My Son Could Have Been Another George Floyd

Right place. Right time. Wrong color.

This past year I took a break from writing. It wasn’t easy. Writing, in many ways has been my salvation, especially in these challenging times, but truth be told my mind was elsewhere. I had started a new job and frankly, all my energy was put into that. Writing about racism and my experiences of being Black in a white space, however, still weighed heavily on me so a much-needed mental break was welcomed.

Reliving (and retelling) your past, especially a past fraught with mistreatment and non-acceptance is difficult for anyone to navigate. Add to this living in a country that sees you as either an “other” or non-existent, can, and often does, dictate how one lives one’s life.

At some point you need to take a step back, regroup, and prioritize your mental health. Unfortunately, members of the Black community often don’t have the luxury of taking a break from the constant reminders of how we’re treated as less than human.

It’s never ending.

You don’t have the right to NOT comply with our mistreatment

There are certain givens in life; death, taxes, new shows to binge on Netflix, and if you are Black in America, being harassed by the police.

Not long ago, my son had a less than ideal encounter with Boston’s finest. Did he commit a crime? No. Did he threaten someone? No. Was he doing something he shouldn’t have been doing? No. He was sitting alone on the curb drinking a Gatorade minding his own business while waiting for his Uber to arrive.

The unfortunate reality is that he is young, Black, and male in a country that views him as someone (or something) to be suspicious of. This, of course being more than enough reason to be targeted, and ultimately, harassed by the cops.

As my son tells it…

He and one of his boys had just been dropped off at a 7-Eleven by a mutual friend. Separately, they ordered Ubers to take them to their respective homes. While waiting for their rides, they ventured into the convenience store to purchase drinks.

Moments after existing the store, the friend’s Uber arrived, leaving my son to hold down the curb by himself. Within minutes the blueberries showed up in full “Kool-Aid Man busting through the wall” fashion, leaving little doubt as to their intended SWAT tactics. A familiar and traumatizing scenario was about to be acted out.

Three squad cars and six cops, all crowded into this small store lot, making a mockery of the empty parking spaces. Yes, I’m sure you can picture it. Overkill if you ask me but then again, we’re talking about what has become the standard in policing Black people in America. Surrounded, and completely confused by the sudden commotion, my son apparently had no time to compose himself before reacting. With deliberate intention to reenact plantation etiquette, a barrage of “respect free” questions began.

My son, not the most mature for his age did admit he was on the defensive straight out the gate but did keep his cool while offering as much info as he could muster, certainly in an effort to keep the temperature down. Instinctively however, in situations like this, survival mode does kick in. This is page one of the Black Peoples Survivor’s Guide.

Unrelenting, the questions continued. This wasn’t your garden-variety line of questioning mind you; he got the “Black” interrogation.

Where do you live?

Where did you get that (the drink)?

Did you pay for that?

Where is the receipt?

Where did you come from?

Do you have a job? Yep, this one made the questionnaire.

Eventually the questions morphed into suspicion — as they always do in these situations. The accusatory tamber was thick and the space between investigation and presumption of guilt quickly closed. “You don’t live around here.” “You don’t belong here.” “Where is ‘this’ Uber?” “Where is ‘this’ friend?” “Don’t lie to us.”

Am I blindly accepting this version of events offered by my child — as many parents do — no, but having experienced this same harassment by the police, I know it all too well.

Next came the “light” manhandling. Typical.

Boxing in my son and making it clear he would be pounced upon if he made, well, any move at all, two of the six boys in blue each grabbed one of his arms and aggressively threw him in back of the Ford Interceptor Utility; never allowing him an opportunity to provide proof of identity. It sounded as though they were enjoying the control and at that time of night with no one around, they could do whatever they wanted, to whomever they wanted.

While in the car confused, scared, and trying to make sense of what was unfolding, my son witnessed all six cops “circling the wagons” in an almost jovial manner. Each; smiling, laughing, and seemingly pleased with their individual participation in this travesty of justice.

I recall back when I used to harbor a more optimistic outlook, never concerning myself with the “oh, this will never happen to me” viewpoint, I was put in a similar position by a couple of traffic cops. Though this did not mirror what my son experienced, these bad actors also appeared to be loving their role in handing me my future trauma.

Unlike my son, I did in fact commit a crime that day – one mile over the speed limit.

To the rescue

If it weren’t for the Uber driver who eventually showed up to corroborate my son’s order, who knows what would have happened next?

The driver, who apparently made a few rounds before stopping, said he saw the commotion and my son being tossed in the back of the cop car. He, being Black decided he should probably stop and if nothing else, be a witness to a potential injustice as he too had experienced “less than ideal” past encounters with the police.

After a contentious but brief exchange, this time with the Uber driver, these overzealous “Unies” pulled my son out of the car, questioned him yet again — probably just for kicks — then surprisingly, let him go. Once inside, the Uber driver, a bit perplexed at what he had witnessed asked my son if he was ok? His reply, “Not really man.” “I just want to go home.”

There are two realities in America

What would have happened if my son’s white friend was the one waiting alone for his ride-share? Would he have been met with the same ambush? Likely not. Would he have experienced the same ill treatment? Doubt it. Perhaps he would have been left alone to enjoy his G2 in peace under the cover of streetlight wondering why his Uber was taking its sweet time. Chances are the suspicious eyes ready to support the white supremacy cause by contacting the po-po at first opportunity might have been asleep that night.

What if my son and his friend hadn’t parted ways? Even then, it’s unlikely the cops would have paid a visit — certainly not in the numbers they did. The mere fact that had this white friend stayed with him, in the minds of those suspicion eyes, my son might have been given a pass simply by association.

Let’s truth bomb this shall we… would six cops show up to question one white person? We all know the answer to this. I question whether they would have been called in the first place. A 6’6” young Black male sitting on a curb at 11:30pm in front of a well-lit 7-Eleven — for many in the white community — this visual paints a clear picture of someone (or thing) up to no good and thus should be dealt with. Enter, the cavalry. And that’s what it would take apparently.

A couple of years ago, I was asked by someone I had just met, someone who was clearly trying to poke the bear or at least, satisfy themselves by opening a door to share their extreme beliefs; “Why do Black people always complain about being harassed by the police?” This was at a time when “patriotism” was at its zenith, and to show allegiance to anything else was considered treason. Hmmmm! I thought for a moment about what was being asked and truthfully it was a challenge to provide an honest response without stoking the fire of a potential one-sided, tone-deaf debate. After all, how can the Black community love a country, fight for a country, and embrace the values that supposedly are the lifeblood of our land when “our” country doesn’t love us back.

While retelling this horrendous experience of not long ago, you could feel the anxiety still plaguing my son. Each word loaded with pain, humiliation, and fear bubbling up creating even more bewilderment as to why he was treated the way he was. Being Black in this country is understanding you will eventually be the recipient of the fear and the power induced whims of law enforcement. This is just the reality for Black people (specifically Black men).

Admittedly I was a bit naïve during my son’s early years. As a young, first-time parent, I didn’t, or at times didn’t want to, accept the reality that he too would someday be faced with an encounter with the police — one that could result in him either dead on the ground or arrested for going a mile over the speed limit. Every day our community is reminded that if you are Black in America, you will always be under suspicion, always be treated differently from the white community, always perceived as a threat, and always questioned, especially by the very group of people whose jobs it is to protect us “all.”

For many of us, we are not protected (or respected)… we are hunted. Full stop!

Imagine that, or maybe you can’t.

Thank you for reading!