As I read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ letter to his son in “Between the World and Me” I came to an unsettling realization. His powerful words certainly resonated from my growing understandings but as I read It also became unsettlingly clear from his descriptions of growing up that we were likely born only months apart (for the record, it turns out he is about two months older than me).
It was difficult to comprehend that the community of his upbringing in urban Baltimore could be so radically different in so many ways from my formative years in suburban Utah. Yet we started school at the same time, watched the same tv shows, worshipped the same heroes of popular culture, etc… I’ve been fortunate to live in many diverse places in recent years and learned a lot, both personally and professionally, about diversity, equity, inclusion and social justice but the contrast of our experiences still struck me in a haunting way. We may have shared the same sunlight but were planted in very different soils.
As I watched the pain and frustration of injustice spill into the streets of America last summer from my home halfway around the world I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I surely did too little. But I did spend some time trying to describe the contrast of the American experience that Coate’s helped me better understand. I didn’t have an audience or purpose but have decided this might be the right place to put it for now.
August 2020…
I’ll always dread the thought of being pulled over by the police. In my adult life I can count the occurances on a few fingers of my white hand.
As a teenager the instances were…let’s just say, “more frequent.” It was usually late at night when roads were nearly empty and the police probably had nothing better to do. But I was indeed speeding or perhaps a bit soft on my full stop at the intersection. It was never a tail light out, expired registration or cautious stop due to reports of crime in the neighborhood.
My youthful troubles were usually along the lines of toilet paper vandalism. I’ve often relished in telling the stories of my dangerous late night run-ins with the police. While scary, frustrating and embarrassing they usually ended quickly and never required me to exit the car. I was able to go on my way with no greater damage than a bruised ego and the prospect of an unpleasant conversation with mom and dad. An accumulation of tickets eventually led to a summons in the mail for a nervous but polite conversation with the local judge that finally set me right.
In those moments of flashing lights in the rearview mirror I never worried about my safety. Cautious stories of family and friends didn’t flash through my head as I pulled to the shoulder. I didn’t have to remember the right words, the right tone, the right gestures. I didn’t have to think about whether I should resist a request, no matter how unjustified, to get out of the car or even be arrested. I never even considered that I could be asked to exit the vehicle.
I tragically understand much betternow how young men my same age but in different places and with different skin were not given the benefit of the doubt the way I was. The way I am. I broke the law, was appropriately challenged for doing so and paid a fair price.
My experience was an appropriate, just and humane measure of correction to ensure community safety. I can’t say I considered it a privilege but it was the dignity of reasonable responsibility in my errors and safety in the vulnerability of authority should be the standard for all. It isn’t.