Perspectives

It’s been one week since the verdict in the George Zimmerman trial was decided. J and I were out with friends to celebrate his birthday when the verdict was announced. I was on my way to the restroom of a crowded venue when I heard shouting and glanced up at a TV mounted on the ceiling to see Zimmerman’s face and the word “acquitted.” I will admit that my first thought was that there might be rioting, much like what occurred in L.A. after the Rodney King case was announced in 1992. I hurried on to the restroom to be on the safe side. Over the past week, I have read commentary and watched interviews from both sides, seen long diatribes on Facebook outlining people’s reactions, and discussed the case with family and friends.

This case has captivated many because it is so multifaceted. Issues of race, age, character, and the rights of gun owners were thrust into the spotlight. As I followed this case in the aftermath of the verdict, it struck me that one conversation that seems to be missing is our ability as human beings to look at a situation from a perspective outside of our own life experiences. As a nation, we have become less empathetic toward one another in exchange for a false sense of security. When I think too long on this, it distresses me to imagine the kind of society we are leaving for future citizens of this country, including my own children.

As a mother, I feel compassion for any woman who has ever lost her child, but especially for mothers who have lost children unexpectedly and to violence. To have invested all of your love and energy to this life, and then to have that life taken by another would be truly devastating.

I can never know what it feels like to be a young, black man in the United States walking alone at night in a predominately white neighborhood. But I do know what it’s like to be a woman walking alone at night in a rough neighborhood. Gripping car keys between tensed fingers, always anticipating what’s around the next corner, heart thumping in ears, the constant urge to turn around and see what’s behind you. I grew up with cautionary tales of girls and women who had been overpowered, violated, or left for dead. Every news story about sexual violence and every date rape episode of Law & Order reminded us that the world could be a dangerous place to be female. If I had grown up listening to the Rodney King story or felt like I was under a cloud of suspicion every time I wore a hoodie, I might feel the need to defend myself if someone approached me in the dark to ask me what I was doing. I’ll never know for sure, but I can imagine it. That’s part of our humanity; being able to imagine what an experience must be like for someone else.

I find it interesting that the characters of both Zimmerman and Martin have been so thoroughly dissected by the general public. Neither man would have been in the running for sainthood, but I know very few adults or teenagers who are perfect. Their characters, beyond what happened the night of the run-in, seem irrelevant to me. As a former high school teacher, I once taught a first hour English class in which I am fairly certain ¾ of the students were high each morning. These were low-to-middle income white and Native American students from a rural area. While I don’t condone the use of illicit drugs, marijuana is not associated with increased aggression, so unless we are trying to prove that Martin was doing something that many of his adolescent peers try at one time or another, I really don’t think we have proven much.

Zimmerman had lawfully applied for and obtained a firearm, and according to the laws of his state, had the legal right to carry it and defend himself. Feeling threatened, Zimmerman produced his firearm and shot. There’s a reason that when individuals enter into careers in law enforcement, they are required to have extensive training in conflict resolution, mediation, and acceptable situations in which to discharge a firearm under extreme emotional stress. As far as I’m aware, there are no such demands put on individuals who are applying for permits to carry. As a citizen of this country, I’m not comfortable with the idea that the average layperson has the skills necessary to make decisions under extreme emotional stress whose consequences have such potentially grave outcomes. That certainly seemed to be the case in this situation, as it was later discovered that Martin was unarmed.

While many will disagree, it’s my assertion that this is the failure of a society, which in its attempts to feel secure in a post-9/11 era, has created a monster by loosening gun control policies. Like an overzealous parent, intent on protecting their offspring, we have created a nation that is anxious, suspicious, and quick to react. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” (Like the liberty to allow your 17-year-old to walk to the Quick Shop for a snack without getting shot.)

If I leave out matters of race, personal character, and gun control, this case boils down to one thing for me: Trayvon Martin was not an angel, but he was an unarmed, 17-year-old kid. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and predict that there aren’t many of us (myself included) who can say that we always thought clearly or made good decisions at 17. George Zimmerman was a 28-year-old man who had undertaken the responsibility of owning a potentially lethal weapon. That kind of responsibility should dictate that when a 911 dispatcher tells you to get back into your car and go home, that the police are on their way, and there is no imminent bodily threat, you do it. You don’t get out of your car and follow the person of concern on a misguided vigilante mission. If Zimmerman had acted with the kind of maturity I expect from someone allowed to carry a loaded weapon, Trayvon Martin would be alive today.

It’s important to me that J and I raise R and K to be the kind of people who have empathy for others. When they’ve hurt someone, we ask, “How would you feel if…?” We try to teach them to look at situations from many perspectives before making rash judgments, even if those perspectives are outside of their personal experiences. We ask, “What would it be like to…?” I wonder what the world would be like if more adults asked themselves these same questions.

The Family Vacation

Long the hallmark of the middle class, the family vacation provides hard-working men and women a week each year to focus exclusively on making memories with their spouses and offspring. Without the distractions of texts, e-mails, bills, work or school, moms and dads set out to provide memorable, enriching life experiences that their children can carry into adulthood and reflect upon fondly in coming years. Suitcases (or, as R calls them “case suits”) are packed, itineraries are made, and mail is stopped.

Each February, I turn to my husband and ask him where he would like to go on vacation for a week in the summer. “Somewhere close” is usually his reply. (One has to wonder about the person who first decided that confining family members to a space the size of a Johnny on the Job and driving several hours was the recipe for relaxation and domestic harmony.)

