(no subject)
February used to mean a lot of things. Love. Birth. A bridge between the seasons. But now it serves mainly as a reminder that about a year ago, you were killed by hatred. In your hometown of Oxnard, California, your only crime was to be yourself with no apologies, and yet your punishment was a public execution in your 8th grade computer class. All you wanted was a valentine. A chance. All you got was two bullets through your skull, brutally snuffing out a world of uncharted potential.
I wonder which of the two hurt you more: feeling the harsh metal permeate the softness of your still-developing body, or knowing that it was you against an increasingly unfair world. You went to school every day and saw the teachers, your elders, avert their eyes when the taunts and teases echoed from your ignorant peers. You knew as well as they did that they heard every sneer, every jab at your self-esteem, and it must have been painfully clear that the battle you were facing was your own. And even still, you traded your armor in for the controversy of your own skin -- skirt, heels, sometimes your favorite shades of make up. It was a risk, and a big one as far as risks go, but it was a risk you were willing to take because to you, there was no other option.
Of course after your death, your character and bravery were questioned and challenged, particularly by those who would rather ignore the fact that we as a society cultivate children who would rather kill their gay brother than accept their difference. Reasons to justify your murder and to trump your right to pursue happiness were crafted and circulated like an unstoppable sickness. The public was urged not to view you as a martyr, because even in the tragedy of your death, you were not worthy of that title.
For what it’s worth, I don’t admire you because you are a martyr, because I am fairly certain that this was not the path you would have chosen for yourself. If the gunman, before ending your life, had pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of your head, and given you the option to live or die, I feel confident in concluding that your innocent mind would have reasonably opted to live your life as everyone should get the chance to. Therefore, you are not a martyr. I admire you because you had courage to be yourself, regardless of the challenges and prejudices that, especially in middle school society, are very real and as we have learned, dangerous. Your refusal to back down and be a lesser version of yourself may have cost you your life, but it accomplished you more than many people who die of old age will ever feel.
Rest in peace, Lawrence Fobes King.