Profiling Fatality 3: The Demonization of George Zimmerman

I know there are evil people in the world. Hitler comes to mind, and I could list others, but you probably know them already or perhaps you have your own list. The truly evil have no regard for human life; they suffer no remorse for their actions. They haven’t got a conscience. They feel entitled. They feel justified.

Most people aren’t evil. We are flawed, though, and not perfect by any stretch. That’s what I think about George Zimmerman. He was doing what he thought was right when he abandoned his plan to run an errand and, instead, followed a hooded boy, Trayvon Martin, through his neighborhood. He might have been exasperated by recent break-ins and maybe he thought he could handle whatever the situation turned out to be. In my first post on this tragedy I asked, “Did George Zimmerman ask himself what it would mean to shoot someone?”

(Here’s the URL: http://aboutracewriter.blogspot.com/2012/03/profiling-fatality.html)

I don’t know if he ever asked himself that question, but maybe he thought he would be lauded as a hero. I remember daydreaming as a child that I did something heroic, something that everyone would notice and be thankful that I did it. My daydream made me feel wanted, loved, needed, and valued. I think lots of people daydream like that. But George Zimmerman got something else when he pulled that trigger.

He got the weight of killing a teenager leaning on his soul for the rest of his life. He got recognition for being a vigilante. He put his own life in danger and maybe that of his family. Even if no one acts in kind (an eye for an eye), his life will never be the same.

George Zimmerman represents the trend of many people wanting to protect their homes and lives. Here is an email exchange that occurred when I was the secretary of our HOA.

A neighbor wrote to me back in October 2011 (unrevised):

Dianne,

This is XXX and XXX XXX at XXX Lane. Just wanted to make you and the other neighbors aware of the fact we had a house break in on Friday morning. I was at home at the time. I pulled my handgun on him and he fled my residence upon meeting me on the stairs. The suspect matched the suspects that broke into the home last weekend on XXX as well. They are still investigating it and I hope that they catch these theives! They are apparently ringing doorbells and if no one answers the come in. I was upstairs and heard him come in...luckily, I spared him his life and he didnt hard me. None the less, it is so very scarey! Its that time of year an people are looking for presents and other items.

You may want to send out an email to the neighborhood to just be on the lookout and be very cautious and make sure doors are locked and alarms are set if they have them!

Have a good weekend!!!

I was shocked by the email, especially the line where he (I assumed it was the husband – the couple share an email. Months later I discovered it was the wife who wrote the email, but I will continue using “he” in this post) said, “I spared him his life.” The signature line, “Have a good weekend!” surprised me, too. It seemed so out of place, gleeful, in an email that delivered such a heavy message. But under my obligation as an officer of the HOA, I emailed back and asked him for a description.

He replied, “Black male mid twenties....scruffy thin wirery beard/ goatie. Gray hoodie on....evil looking eyes. 5'9 or 5'10 about 140-150.”

Evil eyes? What do evil eyes look like? Were they blackened out like the demons’ eyes on the show Supernatural?

Hoodie? That gives me pause reading it all these months later. I decided to do some editing when I sent my message out to the neighborhood. I sent the following:

Pleased be advised that there were two break-ins in our neighborhood in the last week or so. It appears a black male in his 20s, 5'9" or 5'10", 140 - 150 pounds and with a wiry beard, was seen in the neighborhood and is a suspect in the two break-ins. The second break-in, he was confronted by the homeowner and ran away. The police believe the suspect is ringing doorbells and then breaking in if there is no answer. Please take precautions and make sure you keep your doors locked and report any suspicious people in the neighborhood to the police.

Be safe!

