I didn’t meet any angry people. I met people who expressed hurt, frustration, fear for their children, and despair, and yet, were still hopeful. Hopeful that although it seems the justice system had yet again failed, if we gathered together like this, our voices would be heard. That the killing of Trayvon Martin would not be allowed to be just another dead young black swept under the mat and forgotten.
When I listen to that final 911 tape, I hear a teen voice screaming for help. If, according to Zimmerman on his reenactment, he believed Trayvon was alive and still dangerous, why would the screaming stop exactly when the gun is fired? Why wouldn’t Zimmerman, if he had been the one screaming for help, keep screaming?
Because it was Trayvon.