Trayvon Martin's parents, five years after his shooting, weigh political bids

MIAMI GARDENS, Fla. — Trayvon Martin's parents aren't convinced much progress has been made on racial justice since the Florida teenager was killed five years ago in a shooting that helped fuel the Black Lives Matter movement, but they say at least his death reignited a national conversation about it.

Now they fear President Trump will reverse whatever has been accomplished. Both are considering running for political office to "be part of the change" they say the nation needs.

"Since Trayvon's death, we saw how divided the country is on these issues and we saw how the country can come together," Tracy Martin, Trayvon's father, told Capital Download. "You have those that are for uniting the country and you have those that want to be apart. And what this new presidency does, it takes those that want to be apart and it puts them right in the position where they can say, 'We'll change the laws, and we'll make it tougher.'"

He worries that the new administration will make it easier for law enforcement officials and citizens to justify violence against minorities on the grounds they felt their safety was imperiled. ​At his trial for shooting Trayvon, George Zimmerman argued he felt threatened by the 17-year-old, whom he had followed in his car and then on foot.

In their new book, Rest in Power, being published Tuesday by Siegel & Grau, Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin testify in alternating chapters how an explosive national controversy unfolded in their lives, from the shooting in 2012 to the protests in the street to the trial of his killer. The 331-page book ends with Zimmerman's acquittal in 2013 on charges of second-degree murder and manslaughter.

Prep for the polls: See who is running for president and compare where they stand on key issues in our Voter Guide

Now, in an interview with USA TODAY's video newsmaker series, Fulton and Martin say they are considering running for office, an idea they would have found laughable five years ago — "before our life got interrupted," as she put it.

Capital Download - Conversations with Washington's biggest newsmakers

"Before I was just comfortable with my average life, but now I feel like I'm just obligated to be part of the change," Fulton said. "The only way we can be part of the change is if we start with local government and we work our way up."

How far up?

"It could go all the way to the White House," she declared, though it would begin with a bid for, say, city or county commission.

"There's no limitations," Martin agreed. "I think once you embark on a journey, you don't minimize your goal; you want to maximize your goals. So you start on the local level and then you work your way up and hopefully it will take us to a place where we can help more than just local, more than just state. National. That would be the focus."

'Anti-police atmosphere'

They are distressed by the new president's attitude, a sharp change from his predecessor. At one point, then-president Obama said, "If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon," urging Americans to give serious consideration to the issues behind his shooting. When Zimmerman was acquitted, a somber Obama said, "Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago."

In contrast, on the day Trump was inaugurated this month, his administration posted a position paper on law-enforcement policy on the White House website, vowing change. "The dangerous anti-police atmosphere in America is wrong," the statement said. "The Trump administration will end it."

"I think from the statements being made, we won't progress; we'll be going backwards," Martin said.

Fulton, who campaigned for Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton last year, said Trump's rhetoric against immigrants in general and Muslims in particular "fed into that division, they fed into that hatred." Now, she said the African-American parents she talks to are increasingly concerned about their children's safety.

"Average citizens feel like their kids are not going to make it home safely, because we've had so many incidents where somebody is shot and killed and nobody is being held accountable," she said. "You have to bury a loved one, and on top of you burying a loved one, nobody is going to trial. Nobody is being arrested. Nobody is going to jail. And so it like adds insult to injury.

"Where is the justice system for some of these families? Where was the justice system for us?"

She can hardly believe that five years have passed since she got the shattering call that her son had been shot and killed when he ran out to a corner store to pick up a soft drink and some Skittles. The fatal shooting of the unarmed youth fueled a national debate over violence against unarmed minorities and transformed the lives of his parents. His parents say their son has become "a symbol, a beacon and a mirror" in the nation's debate over race and justice.

"It feels like it happened a few months ago," Fulton said. "The pain is still raw. The pain is still fresh. And I know I'm not going to ever get healed back to my original state, because he's not coming back."

They are sitting in the modest offices of the Trayvon Martin Foundation, a nonprofit they founded to battle gun violence and help families and young people. On the wall just behind them, on the third floor of the Florida Memorial University library here, there is a five-foot-tall blow-up of what has become an iconic photo of their son in one of the hoodies he wore almost everywhere.

Fulton was one of the so-called Mothers of the Movement who helped solidify Clinton's support in the African-American community during last year's campaign. A week after the election, Clinton's staff arranged a conference call for Clinton and the informal group.

"Even now, it feels like you're still down and you're trying to get back up," Fulton says of what she calls a "devastating" defeat in November. Asked how she thinks Clinton is doing, she begins, "I think," then pauses. "She's very disappointed by what happened ... and I think that it's going to take a lot of time for her to get back up."

Sleeping in his uniform

Fulton and Martin survey the familiar landscape at Forzano Park in Miramar, Fla., where Trayvon had played football and his father still coaches.

They are tall, sturdy, straightforward. They had gotten divorced when Trayvon was 4 years old but seem to have an easy friendship to this day. Martin works as a truck driver. Fulton had been a program manager for the Miami-Dade Housing Authority, though she left the job the day her son was killed and never returned. Both are wearing "I am Trayvon Martin" buttons, showing their son's face.

"I remember when he first started playing," Martin said, a smile spreading over his face. "He would sleep in his uniform. He'd put on his pants and his socks and he'd sleep in it. He's wake up in the morning, ready to go."

Now Trayvon's blue and gold jersey is framed and hangs in the clubhouse. His number, 9, has been retired by the Wolverines, and the name scrawled on the cubby he used hasn't been repainted. "Lil Tray," it reads.

"He did get hurt one time and I was just like, Oh!," Fulton said, making a sound as though she had been kicked in the stomach. "But then when he got up and everybody started clapping, I was like, I don't know if I could do this football thing, you know. I think that's what all parents go through, especially when it's their child down. It's like, Oh! It just does something to you."

If he had lived, Trayvon would be turning 22 next Sunday.

"A lot of times in the national spotlight, they celebrate his death," Fulton said. (The fifth anniversary of that is later next month, on Feb. 26.) "But we don't see any importance in celebrating his death, and so we celebrate his birth. ...

"Every year, I always say that I'm not going to cry when they sing 'Happy Birthday,' and lo and behold, as a mother, you know, I cry every year. I tear up every year," she said. "Every year, it reminds me that we're missing him another year."