Black Men Don't Have the Luxury of Fearing Death

This is an excerpt from the new book I’m NOT Okay, Thanks for Asking, available for direct purchase here, on Amazon here, and Barnes and Noble here. You can also checkout a free digital preview here.

So, I've got quite the story to tell....

I've long been debating whether or not to get a tattoo on my hand. There's a very specific design I want, and I have put it off longer than I truly wanted. In fact, back in 2013 at one of those "sit down and watch me talk about how great I am" law clerk lunches, an attorney pulled me to the side at the end and said "unless you plan on getting into entertainment, you should keep the tattoos to a minimum. It's just the rules." I proceeded to get my entire right arm and chest done over the next four years. I make my own rules.

Fast forward to tonight. I'm driving home from the gym, you know, the gym that I was leaving at 10:30 pm because I didn't leave my fancy office job until 8:30 pm, you know, the office job where I get to tell people about my fancy law degree, bathe in intellectual artifacts of self-importance, and brag about all the dignitaries across the country whose cell phone numbers I have in mine. Oooo child, that job so fancy.

As I'm headed home, Anne Arundel County's finest puts his lights on, right as I was merging on 97. I stopped immediately, threw the flashers on. Sometimes you think you know why you're being stopped, but 50% of the time, at least for Black men, there is no reason, other than your skin tone. 

AA's finest proceed to approach the vehicle. The first cop had called for backup before he got out the car, so they approach the front of the vehicle, each with their arms noticeably on their weapons, one on each side. I roll the window down, and AA one ask for license and registration. I oblige, but not before I tell him explicitly "Yes, officer, I have my wallet in my coat pocket, and my registration in the glovebox. I will now reach for my pocket, and then the glovebox." You know, because if I don't give explicit directions, any sudden movement is justification to blow my head off. Be respectful to the police, they said. Everything will be fine, they said. Except Philando ain't here to say a damn thing.

Anyway, AA one asks me if I have any idea why I'm being stopped. I literally have no idea. I mean, I have an idea (I'm Black, duh) but as far as a legit, lawful idea, nah, there is none. He then proceeds to ask if I have any bombs, contraband or other explosives or devices he should be worried about. I wanted to be like "yeah, I keep a couple boxes of C4 in my trunk on the regular." But I say no sir, you know, just like Emmett did, probably before he realized there weren't enough sirs to keep the center block from weighing his body down to the bottom of the water.

So AA one goes back to the car to run the license and registration, while AA two remains standing on the passenger side, hand still on his firearm. After about seven minutes, AA two leaves, returns to his car, and speeds off. Guess I'm no longer a threat to anyone's life. No need for backup. Hopefully the shells from the nine don't tear my back up tonight.

AA one comes back. I roll my window down. "Sir, have you ever been arrested." I say no. You know, I'm a model citizen. I done everything Reagan and Jerry Falwell and the rest of them folks say is right for the Colored folk to come out of poverty, move up the social ladder and such. But wait, AA one isn't done, because then he says "Well there was a Frederick Curtis arrested back in '02 in Howard County, but no date of birth." Mind you, I was eleven years old in 2002. But in 1932, little 11 year old Black boys used to get hung from trees, simply because they didn't say sir or ma'am. And it was just last year, some hundred years later, where we built a place where the world could say their names.

So AA one lets me go, says it's a warning, even says he was going to write the citation but "the printer didn't print it correctly." 

I get home. Taillight isn't out, like I knew the whole time. 

But this story has a happy ending. I don't write about all my police stops. If I did, I'd have nothing else to write about. But now, whether or not I get ink on hand is totally dependent on how I feel next time I'm in a shop. Because I've discovered this principle in life, that being, there's no fancy degree, job, salary or prestige that can make racist accept you. The world don't work that way. And I'm OK with that. If y'all hadn't noticed, it's why I do what I want to do, when I want to do it, how I want to do it. I'm not afraid of anyone or anything telling me they no longer want or need me. I'm a Black man. I have to make my own way in this world regardless, and I don't have the luxury of fearing death.

And that concludes my quite long winded story. I'm glad I got to tell her, and I got another entry in my poetry book. But I can't help but think about all the young men my age, my skin color, who will never be able to tell the story of their bogus, unlawful, racist traffic stop. I'll keep getting and pinning ink, just for you, my brother. Be love.