Apparently the homeowner was not happy with my version of events. He sent a note to the neighborhood watch leader, and she put this email out to the neighborhood:

From the owner of XXX:

My home, XXX was broken into, not attempted. I met him in my staircase with our GLOCK .45 and he took off running out the front door and around the back of the house. Nothing was taken; he didn't have time because luckily I was upstairs and heard him walking around in my kitchen. The description of the black male is from my eye witness encounter. Not sure if door bell was rung, you can not hear it upstairs. Apparently, when I came home, I didn't lock the door...he pretty much just walked in. Our door handle is tricky...if you lock it, but turn it slightly it will unlock. I'm thinking that is what happened. I always lock the door.

Well, I thought, you ought to spring for a new lock. I was upset that now the neighborhood knew one of the neighbors carried a gun and considered using it against another person. Would the other neighbors view the incident as bravery on the part of the homeowner? Would the rest of them run out to purchase Glocks (not at all difficult to do in my state) for household use?  Would they buy a few guns: one to keep by the bedside, one next to the TV remote, one in the kitchen drawer, and another stuck in the side pocket of the car door?

Ronald had his own opinion about the matter. He said that if the intruder were a seasoned criminal, a real bad guy, the owner standing on the stairway with the Glock would not have deterred him. Rather the situation could have been reversed: the intruder holding his own gun and not afraid to use it, or the intruder grabbing the owner’s gun. Then it’s the intruder deciding whether to spare a life or off one.

I wrote a personal email to the neighborhood watch leader:

Yes, XXX emailed me the details, but I did not want to put in the Google groups that he brandished a gun. I felt uncomfortable about revealing that point -- I'm not against carrying guns, my husband is a competitive pistol shooter and a certified pistol safety instructor -- but I am against people brandishing guns when they don't know how to use them or talking about doing harm and so forth when shooting someone is a horrible thing even if the guy had ill intent -- it's not a video game or movie. Maybe he wasn't happy that I didn't let the neighbors know of his bravery. And his email was a bit of a jumble -- I wasn't sure if he meant his doorbell was rung or if that was what the police said they thought was happening. Anyway, thanks for putting out the correct version. I hope I don't start to see our neighbors brandishing guns while out walking the dog.

She responded:

He/She (not certain which one) emailed me and I asked her if I should distribute her message to the group. She said yes, so I did, but maybe I shouldn't have. I just wanted people to be aware that he had gotten into the house. I also asked how he got in, whether she had heard a bell, and that was her reply.

It is a bit unusual because we've gone so long without any break-ins. Hope it's not a sign of the times.

It is a sign of the times. A sign that people value human life based on whom they are aiming their guns at. It’s a sign that as a society we value some lives more than others and property more than human life.  We live in difficult and complicated times, but then again, humanity has always suffered by its own hand. What’s worse is that we continue to look for the bad guys. Right now, they are the ones wearing the hoodies and the ones holding the guns. The definition of who the bad guys are changes with the temper of the times, or by political affiliation, religious views, race, and class.

We have to stop thinking that everyone else is the bad guy and realize that we all have the power to be bad as easily as anyone else.  All it takes is one bad decision on a rainy night or while standing on the staircase, holding a Glock, and looking down on an intruder.

I don’t hate George Zimmerman, and I don’t wish him dead. He is not evil. He is not a demon. He is simply human. I feel sorry for him – sorry that he killed a teenager and sorry that he has to live with it.

Profiling Fatality

Everyone who isn’t a total recluse has heard about the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, a seventeen-year-old black boy from Sanford, FL, the city my in-laws were born and raised in, and in which we still have family. Trayvon left his father’s house in a gated community to run to the convenience store for some skittles and iced tea during the halftime of a game he was watching on TV. On his way back he realized he was being followed and called his girlfriend who encouraged him to run. He didn’t, and self-appointed neighborhood watch president George Zimmerman caught up with him, confronted him, then shot and killed him.

Zimmerman, identified as white by the police but Hispanic by his family, claims self-defense under the Florida “stand your ground” law and the Sanford police apparently agreed with him, at least until public outrage changed their minds. But as of this posting, he still has not been charged.

Profiling is a dangerous game and so is carrying guns.

