A teacher's reflection on the Trayvon Martin murder

I teach Trayvon Martin.  Not in the literal sense, but most definitely in the metaphorical sense.  I teach high school.  Trayvon Martin would fit right in walking the hallways of my school.  I can see him in my head - joking with his friends (probably too loudly), walking through the cafeteria, tray in hand, and yes, getting into trouble.  

It's what teenagers do.  

Get in trouble.  Push the limits.  Rebel against authority.  

It's normal. 

While I don't necessarily agree with it, marijuana use is common among high school students. 

Trayvon was not an abnormally rebellious teenager.  He was a normal one.  One who is exactly like many that I have taught.  

He probably didn't see the point of school.  

But I hope he had at least one teacher who cared about him.  I hope he had at least one teacher he cared about.  

My heart is saddened by both his death and the acquittal of the one who killed him.  

My sadness has nothing to do with his race.  It has everything to do with his potential.  

This face haunts me.  I can't wait for school to start in a few weeks so I can hug the necks of the rascals that will aggravate me in a few months.  Those that others might call "thugs" and see as a potential threat.  

I choose to only see the potential.