The State Trooper vs My Black Life

or What Happened When I got Pulled Over

I saw the Highway Patrol car in my rear view mirror but I didn’t get nervous until I saw the flashing red and blue lights. I was five hours away from home on a highway in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. My thoughts were mostly about the papers I needed to write in order to complete the class that had taken me away from home for a week. My thoughts were also about my three teens and husband and how this introvert had, surprisingly, missed her noisy household. When the lights started flashing, I was dragged from thoughts of home to thoughts of Sandra Bland. Sandra Bland, a black woman on her way home, until an angry law enforcement officer arrested her, in the middle of nowhere,Texas. She died in jail. She never made it home.

I think a lot about this story and the other stories of black Americans who never made it home after an encounter with law enforcement. In response, I developed my own plan to prevent being alone with any officer who might see a me as a thing to be defeated. Don’t pull over in the middle of nowhere. Slow down, turn on your flashers and drive to a public place. I convinced myself that I could justify why I chose to slow roll to the nearest gas station instead of stopping immediately. Sure, you’ll be in more trouble initially; but at least there will be witnesses.

My theoretical safety plan disappeared the minute the lights started flashing. I couldn’t focus my thoughts enough do anything other than pull over. Call home? Go live on Facebook? Fuck it. He’s at the window.

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please,” he said, assuming a protective position, slightly behind my line of site. I turned to scan the officer for any sign of power gone awry, any hint of swagger. I looked for anything that would reveal a personal disdain for my brown skin. Thanks to a steady diet of viral, black-death-by-police videos, I was acutely aware of how many things could go wrong in the story of a state trooper and a black woman engaged with each other on a roadside, alone.

CALL HOME pressed my anxious thoughts as I waited for the officer to return from his car. I decided, instead, to text my husband a quick note. I knew he would understand. Got pulled over. I‘m OK. I’ll call you in a few. I tried to type but was surprised to discover my hands shaking so badly that I couldn’t type with any accuracy. I gave up trying and focused on staying calm by breathing deeply.

I was scared, more scared than I dared admit to myself in that moment. And I’m embarrassed to admit it now because I know that 95% of law enforcement officers are “good guys.” But a system that hides even 5% of so- called “bad apples” behind that thin blue line puts me and others who look like me perpetually at risk. Sitting in my car, waiting for the officer to return, I felt the true depth of my helplessness. It would only take one person out of that 5% -just one person-empowered by the state and entrenched in their own racial prejudice, to ruin my life.

The officer returned to my car, handed me a warning and asked me to keep an eye on my speed. I restarted my car and took a deep breath. I pulled away, my hands trembling as fear gave way to relief. I felt my heart racing as my body released the tension I had been holding in since those red and blue lights started flashing. I decided to pull over again so I could catch my breath. But first, I drove to a public place.

I’m sure there is a record of this normal, routine stop in files of the Indiana Highway Patrol. After all, nothing happened. I didn’t even get a ticket. But there is also a record of this stop held deep within my soul. This dance of power and fear might be routine for the relationship between Black America and law enforcement, but I will never accept it as normal. Will you?

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I blog occasionally at Leeannshawyounger.com.

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