MICHEL MARTIN, HOST:
This is TELL ME MORE, from NPR News. I'm Michel Martin. In a few minutes, we will have a special treat for you - the sensational a capella singing group Traces of Blue will be with us in studio. They'll tell us how they went from Howard University to the national spotlight, and they're going to sing. That's coming up.
But first, if you don't mind, a couple of words from me about the events of this past week. As I was heading home the other day, I was thinking about a situation I encountered a while ago, when I landed back in the D.C. area after a trip somewhere. I was hungry, and I saw that one of my favorite lunch spots had opened an outpost at the airport. So I ducked in there and was just about to order when I realized that a young woman standing next to me was having some sort of confrontation that was loud - and getting louder.
I turned to look at her. She was a big girl - as my parents would say - tall, stout, and she had on one of those wigs or weaves that if you were having a mean moment, you might be asking yourself, why is she wearing that? And if you must know, she actually looked a little bit like a certain star witness in a recently concluded trial. So I had to decide what to do.
I could've walked away and gotten my sandwich somewhere else, but I decided not to. I did the kind of thing that makes my husband, a former prosecutor, crazy, but I insist on doing anyway. I turned to her and I said, are you OK? Can I help?
And you know what happened next? A big, fat tear rolled down that girl's cheek. And she ducked her head, and she told me what had happened. Somebody behind the counter, who was supposed to be making her sandwich, had made fun of her hair. And it hurt her feelings, and she felt humiliated. And this is me talking now - she had no words for her hurt feelings. But she did have words for her anger, and so she started yelling.
Can I just tell you, this is where we are right now. Now, we have to choose. We can listen to the shouting, or we can choose to see the tears.
So if by now you've decided that the story of what happened between Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman is all just media hoo-ha engineered by professional agitators who have nothing better to do, then you certainly have that choice; but you are choosing not to see the tears. You are choosing not to see the tears of parents and siblings and friends, your neighbors, maybe the guy in the cubicle next to yours; who see their loved ones threatened, hurt and even killed, and then come to believe that those deaths count for nothing.
We brought you a story last week that may explain even a piece of this. Jason Silverstein, a doctoral candidate at Harvard, wrote in Slate - and told us - about a university study demonstrating that people do not respond equally to the pain of others. Researchers actually showed this by analyzing the brain responses of subjects. They found when viewers saw white people receiving a painful stimulus - a needle prick, say - their brains responded more dramatically than they did when the same thing happened to black people. He called it a racial empathy gap. And Silverstein wrote that the problem isn't just that people disregard the pain of black people; the problem is they think that pain isn't even felt. And yes, since I'm sure you want to know this, even black participants assumed that black people felt less pain than whites.
Why would this be? Silverstein told us the research suggested that study participants assumed blacks are somehow impervious to pain because they felt so much of it. In his words, quote, "because they are believed to be less sensitive to pain, black people are forced to endure more pain," unquote.
I tell you this not to relitigate this painful trial that's just concluded. This is not a suggestion that we all leave our car doors unlocked, and our handbags gaping wide, when we leave the house. We've all developed our gut instincts, for better or worse. But this is a plea to reconsider those gut instincts, and what they are based on.
Think about the conversation we'd be having right now if instead of thinking, these punks always get away, a certain neighborhood watchman had stayed his car with his gun tucked in his waistband; and asked a teenager visiting an unfamiliar subdivision, are you OK? Can I help? And then he might have learned that a 17-year-old was trying to find his way back to his little brother, armed with Skittles and iced tea instead of - well, we all know the rest.
To tie a bow on the rest of my story, I asked for the manager of the sandwich place. I suggested he apologize to the young lady - which he did. I asked her if I could hug her - which I did. I told her she was beautiful no matter what anybody else thought.
And you know what? She is.