I Was George ZimmermanBy Dekker Dreyer
I was George Zimmerman. I can speak from personal experience and tell you why he needs to be charged for the murder of Trayvon Martin.
Last year I was living in central Florida, just 30 minutes from where Trayvon’s lifeless body was found soaking in the rain. My neighborhood had been on high alert because of a series of burglaries. My wife and I had tools stolen from our backyard and the security of my family weighed heavy on me. I owned a Bushmaster AR-15 variant, which is a semi-automatic assault rifle, and I was fully prepared to use it if needed. I was aware of Florida’s stand your ground law and took comfort knowing that I had the right to defend myself if threatened with physical danger.
Over the next week there were more crimes. Our alarms were triggered and I took my gun out of the house and into the yard looking for who did it. I didn’t find anything except a ripped t-shirt. Over those two weeks I called in a few police reports and we heard a few other alarms going off. Police were cruising our neighborhood more often. We felt unsafe. That heightened level of fear makes you begin to look at everyone with suspicion. It’s a situation I don’t wish on anyone. Then, one afternoon my wife ran upstairs from having been working in the garden. She told me that she was approached by a young black man wearing a hoodie. To say our area was mostly white would be an understatement.
This was New Smyrna Beach Florida, where the black neighborhood is literally across the railroad tracks; a shameful hold over of pre-civil rights movement inequality. Seeing a black teenager near our house was something that just didn’t happen. Even we had our fair share of dirty looks and thinly veiled racism pushed our way just because my wife is half Japanese. I’d hate to see how much more in-your-face the venom would’ve been if they knew I was part hispanic.We moved to the area from New York metro because it was a quiet, beautiful beach town where I had family nearby. All the good things about New Smyrna were actively offset by the racial tension. The city did everything short of hanging “white’s only” signs on the doors of local businesses. The kid had approached my wife and started to ask her something, then immediately stopped and walked away. She thought this was odd and asked me to come downstairs. I did.
Seeing that kid I immediately felt sympathy for him. I felt conflicted, but had to face the reality that he was unfamiliar and had been walking up and down the street looking at houses. I watched him for a while; sometimes he’d stop to look in windows. He had a notebook in his hand and was writing something down as he passed from house to house. The kid couldn’t have been more than seventeen and he was scrawny. If he’d made a move on me I could’ve snapped his neck like crumpling paper. It would’ve been ridiculous to go get my gun. I watched him walk up the street to the main road, meet a car, and return without his notebook. I was second guessing myself the whole time. “He couldn’t be doing anything wrong, I’m just paranoid”, I thought. I just couldn’t ignore my gut feeling and I called the police. My reasoning was that it’s not my job to decide if he’s guilty or not, so I shouldn’t deprive the community of justice because of my sympathetic nature. The crooks could have been hoping that no one would see him as a threat because of his age; making him a perfect scout.
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