阅读理解 To be honest, I do not know Sybrina Fulton. Nor can I claim to understand the depth of her pain. Yet, we share a deep connection. A common feature experienced by those women who face the challenge of raising a Black male child in a nation that far too often views Black male bodies through fear. You see, Ms. Fulton is living my nightmare (噩梦). A constant worry that has stayed in the back of my mind since the birth of my eldest son, some sixteen years ago.
Through the years, I have witnessed the world's reaction to my son evolve as he has grown from a small boy to a young man. In his early years, his easy smile and lovable character were nothing less than magnetic (有磁性的). Complete strangers would approach him in the street, draw him into conversation, and find themselves easily struck by his lively spirit. Even at that time I worried, how would my son react when in the years to come some of those who found themselves so impressed by this cute, intelligent boy, might grasp their purse tighter as he walked by.
Over the years I have sought to protect his spirit from the hurt that comes from undeserved hatred. I have also sought to arm him with the knowledge that could one day save his life. He knows, for example, that if he is ever pulled over by the police, that he is to keep both hands on the wheel at all times and only reach for his license when the officer is specifically observing his actions. He knows, even in less threatening situations, that rough play and loud interactions with his buddies of any color will be viewed very differently when he does it, than when his white friends display the very same behavior. Still, the truth of the matter is, no amount of advice or voiceless behavior overcomes the physical, immovable fact of the color of his skin. His intelligence, easy smile, and lovable character won't protect him from unfounded assumptions of criminality.
What makes the Trayvon Martin travesty (歪曲) of justice so painful to me, personally, is the knowledge that Trayvon's mother loved her baby no less than I love mine. The various pictures of moments throughout a happy childhood that have now found a home on nationwide newscasts provides clear evidence of that. Yet no amount of love and care, and no words of advice could have saved her son from the cruel killing he faced at the hands of a self-appointed neighborhood watch-dog. And perhaps even worse, nothing could have prepared her for the inhuman way her son has been treated by officials even in death. To think for three long days, his parents searched for him while officials failed to inform them of his fate and instead, performed drug and alcohol tests on his lifeless body, while failing to do the same for his attacker—the only one of the two who indeed had a criminal past is frankly, unforgivable. To know that the words of her son's killer were given more weight than eye-witnesses and taped evidence of her child's screams and eventual death must be heartbreaking. But to also have to live with the fact that his attacker still breathes free while her son lays buried underground is certainly more than any sorrowful parent should have to endure (忍受).
It is this type of pain that is not unfamiliar to the Black experience in America, for this is the Black mothers' burden. A burden we have endured for centuries. Yet, there is still the rightful expectation, that in modern-day America, the wheels of justice would not be stopped.
So today, it is my hope that Trayvon's mother, father, family and friends can take some comfort in the fact that millions of Americans of every color stand with them in their fight for justice. This is a burden no family should have to endure alone.
We will not give up. We will not forget. We will continue the fight until justice is done.