I’m married to a black man. I spent many hours in our thirty-six years together worrying if he was safe out there in the world, a world that mostly considers him to be criminal or dangerous just based on his skin color. No matter that he spent twenty-five years serving and protecting the citizens of our community as a firefighter. No matter that he is a devoted husband and father. No matter that he is a talented artist, musician, and single-handicap golfer. No matter that he is an ethical man who wouldn’t pick up a dime off the street unless it was to return it to its owner. His black skin is all that mattered when police frequently stopped him for DWB, driving while black, or when women locked their car doors as he walked through a parking lot back to his car or when people treated him disrespectfully or ignored him completely.
Once Ronald got home very late. I was worried and angry. "Where have you been?" I asked when he walked into the bedroom. "I was ready to start calling the hospitals."
"I'm going to turn on the light," he said. "I don't want you to be upset by what you see, okay? Then I'll explain what happened."
He turned on the light, and I recoiled from the sight before me. His T-shirt and shorts were covered in blood. His cheek and lip were swollen.
He had gone to Planet 505, a bar on Westcott Street, to listen to a band. On his way back to his car, he was jumped from behind and punched in the head. A fight ensued. The other man, a white guy, kept calling Ronald an Arab. When the police arrived, they immediately assumed Ronald was the perpetrator and cuffed him. At least the other man admitted he had started the tussle, and Ronald refused to press charges. While the inside of Ronald's cheek had been torn open when the man grabbed him in the mouth during the fight, the man now had four broken fingers to show for it. He refused medical assistance, and Ronald drove himself to the emergency room where he received three stitches inside his cheek. The man said he attacked Ronald because he was the "Arab man" who had broken into his car. He believed this because that night Ronald wore a Kufi, a hat worn in northern African and some mid-Eastern countries. He profiled him much like Zimmerman profiled Martin because he wore a hoodie.

I’m married to a black man who has a license to conceal and carry a gun, but he doesn’t, unless he is transporting his guns to the shooting range for Olympic-style target practice. He doesn’t carry them holstered, but locked and unloaded in a gun box in the back of the SUV.

He also is certified to teach pistol safety and taught classes a few years ago.  He told me how men walked into class with swagger, and how they sent their wives to class with guns too big for their hands and too heavy for them to handle. Some class members, men and women, mentioned they couldn’t wait to shoot someone.

I was appalled by his stories, but he felt he could provide a service: if people were going to own guns then at least they should know how to use them safely. He added some of his own expertise, for those anxious to shoot someone, about what it is like to react in an extreme circumstance, like firefighting or maybe in the case of someone breaking into your home. Your body wants to flee; your heart is racing; your breath is heaving; your senses are heightened; your fine motor skills leave you, and you lose your accuracy, that is, if you ever had it. He wanted his students to know that it isn’t easy to make good decisions under such circumstances and that an impulse decision might be the wrong one. In addition he would ask them if they had thought about what it would mean to shoot someone.

Did George Zimmerman ask himself what it would mean to shoot someone?

I wrote about how shooting someone can change a person in my post Human Urine (http://aboutracewriter.blogspot.com/2012/01/human-urine.html).

Zimmerman said he shot in self-defense, but was he brandishing his gun when he approached Martin? How would you react if someone approached you with a gun? I think I would be paralyzed by fear. Perhaps you might push him, if you could. Maybe that’s what Trayvon did. We won’t ever know what happened that night.  I wish Trayvon Martin had arrived safely back in front of the TV to catch the end of the game after his snack run, but he didn’t because he was profiled and someone who was carrying a gun made a bad decision and acted on it. Was protecting Zimmerman’s neighborhood worth Trayvon’s life? Will he ask himself that question for the rest of his life?

