Mrs. Martin I am Sorry For the Death of Your Son Trayvon.
I got up this morning and looked at my sons Gregory and Khalil. All I see are handsome young boys growing beautifully into manhood. They are funny, silly and charming. Gregory, 13 has two things on his mind: food and cologne and of course basketball. And books when I push and I always push. Khalil, 10 is the most gracious and hospitable kid around... he is a social butterfly in the making. He is goofy and clumsy. The boy has trouble walking, but he can bust a Michael Jackson move like nobody can! He is a smooth operator. I love them more than I can say or express.
I know Mrs. Martin felt the same about her son Trayvon. I am sure she saw a lovely young man who was fun and smart and a regular teenager filled with angst, rap music, cellphones and girls... he was 17 years old. I am sure she had the same hopes and wishes for her son as I do mine.
As I stand in the kitchen looking at my sons, I am looking to see if they look menacing, is there something about them that would make someone afraid. Surely if they saw them smile and laugh they wouldn’t just shoot to kill them. Surely if they knew them, they would know that they would never seek to harm anyone. Mrs. Martin must have thought the same thing about Trayvon.
My heart breaks for her and my thoughts drift to the alone moments that must be unbearable. I can’t imagine her grief, her pain, her wishing to turn the clocks back just 24 hours. Her child will never again be hanging around the house, or playing his music a little too loud, or in need of something...sneakers...new jeans...a ride to the mall.
I don’t know what The Martin’s everyday life was like. I do know that there is a common thread that runs through mothers. Mothers in Afghanistan, Mothers in the Sudan, Mothers in Israel, Mothers in Palestine. Mothers in Chicago, New Haven and Florida and so many places in the world where mothers are mourning the loss of their sons.
I cannot make sense of it all and I don’t want to. I am not going to accept this as how it is. I am not going to accept grieving with other mothers helplessly. I want to say to Mr. & Mrs. Martin I am sorry. Every day as I look upon the handsome faces of my sons I will quietly whisper your son’s name... Trayvon. It will be a daily prayer of remembrance and comfort.
Babz Rawls Ivy
Penfield Communications, Inc.
New Haven, CT