I don’t know why I’d left my good viewing position that time. Coulda been the painfully loud clapper in back of me.

I KNEW the clapper was a white guy. (And he was.)

Was it the same position I’d left to summon a cop when someone needed help? I have no idea what happened, medically. The call was passed from within the depths of the crowd and I, unsung hero that I am, simply answered that call. I do know that when I realized the person now addressing the crowd was Sabryna Fulton, I tried, quasi-gracefully, to see her and succeeded in visually locating the spot just when the next talker had supplanted her. As she left, though, alongside Sharpton and people in shirts, I followed behind, as it seemed a visually supportive thing to do.

To my right, I heard a passerby ask what was going on and someone answered that Al Sharpton was part of something. How, I wondered, could he not know what that something must have been? I pointed out to both asker and answerer that Trayvon Martin’s mother was crossing the street in that crowd ahead of us.

They were suddenly, quietly impressed. I guess it was her public dignity in the face of so much pain.

Chinatown ahead of me, I started to cry inside.

It took me by surprise.


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