Hey, mister cop
A couple ovaries and some white privilege can go a long way
“… I think it is time for white folks, faced with yet another story like the one emanating today from Cambridge, to do something else. Something that will illustrate that aspect of inequality about which we are more than a little expert. Namely, we must tell our stories: stories about our beneficent and preferential treatment at the hands of the same cops who regularly view our brothers and sisters of color with contempt.”
When I lived in Pacific Beach around the turn of the century (I’ve always wanted to say that), my drive to and from work included a short but slow stretch along Loring Street. I always loved my drive home because I’d turn west onto Loring and just like the magic of a sea-and-sky horizon, all of my stress and worries that had accumulated during the day disappeared. Having been brought up in Utah, I cannot overstate the spiritual impact of seeing the ocean, rather than polygamists, at the end of my road each day.
And even though the beautiful Pacific was little more than a gray blur in my rearview mirror every morning, I liked my ride to work, too—especially on Thursdays. Thursdays were extra-good because, on Thursdays, there was a Sam Elliot-esque motorcycle cop standing at the side of the road, aiming his radar gun in my general direction.
I always made it a point to go the speed limit so I wouldn’t get a ticket. But a side benefit of 20 mph on a Thursday morning along Loring Street at the turn of the century was that I could practically see this man’s soul as I drove by. It looked pretty damned good tucked into all that tight, dark blue polyester.
So, one particular Thursday morning, I opened my eyes only to realize that my alarm had failed to go off which, ironically, is about as relaxing as waking up to the sound of a shotgun firing next to your ear. It’s funny how alarms don’t sound when they’re not set, isn’t it? As a result, I moved through my morning at a pace wholly unsuitable for someone who might drive past a cop with an active radar gun.
Completely distracted and fumbling with the faceplate (’memba those?) for my stereo, it wasn’t until Sam Elliott stepped away from his bike and motioned me to pull over that I realized what day it was. Shit, I thought to myself or probably even said out loud as I hit the brakes and veered toward the curb. Shitshitshit! The last thing I could afford was a speeding ticket. At least I didn’t run him down. That had to count for something.
I turned my engine off and, with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, watched as Sam Elliot walked / lumbered / sauntered / strolled toward me. He was moving in slow-mo, and I could swear now that the sun glinted off the front of his mirrored sunglasses. It was a typical socked-in beach morning, though, and any sunbursts or flares were pure invention, as was the Joe Cocker / Jennifer Warnes An Officer and a Gentleman duet that played in the background.
“Good morning,” Sam Elliott half-smiled at me from beneath the ’stache. Generally speaking, I don’t care too much for the hair-lip, but for this guy—who was better looking from a distance, as it turned out—I’d made an exception.
“Well, it is now,” I smiled back.
“Really? Why is that?” he asked me.
Love lift us up where we belong….
“Because,” I said, “I drive this road every day and, the truth is that for months now, I’ve been hoping you would pull me over.”
Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high….
“And why is that?” Sam Elliott asked again.
Love lift us up where we belong….
“Because”—and here is where I attempted to talk myself out of a ticket from waaay out on a limb—“because you are so devastatingly handsome, I wanted to get a closer look.” I flitted my eyelashes and leaned toward him through the window.
Far from the world we know, up where the clear winds blow….
He smiled bigger then, looked down at the ground and then back up at the sky. He wrinkled his forehead, maybe blushed a bit, and I’m certain his eyes squinted behind his shades. “OK, well—may I please see your driver’s license?” I handed it to him and he walked back to his motorcycle.
Shitshitshit, I thought. Did I really just do that? I cannot believe I just did that!
If I wasn’t already nervous and sweating from being late, now I was nervous and profusely sweating from being pulled over and from being a lowly jackass. Still. I was checking my Game Face in the driver side mirror when Officer Elliott re-appeared at my window with a notebook. He handed me my driver’s license and wrote me a warning ticket for going 35 in a 20 zone. That’s right: a warning ticket for driving 15 miles over the posted speed.
Sam Elliott told me to have a great day and then, almost as punctuation, took off his sunglasses and winked at me. Honestly, his eyes were better with the Ray-Bans on. But it didn’t matter to me anymore if he looked like Lou Dobbs because I’d accomplished my goal, even if I had to use my gender and my privilege to do it.
Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.
Comments
Like it's some news flash that some dude is a sucker for those with the proper equipment.
So from the perspective of racist like Gates. ID? What for? - being a man in America?
I wish I had a story of privilege to share, but in lieu of that I direct you to one of my sites and the experience of a friend... a completely irrelevant one except that it was with a cop.
In Prague. And Funny :)
http://think.cz/issue3/35/czech-cops.htm...
Hmm.... maybe I will post an experience later.
@CrewLJ: Can you write a coherent sentence when you hate on me? Please? That way, I can respond properly to your insistent flaming. Keep reading, hater.
@It's Frank: Thanks for the link to the irrelevant story. But you obviously missed the point of mine (as did the flamer above you). The point of mine is to highlight some of the privilege that white people enjoy every single day. I'm sure you have a story of privilege to share, you just don't see it for what it is because that requires some amount of vulnerability.
I was a foster kid in the 1980s, and was usually waiting for a place to be domiciled with a family at Hillcrest Receiving Home.
My best friend at this time was David Adams. He liked hitting homers in softball, working on his dunk, and AWOLing to take off with his girlfriend. We had all that in common, and more.
It was my first day after being picked up by Child Protective Services, leg gimpy, face battered. I sat alone at the New Alternatives center at Hillcrest's picnic table.
It did not take long for the alpha jerk to notice me. Marcos was a predator, and he moved in. "My girl likes you, homie," was all he said.
