Sunday, April 1, 2012
Instead I’m Samuel. My friends called me Sammy. To me, Trayvon is lucky. Because when i was killed, no one seemed to care.
I was wearing a hoodie too that night. I was just coming from my girlfriend Lashaun’s house with my man “T.” “T” was trying to get with Lashaun’s cousin. He didn’t. She ended up texting some other dude all night. I tried to tell him he didn’t have a chance before we even got there, but he didn’t listen. But it was cool, we had a good time. Lashaun’s mother cooked some banging curry chicken.
We left about 11p and headed for the subway. We had walked about 10 minutes when some dude approached us and asked why I kept “fucking with Damon”? I didn’t even know a Damon. T looked at me but my gaze had just registered a gun in the man’s hand. I couldn’t stop looking at that gun. I finally said “I don’t even know—” And that was it. There was a crash and it all went black. Dude was wearing a hoodie too.
“T” was shot too, but he lived. He has a scar from his neck to his belly button from all the surgery. He’ll be OK. He had to get a deferral from Howard for a year but he’s going in the Fall. I didn’t want to go to Howard. It was too close to where I lived. I chose Morehouse College in Atlanta. Plus, they were giving me the most scholarship money. I would have been the first in my family to go to college. I wanted to study biology. Find a cure for cancer or something. But I’m gone now. Even though no one seemed to notice.
There were no protests, no marches, no Congressional hearings. My death barely got three paragraphs in the Washington Post. No one interviewed my mother or father. Not even the cheesy ass local news. Soledad O’Brien didn’t do a town hall about it. No one was ever arrested in my case either. But Sharpton and Jackson said nothing. No one called the Justice Department. The FBI didn’t show up.
Was it me? I’m just as dead as he is. Why wasn’t anyone outraged? I played football as a kid too. I was on the Debate Team and won the 12th grade essay contest. I wrote about growing up with a disabled dad. Why wasn’t I special too?
Sure there was crying and yelling at my funeral. Pleas from the pulpit to stop the youth violence. But once the crying stopped and everyone went home, I was just another young dead black man.
What makes Trayvon so special? Why didn’t my community rally in the streets and have Facebook campaigns and Tweet about me? Why is the death of a black man in a hoodie a travesty– unless another black man in a hoodie was the killer? Then I guess, it’s just another day.
Well, I’m Samuel. My friends called me Sammie. I was wearing a hoodie too when I was killed, and no one seemed to care.
I wish I was Trayvon. Maybe then you all would have noticed me too.