Let Freedom Ring: Trayvon Martin

“Green? Gross!” He tosses the skittle back inside the package, digs out another color. 
“Reeed! More like it!” he says, throwing the sweet treat to his tonsils, forgetting to chew the flavor. 
His fingers fumble inside the bag, scoping out the next letter of the rainbow. 
ROY-G-BIV. 
“Grape! Yes!” He shovels it in, forgetting about the “Green again! Ugh!
“Aw damn! Didn’t realize there were only three left! Shoulda saved the grape for last.” 
He scrunches the wrapper and shoves it in the right pocket of his hoodie. He pulls up his hood as a light breeze strokes his cheek gently. 
Florida winds always feel like summer time. Even in February.



Beady eyes squint out in the twilight behind a gun glinting underneath the single shine of the street lamp. 

“Hold still,” the voice of the beady eyes projects. 

Hands up as he had learnt from television and movies, or from the innate consciousness of the tone of his skin, he pivots in the ground and turns to face the gun wielder. 

“Excuse me. Sir?
“Is there something wrong?”

Hands hang in the air. Hang there. Open. Outstretched in an open prayer. Hanging. Hang there. Hung up on nooses. Or hung up by handcuffs. Hanging there. Dangling upwards, defensively. Heart open to vulnerability. Heart open. Open. Prayer. 

“Please, sir. What’s the problem? Sir, please, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m heading home.”

Trembling hands clank the chamber. 
“Just...just hold still! Citizen’s arrest.”

“What?”

“You are now being asked to remain silent...”

“But, how? Wha...”

“NOW!! Silent!!”

Hands lower. Hands back down. 

“I said, ‘Hold still’
“You have the right to remain...”

“What right?”

Hands hang down. Back down. Down to earth. Lowered. Grounded. Standing ground. 

“What rights? When I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Stop resisting arrest!”

“With what authority do you have to arrest?”

“Abiding citizen...”

“But I’ve done nothing! I was heading home.” Hands pointing. Home base. Safe at home base. Home of the free. 
“I was just getting skittles. See...”

Hands uncrumble the wrapper from inside the hoodie pocket. 

“See?”

Hands hold the red wrapper so beady eyes can see. Hands hold. 

“Nothing wrong, right?”

“You have the right to remain...”

“No.” Now feet on the move. Move forward. 

“You are resisting arrest?”

“Yes.”

“Are you resisting arrest?”

“Yes!”

Hands hang the skittle remains as a flag of surrender. The flag flaps with the hit of the wind. 


Feel the rainbow, he thinks, feet pivoting back on their heels. Retreating. Heart open. Unlocked. Gun cocked. 


White. White gunpowder. White smoke billowing the crisp night air. Residue dusts the droops of each bag underneath those beady eyes. White highlights. Highlights the beady man. Zimmerman. 

Black. Beautiful. A beautiful black boy. Dropping to the ground. Dropping to the ground. Backed down, but shot down. A beautiful black boy who wanted nothing but not to end on green. A beautiful black boy named Trayvon Martin. Let freedom ring! 


#BlackLivesMatter





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