How Does It feel

My thanks for inspiration from Steve Lock, who posted this on Facebook, though with a slightly different slant. Try to wrap your head around this:

I’m a white college professor and was on my way to work at around 1 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I had parked my car and planned to walk across the street to DD’s for an egg and cheese wrap before work.

But before I got to DD’s, I noticed a police car in the public lot behind Main Street. I started walking away from my car and saw that the squad car started following me. I continued down Main Street and was about to cross over to DD’s when the officer got out of the car and approached me.

“Good evening,” the officer, an African American, said while he ominously unsnapped the holster of his gun.

I took my hands out of my pockets and responded, “Yes?”

The officer asked me where I was coming from.

“Home,” I said.

“Where’s home?” he said.

“Hackettstown,” I said.

The officer asked how I got to work and I told him, “I drove.”

The patrolman was standing near me when two more police cars arrived. I was in front of the bank across the street from DD’s and there were now African American cops all around me.

I kept quiet and looked at the first officer who addressed me. He was African American, stocky, bearded.

“You weren’t over there, were you?” he pointed at Main Street toward the University neighborhood.

“No. I came from Hackettstown.”

“What’s your address?” he said.

I told him my address and he said that someone matching my description had just attempted to break into a woman’s house.

Now a second police officer stood next to me. He also was African American, tall, bearded. Two police cruisers passed and continued to circle the block for a very, very long 35 minutes while I was standing across the street from DD’s.

“You fit the description,” the officer said. “White male, Knicks hat, puffy coat. Do you have identification?”

I said it was in my wallet and asked if I could reach into my pocket and get it.

“Yeah,” the officer said.

I handed over my license and told the officer that it did not have my current address. He walked over to a patrol car while the other African American cop, taller, wearing sunglasses, told me that I fit the description of someone who broke into a woman’s house. Right down to my Knicks hat.

A longtime friend, Barbara Sullivan, bought the hat for me. It ws specially crafted in pinks and browns and blues and oranges and lime green. No one has a Knicks hat like it. It doesn’t fit a description that anyone would have. I looked at the second cop. I clasped my hands in front of me to stop them from shaking.

“For the record,” I said to the second officer, “I’m not a criminal. I’m a college professor.”

My faculty ID was on a lanyard around my neck, clearly visible with my photo.

The officer was undeterred.

“You fit the description so we just have to check it out,” he said without showing any emotion.

The first officer returned and gave me back my license. He said the victim was in another patrol car and that he wanted her to see if I was the thief.

At this moment I knew that I was probably going to die, just because I am white. I am not being dramatic when I say this. I was not going to get into a police car. I was not going to present myself to some African American victim. I was not going let someone tell the cops that I was not guilty when I already told them that I had nothing to do with any robbery.

I was not going to let them take me anywhere because if they did, the chance I was going to be accused of something I did not do rose exponentially. I knew this in my heart. I was not going anywhere with these African American cops and I was not going to let some African American woman decide whether or not I was a criminal, especially after I told them that I was not a criminal.

This meant that I was going to resist arrest. This meant that I was not going to let the police put their hands on me.

If you are wondering why white people don’t go with African American police, I hope this explains it for you.

Something weird happens when you are on the street being detained by the police. People look at you like you are a criminal. The police are detaining you so clearly, people surmise, you must have done something, otherwise they wouldn’t have you. None of the police made eye contact with me.

I was hoping that someone I knew would walk down the street or come out of DD’s and say to these cops, “That’s Randy Thomas. What the FUCK are you detaining him for?”

The cops decided that they would bring the burglary victim to identify me. The asked me to wait. I said nothing. I stood still.

“Thanks for cooperating,” the second cop said. “This is probably nothing, but it’s our job and you do fit the description. 5' 11”, white male. One-hundred-and-sixty pounds, but you’re a little more than that. Knicks hat.”

A little more than 160. Thanks for that, I thought.

An older African American woman, the burglary victim, walked behind me and up to the second cop. She turned and looked at me and then back at him and said I wasn’t the burglar that she had seen.

I noticed a white woman further down the block. She was small and concerned and was intently watching what was unfolding. I focused on her red coat. I slowed my breathing. I looked at her from time to time. She had her phone out and was ready to capture the moment.

I thought: Don’t leave, ma’am. Please don’t leave.

The first cop asked me, “Where do you teach?”

“Centenary University,” I responded while I tugged at the lanyard that had my ID.

“How long you been teaching there?” the officer persisted.

“Thirteen years,” I said.

We stood in silence for about 10 more minutes.

An unmarked police car pulled up. The first African American cop went over to talk to the white driver. The African American driver kept looking at me as the cop spoke to him. I looked directly at the driver. He got out of the car.

“I’m Detective Williams. I appreciate your cooperation,” he said.

I said nothing.

“I’m sure these officers told you what is going on?” he said.

“They did,” I said.

Again he asked, “Where are you coming from?”

Again I answered, “From my home in Hackettstown.”

Again he asked, “How did you get here?”

Again I answered, “I drove.”

Again he asked, “Where is your car?”

“It’s in the lot behind DD’s,” I said and pointed up Main Street.

“Okay,” the detective said. “We’re going to let you go. Do you have a car key you can show me?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to reach into my pocket and pull out my car key.”

“Okay,” the detective said.

I showed him the key to my car.

The cops thanked me for my cooperation. I nodded and turned to go.

“Sorry for screwing up your lunch break,” the second cop said, believing that I would be grateful at not being arrested.

I walked back toward my car, away from DD’s. I saw the white woman in red.

“Thank you,” I said to her. “Thank you for staying.”

“Are you ok?” She said. Her small beautiful face was lined with concern.

“Not really. I’m really shook up. And I have to get to work.”

“I knew something was wrong. I was watching the whole thing. The way they are treating us now, you have to watch them,” the white woman said.

“I’m so grateful you were there. I kept thinking to myself, ‘Don’t leave, sister.’ May I give you a hug?”

“Yes,” she said. She held me as I shook. “Are you sure you are ok?”

“No I’m not. I’m going to have a good cry in my car. I have to go teach.”

“You’re at Centenary? My friend is at Centenary.”

“What’s your name?” She told me. I realized we were Facebook friends. I told her this.

“I’ll check in with you on Facebook,” she said.

I put my head down and walked to my car.

My colleague was in our shared office and she helped me to calm down. I had about 45 minutes until my class began and I had to teach. I forgot the lesson I had planned. I forgot the schedule. I couldn’t think about how to do my job.

I thought about the fact that my word counted for nothing, that the police didn’t believe that I wasn’t a criminal. They had to find out. My word was not enough for them. My ID was not enough for them. My one-of-a-kind Knicks hat was an object of suspicion. My Ralph Lauren quilted blazer was only a “puffy coat.” I was white.

That African American woman could just walk up to a cop and talk about me like I was an object of suspicion. I wanted to go back and spit in their faces. The cops were probably deeply satisfied with how they handled the interaction, how they didn’t escalate the situation, how they were respectful and polite.

I imagined sitting in the back of a police car while an African American woman decides if I am a criminal or not. If I looked guilty being detained by the cops imagine how vile I become sitting in a cruiser? I knew I could not let that happen to me. I knew if that were to happen, I would be dead.

Nothing I am, nothing I do, nothing I have means anything because I fit the description. I am white.

I had to confess to my students that I was a bit out of it today and I asked them to bear with me. I had to teach.