I’ve got the newspaper before me, still shaking my head in disbelief over the remarks from Juror B37 (or B52 or B9 or B-Still-My-Beating-Heart) about how Trayvon played a big role in his own shooting because he should have walked away, and even though “George” (who seemed like a nice, sincere fellow “with his heart in the right place” just got in a little too deep and made a bad judgment, is all) had the right to shoot the teenager dead because he felt threatened (even if he actually wasn’t: he only had to FEEEEEEEEEEEEEL threatened) and despite disobeying the police dispatcher about pursuing his prey, getting out of his car, and engaging him, etc., when there’s a knock on the door. Distracted, I open it.
“Praise the Lord how ya doin’ this morning?” asks the first of two very large and elderly smiling African-American women.
Shit damnation — prayer harpies! Chancel prancers!
“These are trying times on God’s earth,” says the other, earnestly, “and maybe it’s the moment when you might want to get your thoughts and spirits together to meet the Lord for the eternal peace of your soul.”
Wait a minute — eternal peace? Meet the Lord? You mean, die?
“It’s not death as you might understand it, Sir — it’s eternal life. To embrace the Lord and His teachings is to experience wisdom and peace of the soul, something in these terrible times of pressure and stress we all need desperately.”
I dunno, ladies. I mean, “eternal life” sounds like the end of my earthly tour of duty here. What are my options?
“Well, we believe that to turn your back of the Lord is to turn over your soul to the devil, and that’s why we urge you to accept the Lord today and His eternal blessings.”
Whoa! Damned if I do and damned if I don’t! What brings you to my doorstep demanding I choose between two flavors of death?”
“It’s the way of the Lord, Sir — here, read this pamphlet and you’ll learn all you need to know.”
She starts fumbling around in a large satchel, but hey — I wasn’t born yesterday. Here’s these two strange people in my neighborhood — and did I mention that they happen to be Black, even though that’s not relevant? — threatening me with my own imminent death, one of whom might be going for her gun. STAND YOUR GROUND, the (other) voice in my head starts screaming. STAND YOUR GROUND!
We keep a handgun loaded and ready in the drawer of a stand beside the door just in case of such an emergency. I kick at the elderly prospective assailant’s sack to gain an extra second, then reach behind me for the weapon. Their eyes widen in disbelief that I’ve sniffed out their ruse so quickly, but it’s too late for them both. At point-blank range, even I can hit my mark. Usually.
I explain everything to the police when they arrive, and they’re fine with it. Evidently they read the judge’s instructions to the jury, too. You know, this part:
“If George Zimmerman was not engaged in an unlawful activity and was attacked in any place where he had a right to be, he had no duty to retreat and had the right to stand his ground and meet force with force, including deadly force if he reasonably believed that it was necessary to do so to prevent death or great bodily harm to himself or another or to prevent the commission of a forcible felony.” — Sacramento bee
and they understand the laws here in Florida. And now you do, too.
Happy Hunting! Hope you feel safe!