I’m in Nebraska and the stereotypes are real. There’s cornfields as far as the eye can see and because we’re in the Great Plains, the wind here is an absolute nightmare. I’ve just recovered from the flu and every gust of wind chills my entire body, making me wish I was back in Miami sunkissed on the beach (though I’ve never really tanned before). I’m here with a bunch of friends for a leadership conference and I’ve just been elected Student Association President of my school. We’re in the airport and I always dread the inevitable security line. I hate it, but I know the drill: shoes off, belt off, jacket off, all electronics in the bins, and just focus on getting through. My anxiety makes my heart beat just a little bit quicker as we approach our turn.
“Yo Kevin, pull out your phone if anything happens to me, okay?” I say to him as we grow closer to the front. I’ve taken inventory of the situation and notice that there isn’t a single brown face amongst the many security guards.
“What do you mean, man? It’s not like you’re wearing a turban or something.” Big yikes. Wrong answer. First, Americans assuming that Muslims are inherently evil terrorists is not the move. Second, did he really just say that?
“Well, sometimes in these situations, weird stuff happens to people who look like me. I know we’re not in the South anymore, but I promise you, it’s a thing no matter where we go.” I’m already following the security procedures and preparing to dump my stuff into the bins. I hate being super slow at these things and I also hate having my stuff out for everyone to see. I’m also following the mental security procedure. Don’t be suspicious. If something happens, just comply, but make sure I’m safe.
“Nah man, you guys are making this stuff up. It’s really not that bad. Sometimes, I really think that you all do it to yourselves. Not you, Phil, you’re different, but the others.”
I’m stunned. But he wasn’t finished.
“It’s always on the news that Black people are always crying wolf when they get pulled over by the cops for obviously breaking a rule. You’re not even doing anything wrong right now, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, Phillip, you’ll be perfectly okay. In fact, I saw some statistic somewhere that there’s actually way more Spanish people in jail than there are Black guys or White dudes.” This other girl, Marlee, from our school joins in. I can definitely tell they mean well, but I know they’re mistaken and I’m starting to feel like their point of view won’t be changing anytime soon. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll see what could happen to me as an example. There’s no way it’ll happen, though. I’ve been on way too many plane rides and have never been singled out. Also, did she really just call Hispanic/Latin American people Spanish?
“You know, there’s way more history to this thing than I can explain right now, but I just want you to watch this...just have your phones ready to record just in case, okay…?”
“Sir, you’re up. Put your things in the bins. No belts, no shoes, no cellphones. Everything goes in the bin.”
In I go. I put my hands up as the machine surveys me and the security guard gets to see my naked body. I know I’ve got nothing to hide, but this time it feels just a little bit different. My feet feel like icicles as three security guards whirl around to me as I step out of the machine.
Kevin and Marlee stop what they’re doing, mouths agape. I could see the lightbulb flickering in their minds.
“Sir, we’re going to need to check some things on you.” I sigh. It’s actually happening. For real this time. I try and look at the outline of my image to the left, but they won’t allow me. “Sir, you’re not authorized to look at that. I’m sorry, but you’ll be subject to a search. We can either go into that room over there,” he pointed to a distant room with a single black window, “Or we can just do this right here and right now.”
I looked over to Kevin and Marlee. They could do nothing but stare, sadly. They shook their heads. I looked back at the security guard asking all the questions and then back at them. Let me be the example so they might understand what it feels like. I smiled sadly at my two friends and nodded to the officer. “Do it right here.”
Truthfully, I knew it was totally possible for them to take me into that room while I’d be subject to more than just embarrassment as they searched every place on my body and possibly made me late for my flight back to Chattanooga. Yet I wanted my educated, albeit privileged, friends, to see what it looked like to be profiled. I was the only person of color in the entire area and I was the only one singled out.
The security guard slapped on his latex gloves and asked me to pull down my pants. My introverted senses were tingling, but I did what was necessary. With his hands, he felt all over parts no one should ever touch in an airport because he claimed that there was something of interest “down there.” It felt like several minutes ticked by before he was finished. Awkwardly, even some of the younger female security guards whispered to each other and pointed at me. It was like the whole security line stopped in time.
And just like that, it was over. The man mumbled some kind of apology, my things were given to me (unscathed, thank goodness), and I was on my way, though not without the stares of everyone who witnessed. Kevin, too, bumbled his way through an apology and the three of us marched toward our terminal.
