I can imagine that Trayvon would’ve graduated from college by now, perhaps met someone special
But he’s taking his time cause daddy ain’t raise no fool
He has a cool lil condo not too far from his mama’s house
You always gotta stay close enough to mama in case she needs you
Every Friday is fellas night – dudes he’s known since middle school
Shoot some pool, talk politics
He’d say – “I ever tell y’all about that time a dude pulled a gun on me for walking in the rain?”
They’d say – “yeah man we done heard the story a thousand times…”
But on the inside they think “but I’m glad you’re still here bro.”
But you know the fellas can’t show too much emotion.
So instead they show brotherly love the ways they know how: watching the game, a few brews, wings
Laughing cause Trayvon only eats the flats. He’s always been like that.
They spend the evening shooting jumpers into the trash can – “Kobe!”
I can imagine he’d be sad about Sandra Bland. Mike Brown. Tamir Rice and countless other brown faces turned blood red
He’d write statuses on social media, maybe even write a poem
Hell this is Trayvon we’re talking about, maybe he’d write a law
Laws to protect the innocent from those who are supposed to be the ones protecting
He’s never gonna forget, cause though it’s just a memory, thunderstorms still spook him
He hasn’t sipped Arizona tea in ages, the taste of the rainbow disgusts him so now he only eats Starburst, the pink ones
His boys jokingly tell him he’s soft but they know he’s the hardest one among em
They dap. Say goodbyes. Make plans for next Friday. Somebody said “SLAP” – sounds like a plan.
I can imagine that Trayvon waits til he’s in his car halfway home and then calls his mama
Even though he’s grown, she still likes him to check in when he’s out
Cause you never know who from the neighborhood is watchin. Waitin.
He calls Mama Sybrina to say “I’m safe” and he can hear the sleepy in her voice but he knew she would answer
She always answers. She always worries.
Cause she knows that the world still hunts brown boys for sport.
She knows her sons are the fine young men they were raised to be but that don’t mean a damn thing at 2am on anybody’s street. At 2pm for that matter.
His daddy says she ought to stop and let him be a man but he still appreciates the texts she sends to say “Trayvon called and he’s almost home.”
He’ll never tell him about the texts. He’ll just check on him like “hey son let’s go see a game.” Father-son shit.
I can imagine that Trayvon is living his best life
Sometimes it takes a brush with death to put things in perspective
He sees the world for what it is but he’s determined to be what they said he couldn’t be He has a home office and on the wall, you’ll see 4 things: his high school diploma, copy of his undergrad degree, copy of his Masters (grad school was a bitch but he made it), and lastly, a copy of a newspaper clipping
The headline reads “Neighborhood watchman arrested for unprovoked assault on teen.” It tells the story of a young boy who was simply walking to a friend’s house from the store when he was approached by a stranger and told he didn’t belong
A young boy who stared down the barrel of a gun and heard the attempted click of the trigger as the gun jammed
Who saw the flashing lights from an officer’s car and instinctively put his hands up despite his innocence
Who watched the stranger be handcuffed
Who called his mama and would always know to call his mama
The story of a boy who lived to become a man
I can see it. I can imagine it. Even daydream.
But you see… America’s never really been a place where dreams come true.