By Leesa Fenderson
F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”
After the verdict two Saturdays ago I had the ability to function. I went to work, exercised, I wrote a piece, watched the premiere of Newsroom and Suits, but I was wholly unable to hold two opposed ideas in my head. Or perhaps more accurately I was unable to hold more than one opposing feeling in my heart. I abhorred any attempt at reasoning, I hated any discussion, in my mind there was nothing to discuss. A young black man, who reminds me of my little brother, was killed and his murderer freed to walk the streets. I’ve always been calm and placidity my twin. I also took Oprah’s life class like it was my Political Economy senior thesis seminar. As a result, meditation and mindfulness made it so that I should not easily succumb to unchecked emotion. Yet, my brown skin and the brown skin of all the men I know were reduced to target practice and that left me on a plateau of anger.
My Australian friend, blue eyed and kind souled, asked about the verdict since news of it had reached Sydney. My response, “Racism pure and simple,” with no logic or discussion or tie-ins, was honest and angry. I left him without facts so he researched on his own. He came back and concluded that a teenager was gunned down by some unjustified vigilante. He thoughtfully empathized with the pain of death and the human tragedy. My response to his empathy was anger. “The crux of it all is if the race of either party was changed, in any amalgamation, we would be having a different conversation or perhaps none at all.” I wanted to shout that because of my brown skin I’m ignored, refused service, and automatically deemed a secretary instead of the title that my Juris Doctor demands, among other offenses, I am also a moving target for racist vigilantes.
But whose ears would the shouts reach? Juror B37? Paula Deen? Certainly not. So I continued going through the motions of my every day, holding one thought in my mind and one emotion in my heart. I avoided the news, for fear that my disgust would turn into a rage that no soundless shouts could soothe. When a friend mentioned a piece by Ahmir Questlove Thompson, I was hesitant. But the title, “Questlove: Trayvon Martin and I Ain’t Shit,” moved my resentment bathing spirit to read it, I thought, he knows what side of this to be on. I got ready to nod in agreement and pump my black fist in righteous indignation. Yet, with each paragraph my indignation found less footing. Instead of spewing anger at Florida and everyone related to the murderer, and fueling a revolt by all Roots fans, he presented a different perspective. Questlove shared his experience as a six foot two, black man of un-average weight. His size, his race, his afro and accompanying pic makes others uncomfortable, so much so that he would decline invitations to swanky parties, wait in his car in parking lots because, “it’s a prime place where someone of my physical size can be seen as a dangerous element.” In the piece he recounts an experience where a young woman refused to tell him what floor she lived when he was courteous enough to offer to use his security card to push the button for her floor. The thing is his building has major security and he wouldn’t have an elevator card if he wasn’t a resident himself. Yet he remained courteous even believing that she didn’t answer because she was getting off on his floor. When she further refused to have the elevator button pushed on her behalf, it dawned on him, like it has dawned on me many times, a decision has been made to reject me because of the way I look.
In that moment my anger ebbed significantly and I found the empathy I had been missing. The love in my heart awakened for a family mourning and for every person of color subjugated because the skin they wear is black or the height they reach is beyond the norm. My soul could no longer back stroke in indignation. They say when faced with a gunman ready to shoot, you should appeal to the humanity in the shooter by talking about your family. Perhaps if Trayvon mentioned his brother who hoped to play ball with him again, his parents who wanted him to go to college, or his girlfriend who had hoped to hold his hand again, the shooter would have seen a teenager and not just his brown skin and hoodie. Now above all else I see Trayvon Martin as a young man with feelings, desires for a future, someone’s son and brother and not just an injustice I would use to drive my anger. There is so much more to a person and situation that we don’t see when we allow our anger, fear, or prejudice to reduce our intelligence to one unopposed thought or emotion.
