I was in my bedroom. My girlfriend and I were preparing to head to a friend’s birthday party/cookout. After checking my pockets to make sure I had my wallet and keys, I reflexively scanned my phone, and saw I had a message from my boss at EBONY.
“Damon, are you by a computer? Can you put up the NYT report on the verdict ASAP?!”
My Saturday was an uncharacteristically busy one. The birthday party mentioned above was the fourth social gathering we attended, and there were three others we wanted to attend but couldn’t slide into our schedule. Yet, much of my day was spent doing the exact same thing: checking my phone to see if the Zimmerman verdict came in yet.
When my boss emailed me, it had been a half hour or so since I last checked, so that email was the first notice I received that the verdict was in. As you can see, the email didn’t give any indication what the verdict actually was. But, before logging on to Twitter, I re-read it a couple times just to see if there were any clues with her syntax and punctuation that would give me any clues about what I was about to find out. Basically, I was bracing myself. I was also holding my breath.
It’s Sunday afternoon now. A little after two o’clock. As of yet, there haven’t been any serious riots or violence in response to the verdict, and I don’t expect there to be. The anger is there—festering, smoldering, and blistering—but that feeling is engulfed by a pervasive, all-encompassing sadness. This is fucking devastating. And, this devastation—not outrage or violence—is the scariest outcome for everyone.
Although this feeling is a direct result of learning that George Zimmerman would not be punished for killing Trayvon Martin, the emotion behind our collective investment in this case was never about retribution or revenge. Or even anger and outrage. It was hope. Hope we’d finally get a sign that our lives matter just as much as their’s do. Hope that the criminal justice system would finally extend us an olive branch. Hope that this time—when the prevailing facts of the case seemed so apparent, so conspicuous—they couldn’t excuse or argue a way out of finally having to admit that it’s not okay to kill Black people.
While we (Black people) have a reputation for not trusting the government in general and law enforcement in particular, that sentiment is misleading. Yes, it’s true that we don’t trust…but we want to. We want to be able to buy in. We want to be able to say the pledge of allegiance with the same conviction other American citizens do. We want to be able to celebrate America without being cynics. We want to be able to trust the cops, the criminal justice system, our politicians, our government, and our country. We want to believe that our country believes in us. We want to sing “America the Beautiful” and actually mean it.
To us, America is the deadbeat dad who always promises he’s going to make our next baseball game. And, although he never does, it doesn’t stop us from glancing in the stands between every inning to see if he finally decided to show up. That’s the thing with us. Regardless of how many times we’re let down, we’re still holding out hope that he’s going to come through.
But, after being devastated too many times, you learn that if you keep holding your breath, waiting for a sign that he cares, you might never breathe again. Basically, the only way you can keep living is if you stop giving a fuck.
I’m not there yet. I still have hope. I still want to believe. I’m still glancing in the stands between innings, waiting to see something I know I’ll probably never see.
I’m also tired of holding my breath.
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