All I knew about Emmett Till was the image of his bloated figure in that coffin. I think I saw it in an article in one of the magazines we had in the house at the time. His mother was standing next to him looking down on his lifeless body with a countenance that openly displayed her heartache – as open as the casket in which her son lay.
It was an image that stuck with me for a long time. It scared me – I would even say it left a scar on my psyche. I never said anything about it because in my young mind, the mere mention of it would make me feel as if the same thing might happen to me. My mother briefly spoke about the backstory to his murder but I don’t think a single word registered. I was too focused on that gruesome, awful photo. Was that really a little boy? How could a human do something like that to another human, I thought – so grizzly was the image.
Years later, I thought of Emmett Till when Trayvon Martin was murdered. Continue reading “Till Martin Comes Home: Emmett, Trayvon, and Blind Injustice”