A wise Air Force Academy classmate of mine Od Washington states: Communication. That’s what we don’t know. What was said that night? Did Zimmerman identify himself as neighborhood watch? Did Martin say, “I’m visiting here”? Would that have made a difference? I don’t know. What I do know is that in a similar situation, I may have done the same thing. For years we’ve instructed women that if you think you are being followed by a potential rapist: try to lose him; scream and shout; dial 911; and if all else fails fight tooth and nail. If you get him down, make sure he stays down. Hit, claw, scratch, bite to the bone. In recent years, with the rise of child molestation, child rape, and child abductions, I’ve given those same instructions to kids. I’m 17. It’s nighttime. And it’s raining, so I have my hood up. I’m talking on the phone. And I notice a car slowly following me. I change my route and it still follows me. I walk between the houses where a car can’t fit. The driver, a man, gets out and is following me. I don’t know if he has a Taser, or ether, or a gun. All I know is it is dark. It is raining. I’m in an unfamiliar neighborhood. And some creepy man is stalking me. What do I do? I could run. I could yell. I could call 911. Or I could stand my ground and fight. And yes strike first, strike hard, and keep hitting until he is no longer a threat – or until he shoots me through my chest – in self-defense. As I lay on the ground, the life seeping out of me; dying painfully aware that this is wrong! He’s left to tell the story. Now I’m the aggressor, the suspect, the criminal. When all I wanted was to talk to my friend; eat my Skittles; drink my tea; and be left alone – my version of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I too sang America . . . Never Again.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Jul 2013 01:07:31 +0000
Trending Topics
© 2015