USA TODAY International Edition
After ‘the talk’ came the fear
My police story is rarely heard in politics
Last week on the presidential debate stage, my dad mentioned the time we had “the talk” about how to interact with police. The following story is familiar to many people of color, yet rarely heard in the political arena.
When I was in eighth grade, my family and I went to Atlanta to visit some of my mother’s relatives. Toward the end of the trip, my white father and two of my black cousins sat me down for a serious talk. They told me I was getting older and they needed to make sure that I knew how to talk to the police. They ran through what they thought were the most important things:
❚ How to address police officers. Be extra polite and deliberate with your words. Don’t try to be funny or casual.
❚ What to avoid — sudden movements, back talking, reaching for anything, even your wallet, without telling the officer what you’re about to do.
❚ What the consequences of a small mistake could be — getting arrested or maybe even shot.
They kept stressing these possible consequences, worried that a 13-yearold wouldn’t understand. Finally I said, “You don’t need to keep telling me. I know what can happen.” Even then, I had heard the stories enough times.
When I was 18, I went to see my sister in San Jose and then to visit friends in San Francisco. I got off the train about 11 p.m. and started walking.
I eventually found myself in the Tenderloin neighborhood. The storefront windows had bars, a man was trying to goad passersby into a fight, and homeless people were doing hard drugs on the sidewalk. But honestly, I wasn’t that scared. I was from Brooklyn, and I truly believed that I knew how to carry myself well enough not to be messed with. And due to the sheer force of my confidence, nobody messed with me (it also probably doesn’t hurt to be 6’3”).
In fact, the only time I felt fear was at the end of the walk, as I stared at the keypad outside my hosts’ apartment building. They had texted me the code so I could let myself in, but no instructions. I stood there with my suitcase, pressing different buttons.
I still wasn’t worried about being bothered, even at 1 a.m. It was a quiet, clearly affluent neighborhood, with luxury cars and spacious balconies. I kept trying the code, feelingly increasingly hopeless about getting in without waking up my kind family friend.
I had been standing outside for about 10 minutes when a police cruiser rolled down the empty block. I figured it must be heading somewhere else, but no, it pulled over right in front of me. For years, I had been aware of the fear I caused as a young black man — I had seen people cross the street to avoid me, I had been followed around stores — yet I could hardly believe someone thought I was trying to break into a home. But the truth was obvious: Somebody had called the police on me.
I knew I had to get into the apartment. I turned back to the door and suddenly realized that I hadn’t been hitting the pound key. I frantically, and correctly, typed in the door code so fast that the cops didn’t even have a chance to step out of the car to question me. My fear in that moment meant that I wasn’t even going to give them the chance.
That fear I felt is not unique. The lecture I got from my father and cousins has been given to countless young black people. We’re taught to fear the people meant to protect us, because the absolute worst-case scenario has happened too many times. This reality cannot continue.
We shouldn’t need to feel that fear.