Feelings Schmeelings. And Trayvon Martin.

I’m having a dry spell. A really, really longstanding drought. If you know anything about me, I’m emotional. I like to express my feelings. I’m a smiler. A crier. A feeler. And as of lately, I haven’t been able to connect to anything at all. I’ve never felt so detached from… stuff.

Yesterday, I had a lot going on in my mind... It’s hard to get the thoughts out now because of how major of a blockage there is. A disconnect. None of this is going to make much sense to you. Hell, doesn’t make sense to me either.

But anyway, yesterday.

Yesterday was the closest I’ve felt to being connected my desires to flirt. To sympathize. I won’t address the former too much. I’ve been dead to the whole courtship idea for a minute now. Perhaps that’s what’s been hindering my true Piscean nature.

Alas. The sympathizing. After that moment passed, a couple of friends and I headed over to the candlelight vigil in Union Square commemorating one year since Trayvon Martin’s death. The air was cool and crisp and you could feel that rain was on the way. A few drops wouldn’t faze the tight crowd of chocolate and cream bodies clutching placards with the slain boy’s face. Total strangers chummed it up like family, helping light and relight candles being attacked by the cool breeze. Soft chatter filled the air as they waited for the family of honor to silence the dense circle via the cheap megaphone provided for them.

Now, I’m extremely familiar with this case. My internship does a weekly update of what’s happening with the Zimmerman trial and other Stand Your Ground fodder. But to see and hear Trayvon’s parents speak about it in person was heartbreaking. There we stood, acknowledging the first anniversary of Trayvon’s death. Next year will be the second. Then the third. Then people will start to fall off and forget. They’ll stop counting. The ticker will never stop for Sybrina Fulton, Tracy Martin and Trayvon’s brother Jahvaris.

“Forced martyrdom” as Michael Eric Dyson so eloquently phrased it. As honorable as it sounds, no parent wants to hear that phrase in the same sentence as their little son. That young man is now a disconnected ghost in the family picture… and we will keep on living. To try to put myself in their shoes is draining. I wouldn’t, couldn’t be able to deal at all. With every article I read, I’m saddened and (mostly) angered. But to be there in person, I was astounded at how tangible the love, sense of family, and strength of prayer was. Emotions were high. It was warming. As every hoodie was snuggly pulled up around every head, all candles were lifted and a resounding “I am Trayvon Martin!” reverberated throughout the Square, I felt the emotion welling up inside me, but it wouldn’t come out. I really wanted it to. I really wanted to let this be my way of breaking my barrier down again for an issue I’m passionate about and invested in, but the emotions wouldn’t come. Jesus, be a good cry.

Society is broken, and I feel broken because I cannot weep for it. 


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