What Do You Say?

"You know this book, Mr. Piercey?" His thumb was across the title and the author's last name, but I could read the "Harper" and know the purple paperback cover. "Yes. It's To Kill a Mockingbird." "You know what it's about?" His questions were uncomfortable.
He's young. He's smart. He's an athlete. He's a good kid. He is in my room because he got a new phone for his fifteenth birthday, and he brought it to school to show his friend. A teacher saw it. A rule was broken.
This fell as the Trayvon Martin story broke.
"Yes, I know the story." "Why did Mr. Finch help Tom, Mr. Piercey?" I felt the weight of that question for a few moments. I want to believe that the world Tom Robinson knew is gone. I want to believe that one person helping another, regardless of race, isn't really a big deal any more. But I don't live in my student's world.
"Some people believe that you do the right thing." That's what I believe. "No matter what other people may do to you?" That's his experience. We talked for a few more minutes about the old south. He was as interested in Atticus' having to live amongst his neighbors as he was what happened to Tom Robinson. I realized later that he knew what was going to happen to Tom Robinson before he ever got to the end of the book. The news to him was that white lawyer taking the chance.
"Why'd he shoot that boy, Mr. Piercey?" There are no boys shot in Mockingbird. We had jumped forward almost 80 years. I saw that his eyes were way too wet for a fifteen year old boy at school. I started to say, "I don't know" but I couldn't. Because I do know. And because he is a very bright young man, my student did too. I decided in that instant that he wanted to know if I would tell him the truth. I did.
"There is evil in this world, and one of the places it shows itself is in the hatred that some people carry for people of other races than their own." He nodded and folded his hands over his face, looking down at his desk. I have no doubt that when he sees Trayvon's picture on the tv screen, he sees his own face.
"Why'd he shoot that boy?" he asked again, very softly. I try to imagine his confusion. I try to imagine his intellectual struggle. I try to imagine his fear.
But I'm white, and he's black, and we live in America.
So imagine is all I can do.