By Lonnae O’Neal, Washington Post, August 2, 2015
I am no longer annoyed when police pull me over.
I’m afraid.
My anxiety used to be economic.
As a single mother, I’m always running a deficit–time, money, patience–and traffic stops always seem to cost more than I can afford. I speed because I’m running somewhere where there’s a psychic toll for being late. I haven’t gotten that headlight, taillight, smoke coming from my car fixed because I’m waiting to get paid–but I still have to go to the store or pick up kids from school in the meantime. In this way, I can relate to the people many of us don’t see, and can scarcely imagine, for whom a traffic stop comes as trauma to an ecosystem that’s already so precariously balanced.
This doesn’t mean I think my infraction is okay, simply that so many times police flash their lights at the thinnest places in our lives.
My anxiety is now full-out dread.
It crossed over last month. During a traffic stop.
I was pulled over less than a minute from my house because my headlight was out. My kids and I were coming from the grocery store, and my 17-year-old was driving. She’d forgotten her learner’s permit. We both apologized to the officer. He ran her name, said it wasn’t in their records. I said it had to be. He shined his flashlight into the car. It hurt my eyes. I asked if he could stop.
I told him we lived close and asked if my daughter could run home and get her permit. She wasn’t going anywhere, he told me. He returned to his squad car to check her name again. I was impatient. His system was wrong. The kids were hungry. I had an idea. My 13-year-old son could run home, grab the permit and bring it right back. Easy, I thought.
I got out of the car to tell the officer. I know now that was a big mistake.
“Get back in the car, NOW!” he screamed. I was stunned. I reflexively tried to explain myself. “Get back in the car!” the officer yelled again.
I just wanted to know if my son could go get the permit, I kept trying to say. I just stood there, in the squad car’s headlights in leggings and a T-shirt.
“I’m going to count to five!” he threatened. “One … two … three …”
I should have moved quicker. But sometimes, I freeze. Freeze, fight, flee. It’s a matter of basic wiring. It’s a fact people seem to understand intuitively when passengers on a Metro train fail to come to the aid of a man being stabbed to death in front of them, but often lose sight of completely when police encounters go left.
“FOUR …” the officer yelled.
“I’m a reporter for The Washington Post!” I blurted. Then I finally found my legs and dashed to my car.
Calling out my job was bad form, I know. But I wasn’t doing it to impress him. I was doing it because I needed him to see me, and nothing intrinsic to who I am–not my citizenship, not my motherhood, not my lack of size or pockets to hold even a cellphone, let alone a weapon–was allowing him to do that.
I did it because I couldn’t imagine what would happen when he got to five.
I was shaking uncontrollably when the officer got to my door. I asked his name, but couldn’t steady myself enough to write it. “It’s okay, Mom,” my 17-year-old said nervously, rubbing my hand.
I didn’t know if the officer heard me, but he apologized for yelling. I apologized as well. He let my son run home to get my daughter’s permit.
What do you do? the officer asked as we waited. I’m a columnist, I told him. He asked what I write about. I didn’t answer.
I know most police officers are not like the ones in the Bland, Garner, Scott, Rice, Crawford, Jones, Harris, Gray, DuBose, et al. videos.
I know it can be a dangerous job, but it’s a danger officers sign up–and presumably train–for. One that requires discernment. Every time someone is left humiliated or frightened by one of these stops (let alone bloody or dead), some of what binds us is lost.
By a thousand cuts, you are losing your nation’s respect.
My son got back with the permit, and the officer let us go with a warning. I’m not going to read about this, am I? he asked. No worries, I promised. I would have promised anything to get away. I guess this column breaks my promise. There’s a lot of that going around.
I am no longer annoyed when police pull me over.
I’m afraid.
My anxiety used to be economic.
As a single mother, I’m always running a deficit–time, money, patience–and traffic stops always seem to cost more than I can afford. I speed because I’m running somewhere where there’s a psychic toll for being late. I haven’t gotten that headlight, taillight, smoke coming from my car fixed because I’m waiting to get paid–but I still have to go to the store or pick up kids from school in the meantime. In this way, I can relate to the people many of us don’t see, and can scarcely imagine, for whom a traffic stop comes as trauma to an ecosystem that’s already so precariously balanced.
This doesn’t mean I think my infraction is okay, simply that so many times police flash their lights at the thinnest places in our lives.
My anxiety is now full-out dread.
It crossed over last month. During a traffic stop.
I was pulled over less than a minute from my house because my headlight was out. My kids and I were coming from the grocery store, and my 17-year-old was driving. She’d forgotten her learner’s permit. We both apologized to the officer. He ran her name, said it wasn’t in their records. I said it had to be. He shined his flashlight into the car. It hurt my eyes. I asked if he could stop.
I told him we lived close and asked if my daughter could run home and get her permit. She wasn’t going anywhere, he told me. He returned to his squad car to check her name again. I was impatient. His system was wrong. The kids were hungry. I had an idea. My 13-year-old son could run home, grab the permit and bring it right back. Easy, I thought.
I got out of the car to tell the officer. I know now that was a big mistake.
“Get back in the car, NOW!” he screamed. I was stunned. I reflexively tried to explain myself. “Get back in the car!” the officer yelled again.
I just wanted to know if my son could go get the permit, I kept trying to say. I just stood there, in the squad car’s headlights in leggings and a T-shirt.
“I’m going to count to five!” he threatened. “One … two … three …”
I should have moved quicker. But sometimes, I freeze. Freeze, fight, flee. It’s a matter of basic wiring. It’s a fact people seem to understand intuitively when passengers on a Metro train fail to come to the aid of a man being stabbed to death in front of them, but often lose sight of completely when police encounters go left.
“FOUR …” the officer yelled.
“I’m a reporter for The Washington Post!” I blurted. Then I finally found my legs and dashed to my car.
Calling out my job was bad form, I know. But I wasn’t doing it to impress him. I was doing it because I needed him to see me, and nothing intrinsic to who I am–not my citizenship, not my motherhood, not my lack of size or pockets to hold even a cellphone, let alone a weapon–was allowing him to do that.
I did it because I couldn’t imagine what would happen when he got to five.
I was shaking uncontrollably when the officer got to my door. I asked his name, but couldn’t steady myself enough to write it. “It’s okay, Mom,” my 17-year-old said nervously, rubbing my hand.
I didn’t know if the officer heard me, but he apologized for yelling. I apologized as well. He let my son run home to get my daughter’s permit.
What do you do? the officer asked as we waited. I’m a columnist, I told him. He asked what I write about. I didn’t answer.
I know most police officers are not like the ones in the Bland, Garner, Scott, Rice, Crawford, Jones, Harris, Gray, DuBose, et al. videos.
I know it can be a dangerous job, but it’s a danger officers sign up–and presumably train–for. One that requires discernment. Every time someone is left humiliated or frightened by one of these stops (let alone bloody or dead), some of what binds us is lost.
By a thousand cuts, you are losing your nation’s respect.
My son got back with the permit, and the officer let us go with a warning. I’m not going to read about this, am I? he asked. No worries, I promised. I would have promised anything to get away. I guess this column breaks my promise. There’s a lot of that going around.
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