Amidst flying snowflakes and subzero temperatures, usually while nursing a head cold, I eagerly research hotel rooms, cabins, or condominiums and dream of warm summer nights and walking hand-in-hand along a shoreline. Our children, dressed in white, K with a pinafore and bow in her hair, skip ahead of us looking for shells or pinecones or other treasures of nature. The temperature is always a perfect 76 degrees in my fantasy, and we seem to be the only people present in our vacation sanctuary.

Returned from an actual week of vacationing with my family, I have come to the conclusion that reality is the nail in the coffin of expectations. Don’t get me wrong. There are moments from this vacation that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Last year, K was still too young to interact in a meaningful way with her brother. This year, they delighted in plotting against us from the backseat. (Think repeated singing of playground songs and crude noises made by the mouth.) They reveled in discovering new places and seeing things they hadn’t seen before (like the inside of a cave. Evidently, bat poop is endlessly fascinating.) And when I’m an old woman, the image of two happy, smiling faces jumping into my outstretched arms from the side of a swimming pool will sustain me. To quote J, “It seems like we always come away with great memories, but sometimes it’s just so dang stressful.”

Last summer we chose a vacation destination that required us to cross three states and drive approximately 13-hours. That experience fresh in our minds, we decided to stick closer to home and drive east to a popular vacation destination about 5 hours away. R took advantage of his close back seat proximity to his sister to enhance her toddler vocabulary. The “Can You Say?” game took off from the start and was mutually entertaining for both kids. Our not-yet-two-year-old can now utter such helpful conversational phrases as “I farted” and “Where is your butt?” (R’s success rate is even better than Rosetta Stone, which promises that you will be conversationally proficient in a language of your choice in as little as five lessons.)

When they tired of the “Can You Say?” game, R turned to his old standby, tormenting his sister by holding things just out of her reach, and then mocking her when she cried. J and I shut this down quickly by distributing snacks and crayons, which K promptly spilled all over. (I recently found violet lodged in a crack in the console, oddly warped by the July heat.) K also decided that vacation was the perfect time to reveal her intense aversion to wearing shoes, so that I lived in perpetual fear that we were going to leave strays at every rest stop along the way.

Like Lucy and Ethel, Abbott and Costello, Bert and Ernie, and Thelma and Louise (okay, bad example), J and I each play a role when it comes to vacation transportation. I’m terrible at reading maps and giving directions and prefer to drive, while J revels in finding the best, most direct route to our destination. Most of the time, this division of responsibility works well, J calling out directions, me turning left here, merging onto a highway there. As all couples that have travelled together know, even the most solid relationships can bend under the strain of heavy traffic, whining children, and lack of sleep.

My husband is the king of the imaginary brake pedal. If he has even an inkling that you might not see the gigantic semi idling at the stoplight in front of you and brake soon enough to avoid hitting it, he will brake for you. Early in our marriage, I found this charming. It was almost a reflex, like he was involuntarily programmed to keep us safe. Seven years in, I find his sudden foot and knee flexing to be a silent commentary on my driving abilities. That, along with his charming habit of leaning slightly to one side or the other in an effort to guide the car where he thinks it should be going, has led to many choruses of “Would you like to drive?”

This year, I booked a condo with two full bedrooms and two full baths. Sharing a hotel room with two small children means that J and I either have to go to bed at 10 PM or keep the kids up and deal with the consequences the next day. When we discussed these reservations back in February, I pictured us putting the kids to bed side-by-side in one of the spacious king-sized beds, and then having time to relax and have grown-up discussion before we headed off to bed in the second room. As it turns out, kids don’t sleep well alone in strange places, even when they have each other. J ended up occupying one of the king-sized beds while I awoke each morning to R’s bony knee in my ribs and cries of “I pottied Mama!” from K.

I love to document our family travels through pictures, and we have albums full of vacation photographs, first as a couple, and then with R as a grinning toddler, and now the four of us. What I’ve noticed is that not unlike my February fantasy vacations, I tend to photograph the idyllic moments, when everyone is smiling for the camera, as if to prove that this vacation was perfect. This year, I decided to bring out the journalist in myself, dust her off, and strive to capture the truth (good, bad or ugly). Here are a few of the highlights:

-A charming photo of K, on her back on the ground, kicking her feet because her mini-golf ball had to be returned to the clubhouse at the end of the game.

-R melting down on the floor of a conservation center because he was ready to go on the hike we promised and tired of all the “boring” stuff we wanted to look at.

-K pouting in front of a wooden ship’s wheel because she wanted to have complete control over turning it, as her brother stands in the background smiling.

-After an hour of getting everyone ready to go mini-golfing, buckled in, equipment rented and paid for, train taken to get to hole #1, the skies opened up and a torrential downpour of rain soaking the four of us as we scrambled to get back to the car.

-R’s tear-stained, powder sugar-covered face, comparing the amount of funnel cake he got to the amount everyone else got (despite the fact that he ate ¾ of it).

-My husband, looking dazed, as if he has just walked out of a combat zone as he struggles to fold the stroller and load it onto the tram after a long day at an amusement park.

When the photos came back a couple of weeks after our return, I flipped through them, recalled the stories that went with each, smiled, and turned to J.

“What a great vacation! Where do you want to go next year?”