Why a black woman can’t wear a hoodie in Upper Kirby
Maybe I should’ve known better than to wear a hoodie.
“You’re so overdressed” is something I hear often. Zipping into a floor-length gown on both nights of any given weekend is not uncommon for me. A diverse accoutrement of formalwear was practically listed in my job description.
But I wasn’t wearing a ball gown on Memorial Day when a police officer followed me home. And my brand-name athletic attire didn’t deter him from circling me four times before parking his vehicle at the end of my block.
My roommate and I like to joke that I’m her dog’s mistress. Montana, a 5-year-old golden retriever and chow mix rescued from Thailand, sleeps in my bed every night. He also finishes my meals and escorts me on walks around 77098 when his master is out of town.
And that’s how the fur ball and I ended the long holiday weekend — with a late-afternoon stroll around Upper Kirby after delivering dinner to a friend whose baby was being treated for pneumonia at Texas Children’s Hospital.
We live on the kind of “Pleasantville” street where everyone waves hello. It’s quiet, with manicured lawns and white picket fences. There are luxury midrises and modern new construction mixed in with well-maintained cottages and renovated townhouses like mine. You bump into neighbors at Kuhl-Linscomb and Owl Bar or on the sidewalk, when your dogs stop to sniff each other.
Montana and I had such an encounter on the day I was racially profiled. We crossed the same lumbering husky who tugs his owner — a woman, white — toward Kirby every day about 5 p.m. She and a man — also white — both wore athletic shirts and shorts that mirrored my own.
I lowered my headphones — Skullcandy, custom hot pink and chrome — to greet them. That’s when a small police SUV whizzed by on Greenbriar.
As the vehicle slowed, our trio paused.
How odd, I thought minutes later as Montana and I rounded a corner. Over my shoulder, the patrol car made a U-turn near West Alabama while we continued on our usual route, veering back onto a residential street.
Flashing lights in broad daylight are unusual for this part of town. I see the same navy Rolls-Royce, which belongs to a prominent couple whose daughter lives behind me, more frequently than law enforcement.
Still, there was no mistaking the pulsating red-and-blue emergency bulbs that startled Montana and me as the patrol car flew past — now for a third lap. Or the fear that gripped me as I froze there, alone on the pavement.
Were we in danger? I wondered as the patrol vehicle made one final U-turn. This time, he was mere yards away, pivoting sharply between curbs.
Then I realized, as the officer made eye contact and spoke into his radio, that maybe I was the danger.
At my fighting weight, 5 feet 4 inches, 128 pounds, I’m hardly intimidating. Especially in the cocktail dresses I sport weekly to the River Oaks Country Club (1.7 miles away, venue of choice for charity events on my beat) or in white jeans, my work uniform, at the Chronicle office (3 miles exactly from front door to desk).
But in a dark-gray hoodie and headphones, one block from my home, I become a person of interest.
And it’s because of the accessory that doesn’t come off or change with the trends: my skin color.
“No matter how much money you have, no matter how famous you are, no matter how many people admire you, being black in America is — it’s tough,” LeBron James told reporters two days after my incident.
A racial slur had been painted outside his Los Angeles residence. “And we’ve got a long way to go for us as a society, and for us as African-Americans, until we feel equal in America.”
I keep thinking about Trayvon Martin, the 17-yearold African-American high school student who was fatally shot by George Zimmerman, a neighborhood-watch volunteer, during his own walk home. Transcripts from Zimmerman’s non-emergency call to report “a suspicious guy” reveal that Martin, too, wore “a dark hoodie, like a grey hoodie” on the night that he died.
Shortly after, former Fox News host Bill O’Reilly told contributor Allen West on air that, “If Trayvon Martin had been wearing a jacket like you are and a tie like you are … I don’t think George Zimmerman would have any problem. But he was wearing a hoodie, and he looked a certain way. And that way is how ‘gangstas’ look. And, therefore, he got attention.”
Is my crime, then, a case for the fashion police instead of HPD? I, too, wore a dark-gray hoodie, and I got attention — was that the problem?
My roommate doesn’t buy it. She describes her own afternoon dog-walking aesthetic as a “ratchet” combination of baseball caps and sweatpants, hooded tops and T-shirts with holes.
But a patrol car has never parked in steady traffic for an unobstructed view of her with Montana. And no police officer has ever rolled down his window to watch her 10-minute walk down our empty street.
Maybe it’s because the ponytail under her hoodie is blond and mine is brown. Or because running shorts expose that her legs are fair and mine are dark.
People have asked me why I didn’t approach the officer’s vehicle. Why didn’t I demand his badge number, provide proof of residence, file a report?
The answer is simple: I shouldn’t have to.
I shouldn’t have to wear sequins around my neighborhood to avoid being profiled any more than Trayvon Martin should’ve worn a suit to avoid being shot.
After I posted about the experience on Facebook, a friend-slash-gallery owner sent me a beautiful “feel better” bouquet. The note read: “Ballgown with glitter hoodie is ordered. Enjoy the flowers until then.”
Her sentiment was touching and heartfelt. But its subliminal message prompts more questions: Is beadwork the new bulletproof vest for young black women inside the Loop? Is sparkle my greatest defense against racial profiling?
The next time someone tells me, “You’re so overdressed,” I’ll try not to reply, “It’s safer this way.”
But deep down, I’ll know better.