COLUMN: I am not Trayvon Martin

Harry Caines contributes a weekly column to CacheValleyDaily.com. His column is a work of opinion, and does not reflect the views of Cache Valley Daily, the Cache Valley Media Group, or its employees.

Emotion is the enemy of reason.

And since I am a reasonable man who can easily place his emotions aside to state what is sensible and logical, allow me to make the understatement of the year. I am not Trayvon Martin.

But because I am a human being whose emotions are ruled by my logic, I can state that hearing others say they are Trayvon Martin scares the heck out of me. Why? Because Trayvon Martin was not a good kid.

Does that upset you to read? Were you one of those who wrapped yourself up into a frenzied hysteria over Martin’s death? Did you see his killer, George Zimmerman, as a rogue wannabe cop looking to knock off any random black kid he could find?

Does it matter to you that this particular story has been the epitome of media carelessness and whitewashing? Maybe you only watch MSNBC and were rarely treated to the photographs of George Zimmerman’s skull, which was bashed into the ground by Martin.

Or perhaps you stopped following the story after hearing the NBC News edited version of Zimmerman’s 911 call–which made it sound as if Zimmerman purposely followed Martin because he was black. The actual recording would have relayed to you that Zimmerman was answering a question from the 911 operator asking what Martin’s race was.

Yes, when you have a zealous media show you photographs of Martin as a cherub-faced pre-teen insted of the scowling tennager who liked taking pictures of pistols, marijuana leaves and of himself holding up two middle fingers, I can understand why you would think he was dragged from his college AP class and executed.

But he did not attend AP classes. He was suspended from school at the time he was killed. He was found to have drug paraphernalia, a screwdriver and women’s jewelry in his locker when it was searched. Mere speculation about him being a criminal? Technically, yes. But if my own teenage son had those items in his locker, I would assume he did something wrong—so I can likewise do so with a young man who liked guns and bragged about his fighting prowess in social media and in private text messages.

Still enraged at this column? Why?

Maybe you find no justice in a country where a young man gets shot and killed for carrying nothing but a bag of Skittles and an iced tea. Except it was not an iced tea. It was a watermelon drink. And Skittles along with that particular brand of watermelon drink are ⅔ of the ingredients of a street drug called “lean”. The third ingredient is cough syrup.

More speculation? Possibly. But Martin bragged about indulging in the street drug on Facebook; and his autopsy revealed liver damage commonly caused by the use of lean.

I must say it again: If my own teenage son had posted about lean on the Internet and was walking around with the ingredients, I would assume he was using it.

If you are unswayed by my argument, than I do not know what else to say that can make you think logically about an incident that should never have seen a courtroom. And I must pause to think that even if you accept the facts, that you somehow believe Zimmerman getting out of his car was justification enough for Martin to pound his head into the ground. And that Zimmerman was not justified to pull his pistol from his pants and defend himself from what most people would consider a threat to their life.

Of course, you listened to Rachel Maddow or Al Sharpton talk about how Martin was hunted and killed. The 911 call suggests Zimmerman was walking back to his truck—a fact backed up by the evidence that he was within 30 yards of his truck when the altercation with Martin took place.

Yes, in the Court of Your Emotions, Zimmerman got what he deserved. He should have laid there docile and allowed his skull to be caved in.

It is possible you just don’t like guns. Understandable. But guns are legal in this country. And if Trayvon Martin was pounding your head into hamburger, your very last thought you think before sliding into a coma might be how desperately you wished you had one at that moment.

Point made? Case closed? Or are your emotions still profound enough to be unreasonable?

I am not Trayvon Martin. My sons will not be Trayvon Martin; not so long as my brain can command my foot to swiftly kick them in their butts.

I also am not George Zimmerman. Can you imagine what it must be like to be him? To have cared about your neighborhood to the point where you volunteered your time and gas money to help keep it safe, only to be portrayed as some maverick with a bloodlust?

To be under the constant threat of violence because the media fueled the perception that you were a murderous thug?

To have major news organizations blatantly fudge or suppress evidence that makes you look like a sociopathic racist?

To know the president of your country talks about ways to “honor” Trayvon Martin, a thug who would have killed you if you were not armed?

Typing these words is making me emotional. That is what happens to me when logic and reason are ignored to forward a narrative that is grotesquely false.

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