Where My Empathy Fails Me

I can, almost, put myself in George Zimmerman's shoes.

I can imagine being so fearful and tightly wound that simply seeing an unfamiliar figure, wearing the wrong clothes and walking at the wrong speed with the wrong body language, might trigger paranoia. I see enough of what passes for news among the right wing to know which buttons they are trying to press.

I can imagine being the right mix of arrogant and protective that I didn't think I could wait for the authorities, and had to take action myself before the Unfamiliar Figure did the things that the poison poured into my ear for years has led me to believe were about to happen.

I can imagine tracking the Unfamiliar Figure down, confronting him, and after a scuffle pulling my gun.

What I can't imagine doing, ever, is listening to these screams, listening to the Unfamiliar Figure beg for his life... and still pulling the trigger.

Trayvon Martin 911 Call

His father says he's not a racist. I have no reason to doubt him. Maybe George Zimmerman still pulls that trigger if Trayvon is Hispanic, or white, or whatever.

This is worse than racism though. This is a complete denial of one's own humanity. I don't comprehend how you can hear those screams, and then silence them with a bullet, without already being dead inside yourself.

I can't even say I'm angry at Zimmerman. If his life wasn't a miserable ruined hell before, it certainly is now.

My anger is reserved for the Sanford police, for not doing their fucking jobs, and for forcing Trayvon Martin's parents to listen to those screams.