If you’ve ever lived in a northeastern metropolis, the unwritten understanding has always been that so long as you go with the flow of traffic and are not behaving recklessly or egregiously, traveling a few miles per hour over the speed limit is not really considered a law breaking offense.
If however, you’ve happened to relocate to a region of the country that doesn’t sell alcohol before noon on Sundays and has single-handedly increased the adult onset of Type II Diabetes through syrupy sweet caffeinated concoctions, then you know that slow and steady will always be the order of the day (also, I am quite aware that monosaccharides do not cause diabetes; just allow me my predisposed analogy, m’kay?).
I shared this story on a previous blog that I administered nearly six years ago— before the clashes of cultures, courtesies and common sense was so volatile that people stopped believing in the inherent good in others—and I have to say that my perspective then is very different from the guarded one that I hold today.
I had been driving home after an adrenalin-loaded 3-mile run one evening, when I noticed flashing blue lights behind me. Realizing belatedly that the strobing beams weren’t an invitation to change lanes and allow passage, I slowed down, activated my own blinking hazard lights and drove another half-mile before pulling safely into a grocery store parking lot.
When the officer exited his vehicle, he asked me if I knew why I’d been stopped. Of course I did.
“No.”
He indicated that he’d clocked me driving 11 miles over the posted 35 mile an hour speed limit and I in turn looked at him as if that couldn’t have been accurate. When it was clear that I wasn’t going to concede, he went on to ask me why I hadn’t stopped immediately when it was apparent that he wanted to pull me over.
I allowed him the perfunctory amount of time to view my sweaty, disheveled, alone state before I offered the pragmatic response that I wanted to ensure that I was off the street and in a well-lit area before I stopped my vehicle.
Although neither of us had raised our voices or elicited anything other than practical tones in speaking to one another up to that point, you would have thought that I’d cursed his family name by the stunned expression that crossed his face at my explanation. Not providing a retort for me to digest, the methodical lawman instead just took my license and registration and went back to his car.
Lamenting my pit stains and the reality of a points-accumulating citation, I sat frustratedly with my hands at 10 and 2 when the officer returned to my car with my documents and a perforated ivory slip.
“Slow it down, ma’am,” was all he offered me as he nodded and headed again to his offensively lit vehicle.
Looking down at what turned out to be a warning ticket, I turned in my seat to gaze back questioningly at Sergeant Simpatico. We made eye contact but that was it. Within moments, we were both on our ways.
I knew it then, but it took a few days for me to truly accept that the officer had both recognized and eased my underlying fear that night. He may have never uttered it aloud, but with that simple gesture, he acknowledged that my black life mattered and I was grateful for it.
Today, though?
Six years later and a constant dog whistle sounding in the background? On top of my infraction, I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t have been classified as a fleeing suspect.
And that, unfortunately (and maybe unapologetically, depending on who you ask) is just where we are.
