In March of 1994 a States Attorney sat with me, a 15 year old at the time, and told me that they believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that they knew who murdered my mother. The States Attorney told me that I was justified in my belief of who I believed had done it. The police and investigators all said the same thing. What I have and had always known in my heart aside, they iterated to me that they were 100% sure. Then they told me that every shred of evidence that they had was circumstantial and it would be a total risk to take it to trial so they didn’t. I was told once by a former officer from that area that race and economic factors played a role in the authorities decision being that it was Dixmoor, Illinois and we were poor and had no means or resources to “make noise” via getting a Rev. Sharpton or Jackson. So it was that.
I bring all that up to say that I have lived with this for so long. That bullet, the one that entered my mothers head and ended her life did far more damage to so many of us that never got shot. It destroyed the family I knew, the community I knew, the relationships I knew and trusted and it has continued to progress as a cancer in our lives, certainly in mine. As I watch this verdict I weep for the Fultons and Martins for reasons that only my heart can detail. This hurts, it has hurt me for almost 20 years. I remained silent for these 20 years. That bullet took years off my life and the resulting lack of justice continued what would become for me routines and regimens of lack of trust and paranoia and fear and depression that only those who have been victim to my own hurt and pain could attempt to entail for you. I became a monster and though many of you may know the surface of who I have shown, or some of the visible displays of my ability via the products of my talent, you have no idea how I have suffered, how I suffer, how I have made others suffer from my actions that became habits and what in instances I am unfortunately known for.
I’ve held it in for far too long. I’ve refused to fight, I’ve just existed as opposed to example any consistency towards overcoming and thriving. My depression built walls and laid faulty ground that I have lived in and on and the cycle of abuses that I witnessed and was exposed to in my youth had become the groundwork for similar behaviors and patterns that I have perpetrated or parlayed in these subsequent years.
Trayvon doesn’t hurt any more. Michelle Flowers stopped hurting March 26, 1994. Sabrina & Tracy and Trayvon’s brother began their pain 16 months ago. My pain, my sisters pain, my brothers pain, along with so many others affected has long suffered us since that night, almost 20 years ago. As I listened to the prosecutors press conference I am outraged at the similarities in tone and rhetoric. I am disgusted at the States Attorney seemingly pleasant response to such an obvious and blatant miscarriage of justice. This is not a miscarriage of justice though, this is an abortion of justice! And I am all too familiar with it.
With that being said, I’m done feeling the pain as I have. I will avenge my pain through support and service for a cause that I now recognize needs a voice and presence that such I am more than willing and suitably capable of taking on. As I write these words I am cold with anxiety for the realization of my purpose, I have walked away and surrendered and “given in” far too many times to this point. I can no longer.
Last night my brother said this, “… It hurts that the person that taught me to fight, that taught and gave me courage, seems to have none for himself. You need to read your own words, listen to you.” Then he grabbed two of my books that I authored and threw then on the bed and told be to start there.
I get it.