The Scene staff
It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon. I had just left school, feeling great about a test I took that morning. All the windows in my car were open, except the driver’s window, and I was listening to one of my favorite Desi songs, singing at the top of my lungs, moving one of my hands to the beat while keeping the other one on the steering wheel. My eyes were glued to the road.
I checked my rearview mirror and noticed that a police car was pulling into the lane next to me, right before we reached a stoplight. With both hands free for a moment, I couldn’t help but move them to the beat, and I’m pretty sure I had the ugliest smile on my face while I was singing.
After a few seconds, I realized the police officer was trying to get my attention in a frantic way. I made eye contact, and she signaled me to roll down my window. At this point, my joyous movements had stopped, and my ridiculous facial expression had faded away. I lowered my window and turned down the music so I could hear what the officer had to say.
“Turn your music down,” she ordered, adding something about it being a violation of the law. I was shocked by her tone. It felt like a slap in the face. “If I can hear the music, then it’s too loud,” she said. I couldn’t help but stare. “Do you understand?” she continued, very slowly, as if I was a foreigner unable to speak English. (I emigrated from Afghanistan at age 5.) I finally nodded “yes” and rolled up my window. The light turned green, and I drove off.
I completely accept that I was violating a law by playing my music too loud, and I can only imagine how annoyingly dangerous the situation looked to the police officer. My past encounters with police have always been relatively pleasant. I may have gotten a speeding ticket or warning, but the officers were cordial, and afterward, I went about my business. This time it was different. I felt so disrespected.
On the way home, my music wasn’t as loud so I got lost in my thoughts. Whenever I hear about a case of police brutality, the first thing that comes to mind is, “How did it get to that point? What could have happened to cause a police officer to shoot a person, innocent or not? If the person didn’t have a weapon, why did the officer feel so threatened?”
Now I think I get it. On that day in my car, if I hadn’t been able or willing to ignore disrespectful behavior from a police officer, the situation could have turned very nasty. Her energy was so aggressive. I could have said, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, but I find your tone disrespectful, and I don’t like how you mocked me.” Would she have made me pull over and given me a ticket? If I had shown attitude, would she have felt threatened? Would she have shot me?
This is all very scary. Police officers can have bad days, but so can people who get pulled over. It’s important to note that I’m not just some clueless millennial complaining about a police officer who probably has too much on her plate to be nice or watch her words. What I’m saying is that humanity is dying. We are taught to trust the police, but the police are taught not to trust us.
I was talking to my husband, Darius, about what happened. He listened patiently as I went on a rant about how the world is falling apart, and we need to do something about it. When I finished, he smiled and explained what he feels as a black man every time he sees a police car behind him with lights flashing.
“Panic mode sets in,” he said. “I check my speed, make sure my hands are visible and pull to the side of the road. When the officer gets out of his vehicle and makes his way toward me, I feel calm at first because I’m confident that I did nothing wrong. Then, in the back of my mind, I’m taunted by a rhyme I once heard (to the tune of the Oscar Meyer weiner song): ‘Oh, I wish I was an Alabama trooper, that is what I’d truly like to be, ‘cause if I was an Alabama trooper, then I could shoot the niggers legally.”
Darius then went on to point out that African American and Latino men make up 28 percent of the general U.S. population and 5 percent of its prison population; one in 35 African American men and one in 88 Latino men are serving time; the statistic is one in 214 for Caucasian men; and one in nine African American children has a parent in jail.
Can you imagine if this was your thought process each time you got pulled over or even saw a police officer? The people in communities of color are suffering. Their children are suffering. Without guidance from parents, young people get caught up in the same cycle, and the justice system keeps profiting from their loss. We must become smarter and stop this now.
I am a woman of action and a firm believer that education and conversation about such difficult topics can lead to change. I know there is fear and mistrust between the police and the people of St. Louis. For what it’s worth, I have contacted the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department to set up a Q&A in hopes of starting to heal the broken relationship. We have to start somewhere.