So many gun proponents think we should all be carrying guns, maybe like the Wild West. But I think only the police and other safety officers should be carrying. The “stand your ground” law is being considered in the state I now live in as well as the right to carry in public parks. That scares me. Most people aren’t trained the way the police are trained to handle guns and potentially dangerous situations, and bad decisions will undoubtedly be made that will change or end people’s lives.

I remember the boys my daughters went to school with in our urban school district in Syracuse. In kindergarten they were sweet, creative, and fun loving, if not mischievous. By eighth grade some were over six feet tall. They were boys still, but they had man-sized bodies. Already people showed fear around them, particularly the black boys, but to me, they were the same boys with the mischievous smiles from the kindergarten class.

“Hi, Mrs. Hagan,” they called out when they saw me in the hallway or the parking lot, some with baritone voices. I feared for them in the same way I feared for my husband. How would the rest of the world treat them?  I know my fears weren’t unfounded. Look at Trayvon. He should have been able to watch that game, eat some skittles, drink his iced tea, talk to his girlfriend, have some teenage fun, go on to college, get married, become a father and a productive citizen, but instead he died. He was profiled and someone had a gun.

When our young black men are categorized and profiled, what chance do they have for success? Why can’t the world see the sweet faces and mischievous smiles beneath the hoodies? Why can’t they see another human being full of life and potential? Why must our young black men die too soon?

(Excerpt from Chapter 6 Being Black All by Myself, Shades of Tolerance: A Biracial Love Story)

Ronald would grow silent and pensive in the months and years that followed as he slipped into a deep depression – the depression that would rob me of his stories and leave me wondering if we would stay together after all we had been through; the depression that lay on him so heavily he wondered, seven months after his almost fatal fall, if he could attend his nephew’s funeral.

I dreamed about Yancy the night he died in July 2005. His sweet child’s face, even though he was a man by then, his sensitive eyes, his looming silhouette, all in the dream, but there was a gun in his hand and it went off. Whom did Yancy shoot?

I thought the dream was odd because Ronald and I had not seen him for years. He was the baby who made me cry when Ronald called me at my summer job in 1977 to announce his birth. Sylvester Jr. and his wife Marsha separated when Yancy was just six, and later divorced. The lingering mistrust between Yancy’s parents left him mostly with his mother. Yancy was angry, too, that his father started dating white women right after the split and eventually married one. He must have thought it was the ultimate betrayal.

 Twelve pounds when he was born, Yancy had grown to over six and a half feet tall by the time he was a young teen. He dropped out of school. He served a prison sentence for assault and robbery just after he turned eighteen. He was a boy in a man’s body, a boy whom many people viewed as a threat because of his size and the color of his skin; a boy who could not contain his anger over the way his life veered off course. Perhaps it had never been on course. His descent into delinquency, drug use, paternity, joblessness, seemed a self-fulfilling prophecy. He had been a smart, adorable little boy, and that is how I remembered him best, so the dream surprised me. I pushed it out of my head the next day until the phone rang.

“It’s Mom,” Bertha said. “Yancy shot himself.”

“Oh,” I said, “I thought he shot someone else,” the dream pushing its way back into consciousness. I must have confused her. “Is he going to be okay?” I continued, thinking it had been an accident, hoping for it: maybe he had shoved a gun down into his waistband to hide it, and it went off.

 “He’s dead,” she said.

Marsha called me a few hours later. “I want Ron to be one of the pallbearers,” she said, grief halting her voice. “Yancy reminded me of Ron: both of them so sensitive, so artistic.”

“I’ll ask him as soon as he gets home,” I said, the blood pulsing in my temples. When I told Ronald, I saw the vein quivering over his jaw the way it did when he was stressed or angry. He dropped his head. “I don’t know if I can go,” he said. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, protective, worried, sorry I had to tell him. “I’ll go. Cara and Mackenzie will go.” They were in Syracuse producing their second evening dance concert. “We’ll represent the R. Hagans.”

“When is it?” he asked. I gave him the details, and he turned and picked up the phone and called the Fire Department to request funeral leave.