The Nature of Dawn

 I was watching my neighbor’s son walk toward the school bus stop this morning. His usual pace is what I call sloth-walk, a teen affliction, and he is always looking at his phone. He’s a nice kid, a tall black boy who wears his hoodies year-round, which is an amazing feat once it gets hot here in Illinois. I love talking to his mother because he exasperates and makes her so proud, as well he should, he’s an amazing young man. He reminds me of my own son as after I wave, he ducks his head and grins before waving back, but not too hard, not too uncool.  It was cold this morning, but all the snow has gone and the bus stop is just down one more street. I watched him heading out gave a little be careful wish and turned to the news.

Today is the anniversary of the day Trayvon Martin was murdered in 2012. As President Obama said about a month after the killing “If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon…”. My son looked very much like Trayvon at the same age. There is a quick choking of fear and worry for my son and my daughter as young black people. There is that same worry whenever my husband goes out, just that niggling jiggle of nerves until he returns. This has been a constant for many years; when we lived in Europe, I really didn’t feel the cloud. But here, especially lately, it is back. 

In 2013 after we moved to Belgium, I started a blog, but I only ever got three entries. There seemed to be a pressing down and then I just stopped writing (as much as I had). I wrote this entry after the murderer of Trayvon Martin was found not guilty of second-degree murder and acquitted of manslaughter.

 THE NATURE OF DAWN, 14 JULY 2013

14/07/2013 · by mehope01 · in Uncategorized · Leave a comment ·Edit

The sun was a ball of severe light burning into the morning mist, the color of molten steel, ringed with ochre and blue shadow. Day comes on this way here.

At this time night is falling in America, things are falling further into gloom.

Go, call every child home: take them into warmth and light and tell them again and again their value, how and why they are loved. Step to a doorway or a window and call out the names of sons and daughters, stop their games and gossip, stop their innocent freedom. Hold them as though this was the last time you may be able, hold them until they stop fighting the hug, the wet kiss on the side of the head. Hold them.

Hold them for the thousands of parents who can never hold their child again. Hold them for Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin. Hold them tight.