The Hoodie Chronicles

Or, what happens in a country that enables bigotry and excuses carelessness   On the topmost layer, at least, we all know by now what has happened to Trayvon Martin. These are the facts, the indisputable facts: he was walking down a dark or dimly lit street. He was wearing a hoodie, and carrying a small bag of Skittles and an iced tea. He exchanged heated words with one George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch leader of mixed Peruvian/Caucasian ethnicity. Trayvon Martin was shot dead at 17 years of age. He was not armed. In Florida, there is a law known as “Stand Your Ground,” which states that “a person may use deadly force in self-defense when there is reasonable belief of a threat, without an obligation to retreat first.” Proponents of the law would say that it should make the matter simple: if you believe Zimmerman, he was attacked first, believed the boy was armed and acted accordingly. In truth — putting aside for the moment the very relevant argument of whether or not such a law has any place in our society — it serves only to further the ambiguousness of the situation. Specific words from the law itself that we can call into question here are self-defense, reasonable, belief and threat. I cannot presume to know George Zimmerman’s mind. The man is precisely my age — 28 years old — and I can no more fathom him than I can string theory. He says he felt fear for his life, that the combination of Trayvon’s wardrobe (he was wearing a hoodie) and that it appeared the boy was carrying a weapon was sufficient justification for the shooting. Two things: I have at least half a dozen hoodies more inherently threatening than the one Trayvon was probably wearing. I don’t know exactly what it looked like, but I seriously doubt it read “Agoraphobic Nosebleed,” “East Coast Gonzo Violence” or depicted a shroom-and-cocaine-induced blood ritual. Yes, these are actual things, and I have them. I have worn them, hood-up, in New York City, Chicago, Washington D.C., Atlanta, Augusta, Boston and a smattering of small Southern towns. I am still alive, and so are a hell of a lot of other people who own them. I am also white. The second: Zimmerman asserts that he was attacked by Trayvon prior to the shooting. This runs directly counter to his previous assertion that he mistook the bag of Skittles for a gun. I would hope that Zimmerman is not stupid enough to have a bag of Skittles right on freaking top of him and still mistake it for a deadly weapon. Ergo, Zimmerman had plenty of time to realize that Trayvon was not armed, and yet he shot him anyway. Let me repeat that: Zimmerman shot a clearly unarmed 17-year-old boy. Was Zimmerman being assaulted? Maybe. And under the current Florida law, he was encouraged to meet fist not with fist, but with a bullet. In the interest of full disclosure, I believe George Zimmerman to be guilty as hell. I also believe that his actions were perpetuated by a combination of inherent or learned prejudice and a spastic trigger finger. This is not a column about condemnation — it is about the pitfalls of a culture than enables bigotry (efforts are underway to disparage Trayvon’s name, though there is a whole other column’s worth of discussion as to whether behavioral problems warranted murder) and excuses fatal carelessness.   Over one year ago, I attended the 2011 AWP Conference in Washington, D.C., to meet, talk to and get drunk with a bunch of other writers. We stayed in hotels among high rises, fine dining establishments and way too many coffee shops. One night, though, my fiancée and I walked through one of the rougher areas of the city — not crime-ridden, necessarily, but rough — where she used to work on houses for Americorps. We were dressed nicely, I in a button-down and blazer, she in a cashmere sweater and high-heeled boots. We passed the house where she used to live, the moon illuminating what the burned-out streetlights left dark. Approaching us, on the same side of the street, on the same sidewalk, were three black boys — late teens, I think. Caps pulled low, five inches of boxer shorts visible above belted pants, bandanas. I hate to put it like this, but they were what Strom Thurmond would have drawn if you asked him what he fears most. It was a chilly night, but one of them went shirtless, and as they neared I could make out an epsilon branded into his right pec. No one quickened their pace, though I can’t speak for pulses. We made eye contact, passed each other without moving to the side and that was that. Afterward, we boarded the subway to head back to our hotel. I was standing, too jittery to sit. My fiancée put her fingers lightly to my arm, said “Sweetie.” I looked down at my hand, grasping the metal rail. I was squeezing all the blood away from the knuckles, the whiteness violent and obvious. We rode the train in silence, encased in a roar, propelled terribly forward.  You Might Also Like: