What If It Was Your Son?

I have two grown sons. They both live in large cities. One of them moved from Chicago back to Seattle because he said he couldn't afford to live in a safe neighborhood there, and he was afraid. He's my rebel, always doing something not quite safe. I worry that one day I will get "the call" -- you know the one, the one every parent dreads. The one Trayvon Martin's parents got. Even now, my son is thinking of doing a stint on a fishing ship, which is so dangerous they pay $10,000 for a few months work.

Last night, a 17-year-old boy was denied justice. I can't even cry for him, my sadness is so great. My son called me last night, and I had not heard the news yet. Now I think he must have, because he called just after the verdict came in. He knows I worry about him. He knows that I see him in every Trayvon Martin story, and pray every night for his safety from the George Zimmermans of the world.

We are white, but there are George Zimmermans in every color, around every corner. Seattle has a lot of gangs and gang violence is worse in the summer months. Who's to say he won't run into some crazy gang-banger one day out to prove himself and end up laying on the grass like Trayvon?

My other son lives in Chicago, and we all know how dangerous that town is. Even though he lives in a nice neighborhood, that won't always keep him safe.

Sometimes I wish my kids could have stayed small, so I could protect them forever, but that just doesn't happen. Baby birds fly off and have to do their best to stay safe from the predators on their own. All we can do is hope and pray they survive, and that we never get the call and have to see justice denied to our babies.

I am thinking maybe it's time for me to move out to Seattle. Florida holds nothing for me now.