Not-So-Awful Police Stories
Even normal interactions with law enforcement can be a source of trauma when you’re Black
A few weeks ago, I was pulled over by a police officer. I haven't received a ticket for a moving violation in decades, so I couldn't imagine why this was happening. The policeman, a young Asian fellow, explained that I was being ticketed, not for speeding or reckless driving, but for violating a rule I’d never heard of. I expressed my displeasure to the officer for what I considered an unnecessary traffic stop.
The officer behaved normally, but despite that, a voice inside my head said, “Hey dumbass, this is how Black people get shot by the police.” I heeded the mental alarm bell and accepted the ticket without further comment. A few days and four hundred dollars later, I had the violation dropped, so at least my auto insurance premium wouldn't go through the roof.
Like a lot of Black men in America, I’ve had numerous encounters with law enforcement. Despite not being a criminal, I’ve been stopped more times than I can count. I've written about some of these incidents; like the time a group of cops scared the bejeezus out of me and my high school girlfriend, or the officer who pulled me over because he suspected my new Jeep was stolen—by me.
As a parent of Black children, I have had what's come to be known in popular culture as “the talk,” a conversation on how to survive their inevitable interactions with law enforcement. A while back, a white friend of mine attempted to convince me that white parents do the same thing with their children, and that race has nothing to do with it.
Though well intended, this person's sentiment reminded me of those who responded to the ascent of the Black Lives Matter movement by asserting that “all lives” or “blue lives” matter, in effect ignoring the overwhelming evidence that in America, the value of Black lives is discounted considerably compared to those of white Americans.
While I am certain that many white parents do instruct their children to be respectful of the police, I would argue that theirs is not a life-or-death conversation, as is the case with Black parents.
I didn't like what happened in this most recent instance, but I doubt I was ever in danger. But my alarm bells went off because, as a Black American, the cumulative effect of the incidents that do go out of bounds adds up. It is a kind of silent trauma, one that never really goes away.
That makes even my most innocuous interaction with the police an unnerving experience that often defies rationality.
A holiday visit
One afternoon last December, there was a sharp door knock on the door of our home. We weren't expecting visitors, but it was the holiday season, so I assumed it was a delivery that required a signature.
Instead of a FedEx or UPS employee, a police officer stood at my door, hands on his hips. Reflexively, I went into panic mode. As I tried to decode the reason for the police officer's presence, multiple irrational thoughts went through my mind. Is he here to arrest me? Is one of our kids in trouble? Are we being evicted? Despite knowing none of these things were the likely cause of the officer's visit, I still anticipated the worst.
Instead of raiding our home or arresting our children, the officer politely introduced himself. He wanted to warn us, as he had done with the rest of the neighborhood, to be on the lookout for package thieves. There’d been a spate of stolen deliveries in our neighborhood. After passing on this information, the officer was on his way.
Afterward, we laughed the whole thing off. In retrospect, I doubt that my neighbors, all of whom are white, had the same reaction to a policeman arriving at their doorstep.
Highway hero
On a Father’s Day weekend a few years ago, we spent the entire day at the beach. It was almost sundown when we headed home (this was before we moved to the island), which was about a forty-five-minute drive.
Just as we hit a stretch of highway that was little more than asphalt and forest, one of the vehicle's tires blew out. We hadn’t had our car for very long, and after attempting unsuccessfully to loosen the odd bolts on the deflated tire with Volkswagen’s version of a jack in the dark, l knew I was in trouble.
As I kneeled by the car considering my options, a pair of headlights hit me. A North Carolina State Trooper was easing up behind our car. I quickly analyzed the situation in my head: a biracial couple, both a little inebriated, with two youngsters in the back seat, stranded on a dark stretch of highway. We've all seen movie scenes like this. They never go well.
That summer there were several high-profile police shootings, and our kids immediately freaked out when they saw the police car. If I’m being honest, so did I. But I told them everything would be fine, even though I wasn’t sure that was the case. I explained to the officer, a white man who appeared to be in his early thirties, what had happened. The officer went back to his vehicle, I assumed to write a ticket.
A few minutes later he returned, not with a citation, but with a high-powered halogen flashlight and the kind of battery-powered wrench used by automobile mechanics. Then he proceeded to change my tire. The officer never asked for my license and registration. He saw the cooler of beer, but he didn’t attempt to administer a legitimate breathalyzer test. He just helped us.
The whole thing was over so fast I never got the officer’s name.
Just doing his job
One of the few things most residents dislike about living on our barrier island is that most of it is subject to a thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. One end of it is even less than that. I've heard stories of how, back in the day, there was drag racing on the main road spanning the length of the twenty-six-mile-long island, which is probably the reasoning behind the restriction.
Whatever its genesis, the speed limit law can turn what otherwise would be a ten-minute trip into a thirty-minute slog. Impatient drivers can expect an expensive ticket in return for ignoring the law.
One of the island's law enforcement officers has a reputation for strictly enforcing this law. Several perturbed residents of the town in his jurisdiction (the island has three towns) have warned me to watch out for this officer. They described him as an asshole who routinely harasses folks unnecessarily.
But when pressed, those stopped by him acknowledge the officer had a good reason for stopping them. Several have admitted to driving after a night of drinking or exceeding the speed limit. None of those who complained to me, however, had ever received a ticket from this officer.
This individual is so reviled, I knew him by reputation before ever laying eyes on him. Indeed, he is one of the few officers on the island I know by name. He is also one of the island’s only Black policemen.
About a year ago, I finally met this man. I found him to be friendly, albeit a bit nerdy. A military veteran, he's exactly the type of person one might expect to end up in law enforcement. My takeaway is that if I don't drive while intoxicated or speed through his town, we’ll never have an issue. He’s just a guy doing his job.
Is my experience with this officer different than those of the island’s white residents because we’re both Black? Possibly, but I don't think so. Do the folks who've complained to me have a problem with a Black policeman exerting authority over them? Consciously or otherwise, it sure seems like it.
It’s hard for me to have much sympathy for white folks who take umbrage with a police officer for daring to pull them over, despite having every reason to do so. Especially after years of being stopped for doing nothing at all.
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