"Who's your girl?" I asked, smiling,
He hit me with all the fury of a child I would later learn had been in the system 14 years, I reeled back and my gimpy leg gave out. It was not as hard a hit my father gave for several years, so as he reached back to swing again, I socked him in the gut. He crumpled a bit then kicked my weak leg. I collapsed.
I saw a confusion of legs and heard shouts from staff. But they had not stopped him. It was David Adams, nicknamed Lion-O by the other kids (his favorite cartoon: Thundercats). He sided against Crosseyed Marcos the Wannabe Crip.
He hated David because David was everyone's friend, regardless of color and regardless of street smarts. Dave was as close to pure as such a place could offer, and he later told me, "When you came in, you looked like what I think I was might have like if they never took me."
David was put in his room for an hour. Marcos went to the hall. We'd clash again, but not when I needed help. But I had, and David gave it. He was Black like Marcos, but he was David, not his color.
We ended up roommates and did everything together. He showed me the ropes. He knew them well.
We were placed together a lot. We had girlfriends. One Friday, we decided to AWOL. Over the fence we went.
I had learned to AWOL with my girlfriend before, and found a strange twist to it. if one were in foster care, one could not go to the Hall for running away and coming back, if one turned oneself in.
I would run away Friday night with my girlfriend (Jennifer) and come back Sunday. I did so with some help from police, or, as I called them, "The Black and White Taxi." They would come get you and take you back.
My privilege came in when I tried this with David in tow (and Marie, a beautiful redhead he knew for years). David was apprehensive when we called, but I convinced him to wait.
It was a horrible idea. Jennifer, Marie and I were taken back to Hillcrest. David was questioned separately and they did not bring him back. He went straight to Juvenile Hall. Our Social Worker left him there for 72 hours. I promised to save money for a cab and to listen to him.
I never forgot that, and I always wonder if the police have any ability to distinguish David from Marcos. Mr. Gates' experience makes me think not.
By the way, I did not miss the point. However, this story would be much more complete with more than 3,000 characters (including spaces) to tell it.
Grrr. How am I needing to be more vulnerable to share this story? I avoid cops like the plague in most cases, so I don't often have the advantage of some getting away with it moment.
Beyond that, identity politics was a barrier when I tried to get social services assistance in the 1990s. I finally received help when I applied in Spanish (thankfully one of my first languages).
@Frank: I just knew you had a story. And if only I had more than 940 words...I do what I can with the space I'm so graciously given.
Well, elegantly stated and well told, as usual.
This is just more liberal "i'm going to see the world the way I want and damn facts, evidence, or common sense" crap. You're no different then the hick who swears he saw the flying saucer, or the mexican who sees the virgin mary in a tortilla. Weak-minded people see what they need to see to convince themselves that the world is the way they want it to be.
You know what stories I'd love to hear. All the times a black person had a positive experience with a cop. All the times they didn't get a ticket. All the times they didn't get pulled over. But I guess you're not interested in those. They don't help your proseletyzing.
Here's one for Rickey says:
With the same David, years later (1995), I was having coffee at the little donut shop on 4th downtown.
We ran out when some tweaker was about to ride off on David's bike. We got the bike away from him and he ran, leaving his backpack behind.
A cop rolled up and stopped, against traffic, and asked "You okay, kid?" to which David responded "Yeah, I am, I kept my bike."
The officer nodded and smiled. Dave looked nervous. "I'll be right back," the cop said, roaring off as Mr tweaks turned the corner.
I asked if he wanted to go, and David decided to stay. Another cop pulled up and a Community Service Officer took David's statement and checked his and my bike registrations.
The first cop came back and waited then asked us to come to a car. We ID'd the tweaker.
"That's a Cannondale, about $1,000 bucks, right?" Dave nodded. "Then he is going to jail on a felony charge."
The officers in that car left and the first one commented, "We see you down here a lot on that bike, and you need to follow the traffic rules more often, and get a light, too."
"Yeah, I know," David said.
We finished our coffee and the cop followed us in. He talked to us about the bike patrol downtown he wanted to join and generally qiuizzed us on riding and such. He picked up the tab and gave David his card.
The point is not that good things don't happen, it's when they happen for the wrong reasons that they are an outrage, Rickey. Whether good or bad things, it sucks that some people can have better access for something they are seen as, as opposed to who they are.
@rickey says: Of all things I may be, weak-minded is hardly one of them. And I *am* different from the hick to which you refer. Perhaps you're looking in a mirror when you say this? Weren't you the guy who spied Jesus in your dog's butthole recently? Just sayin'.
The truth of the matter is that black people experience a disproportionate amount of discrimination by police officers than their white counterparts and I'm not inventing this information. There is research---lots of it---to substantiate this claim. I'm sure there are stories of positive experiences out there, but every black person I know has laundry lists of negative experiences. Perhaps you should post a request on the interwebs or in the paper requesting that black people come forward to recount their numerous and pleasant interactions with the police just to prove your point. I'm sure they would pour in!
Assuming you are white, rickey---and I really have no idea, but can only guess based on your comment, that you're just a right-wing troll, crying to anyone who will listen about how you're being marginalized by the changing hue of America---anyway, assuming you're white, the ability to see things as they really are, would require some amount of introspection and subsequent acknowledgment of the copious amount of white privilege that allows you to be such a pompous and ignorant prick. Unfortunately, it's a vicious cycle since being a pompous and ignorant prick is a clear but seemingly insurmountable stumbling block to said introspection and acknowledgment.
Thanks for reading!
Man I'm still waiting for my " copious amount of white privilege". I wish it would get here. I could really use it.
Yeah, I'm sure you're at a deficit of white privilege, rickey.