As I grieve, pray, wrestle with anger and fear, and ponder how to move forward with hope and grace in the wake of the most recent events in Ferguson (and elsewhere) it seems good to share this poem/story. I offer it both as an expression of solidarity with those who daily deal with other people’s inaccurate assumptions and as an acknowledgment of the privilege that was at work (not only in the moment I describe, but also in a lifetime’s worth of earlier moments during which I was not mistreated or unjustly targeted because of the color of my skin) to cause my brush with law enforcement to end vastly differently than do far too many involving black and other non-white Americans (whether those interactions result in use of deadly force or “just” persistent disrespect and antagonism).
I do not, by any means, intend to vilify all police officers or other law enforcement officials. I have met and heard of many who care deeply about those they have committed to serve and protect—including those of their constituents who find themselves on the wrong side of the law. I do intend to convey dismay over the ways that we (an intentionally general pronoun that likely includes all of us, to some degree or another) continue to stereotype, judge and devalue one another across various lines of difference; heartbreak over the violence (physical, verbal and otherwise) that sometimes flows out of those thought processes; terror on behalf of families raising black and brown boys in the U.S. today (though let’s be honest, this has been treacherous terrain for hundreds of years); and the fervent hope that those of us who hold power and/or benefit from privilege will lay down our defensiveness and denial, listen to other people’s stories, reexamine our own narratives, and look for ways to work for meaningful change in discriminatory systems.
In line with these hopes, I share these reflections on a brief chapter of my story:
Profiled
Dashboard lights strobe,
a siren wails,
and before I remember my right
to a well-lit stopping place,
I am standing in the empty parking lot
of an abandoned business,
targeted by narcotics officers
because I had the temerity to enter—
and soon after depart—
an apartment complex notorious
for its high rate
of drug trafficking.
They claim they did not see
the friend I dropped off
at her home,
although her front door
stood just a few short yards
from where they’d taken up their post—
vision tunneled—
and waited for someone
who looked like me
to do what I did.
As one of them ransacks my car,
I stand beside it
under the watchful eye
of the other,
trembling—
not because I am in possession
of any contraband,
but because I have realized
with a sickening sinking of my stomach
that I have in fact done something wrong:
I’ve been out and about
without my license to drive.
My anxiety increases their suspicion,
and yet their search of my vehicle
and my pockets
yields nothing illicit.
When at last they come to the conclusion
that I could not possibly be savvy enough
to conceal banned substances
from them,
their contemptuous countenances change
to expressions of concern
for this young white woman
who finds herself alone
and apparently ill-equipped to navigate
the mean streets of their beat—
while I am reminded,
neither for the first time
nor the last,
how different even the similarities are
on opposite sides
of the color line.
© 2014
Alexis Spencer-Byers
Urban Verses 