attention,  I can’t help but think of a different trial—the trial that will come soon for the murder of Clarksdale mayoral candidate Marco McMillian.

And now a death in Florida hits home because Marco was someone I knew. We lived parallel lives. Meeting during a high school program, at the same age, we were raised in the same small town, but  attended different schools. We joined different chapters of the same fraternity, one he introduced me to, and we both graduated from colleges in Mississippi. He and I were the children of single parents, but we could never tell that by the village that raised us. I was raised by my grandparents and great-grandparents. He was looked after by his mother’s family and sorority sisters.

At the Cross Roads of those two infamous Mississippi highways, the lore of which are the backdrop for my rearing in the Mississippi Delta, I no longer imagine blues legend Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil to play great guitar licks. I see Trayvon and Marco there, standing at the Cross Roads. They are now the same: two Black men on a journey that should continue but has now ended. One being 17 years old, waiting to graduate from high school, maybe eager to go to college and maybe cast his first vote last fall. The other had been my fraternity brother for nearly 15 years, had a graduate degree, and was running for mayor. Both died without the touch of family and others that loved them in their final moments. They both died in a world of fear. 

And this is what keeps me awake sometimes: At the cross roads of a Black man’s potential and gifts is the end of the line for so many. I think that is the scariest part of being about this life that we have not chosen, but must live. Because it’s always something. People fear what I represent to them and not who I am.  And people do this sort of moonwalk around me, never really getting to know me.  I’m pretty sure I’m scary when I wear hoodies when I’m typing away on my Mac in a cold coffee shop. I know I'm scary when I show up and my name matches the  name on long resume of experience and four degrees.  Between these two men lives a truth: no nice neighborhood or amount of education well keep a Black man safe at night.

I know that my college degrees can’t protect me from being Trayvon, and my hyper-hetero ironman suit will not protect me from being Marco. We are all one. All the victories and movements were never aimed at making America less hypersensitive to Black men. We still hope that it will just happen. So we dissemble, and still teach our son's to be less than themselves so they can get that “like status”  for acceptance and safety.  But that's not real acceptance and it’s sure as hell isn’t safety. Our struggle to be who we are and be safe are not a  public spectacle like march down the street or a sit-in. Honestly, I don't know where to begin with that. But if I have to wear the mask to be liked and be safe, I'm just killing myself anyway. Trayvon just wanted to walk to the store. Marco just wanted to people to walk into a voting booth and choose. Simple desires, sometimes enjoyed,  but apparently hazardous. 

In my mind, I'm debating Marco about how Trayvon was us and we are them: young Black males with raw potential and full of promise. We would agree and disagree on how to unlock that potential and make it so that they actually belong, and are accepted for who they are. If only he were here for the actual conversation. Maybe I would find a little peace.