Stand Your Ground

          Reading about the Trayvon Martin killing in Florida brings back my own stand-your-ground memories.

            Many years ago, when I was young and willowy, I drove a VW Beetle that was ancient even then.  During a very short time, I had three flat tires, each while I was alone behind the wheel.

            The first flat happened in the middle of the day when I was driving on a highway outside of Baltimore. Suddenly, an old pick-up truck stopped a few yards ahead. Two tough-looking guys jumped down and came running toward me.  I could see their tattoos and a pack of cigarettes tucked under a shirt sleeve, greaser style.  One guy was waving a large tire iron.

            I was terrified.

            But with no cellphone and no weapon, I had no choice but to stand my ground.  Besides where was I going on three tires?  As it turned out, the men only wanted to help. And with that “weapon” of theirs, they got the job done in minutes.

            The second flat came on another stretch of highway while I was on another reporting  assignment. This time a well-dressed man pulled over in a nice clean car, and I felt only gratitude as he fixed my flat. But once the job was done, he walked behind his car and opened the trunk: Oh my god, I thought, he’s got a gun. 

            Instead he took out a roll of paper towels and a bottle of hand cleanser.

            Obviously, I'm lucky that both flats didn't result in any personal trauma. But I also feel lucky that in my fear I didn’t inflict any harm.  For me, standing my ground meant taking a deep breath – not taking aim.  Had a Stand Your Ground law been in effect I could have harmed people whose only crime was wanting to help.

            Travyon Martin’s killer should not be shielded by such a terrible law. Florida’s Stand Your Ground statute creates an environment of vigilantism that makes people think danger lurks at every encounter.  Even when the danger comes from a young black man in a hoodie with a pack of skittles and a can of iced tea in his pocket.  It’s not even clear that Travyon wasn’t the one who felt threatened, younger, smaller and unarmed as he was.

            Oh, about that third flat... It was on a busy city street, and by then I knew just what to do. Still when a male pedestrian stopped, I was ready to hand over the tire wrench. Instead he offered step-by-step instructions and watched as my hands got dirty and my pantyhose ripped.  What a guy.