This story is real, though the names are fictionalized to protect the once ignorant.
Before I get into the meat of my post today, I want to introduce to you a chief definition that pertains to the subject at hand: racial profiling. I appreciated the American Civil Liberties Union’s definition of the experience:
“[Racial profiling] occurs every day, in cities and towns across the country, when law enforcement and private security target people of color for humiliating and often frightening detentions, interrogations, and searches without evidence of criminal activity and based on perceived race, ethnicity, national origin, or religion. Racial profiling is patently illegal, violating the U.S. Constitution’s core promises of equal protection under the law to all and freedom from unreasonable searches and seizures. Just as importantly, racial profiling is ineffective. It alienates communities from law enforcement, hinders community policing efforts, and causes law enforcement to lose credibility and trust among the people they are sworn to protect and serve.”
Just a few years ago, I was with my friend Ben. Ben’s Hispanic and he’s from Orlando, Florida. What happens when you grab a dude from Florida and place him in the middle of hodunk Tennessee? That’s right, you guessed it. My man’s allergies were killing him. If you’re from central or southern Florida, you probably understand that pollen allergies are quite the foreign concept. What even is Spring?
I’ve always had really bad allergies, and in the country’s most outdoorsy state, those plants were having way too much fun outside. Unfortunately, such fun times for the plants means I must arm myself against their pleasurable days. Ben and I decided we’d armor up by heading to the local Wal-Mart for a sword and shield (obviously some Zyrtec and Claritin). Me, in a Nike T-shirt, a Miami Heat snapback, and some chill joggers, and Ben, in a T-shirt and jeans. Normal college students. Normal problematic allergies.
We found some Zyrtec for a fantastic price (which is rare). Ladies, I kinda understand how miserably frustrating it must be to have to purchase pads or tampons constantly because your body rebels against you. (Yes, I’m playfully equating having to buy allergy pills once a year to your monthly fits of death, please don’t stone me).
I noticed that the price didn’t make complete sense, though. It was probably mislabeled, so me and Ben picked up one container each and headed to the cashier. The cashier was Wakandan so she hooked me up and understood me and Ben’s confusion on the price. She fixed it for us and it was much cheaper than expected! With receipts in hand and ready to slay the Allergy Dragon, we headed out to--
The alarm went off as we walked towards the outdoors. Instantly, I held out my receipt and looked for someone to talk to about the mix up. The normally friendly Wal-Mart greeter turned cold, and then I realized...every eye in that area of the store was on me. Not Ben, who had also bought the same exact product...me, the tall, skinny Black kid in “hood rat” clothes. I watched as these older White ladies eyed me and sinisterly whispered some narrative about me. The greeter approached me and I instantly gave him my receipt and explained what happened. He let me go, but gave me a bit of a warning look. I walked outside like a dog with his tail between his legs.
“Wow, it’s apparent even here.”
The previous two stories do not compare to the profiling I endured this past weekend in Florida, though.
Natalia, my girlfriend, and I had been driving all night on the Florida Turnpike. If you’re familiar with Florida, you know that it feels like in order to get anywhere you have to hop on this stupid toll road to do much of anything. Going to Miami? The great Florida Turnpike is ahead of you, just watch out for the crocodiles on the side of the road (I nearly hit one on the way back).
After an incredible Cuban wedding just off Calle Ocho in Little Havana, Natalia and I headed back up the Turnpike to spend the few hours left in the early morning with her aunt and uncle back in Apopka. Since it’s June and it’s Florida, you know full well I took off that hot tuxedo I was wearing as a groomsmen and elected to wear some shorts and a T-shirt instead. We rode nonstop from Miami all the way up to the Orlando area where we stopped at a store to call Natalia’s aunt and uncle to make sure they had left the door open for us. It was past 2am, so I didn’t want to end up parking outside of their house and trying her family’s door in a neighborhood that mirrored that of a certain Trayvon Martin.
I’d only been parked for thirty seconds before I quickly noticed a flashlight approaching the passenger side, almost as if to catch me and Natalia in the act of...something? I knew what this was and I’d seen it before on Twitter and Facebook. Hopefully, my man will realize we’re just parked here to get our bearings and we’ll be on our way.
The man shined his flashlight into the car and before he had a chance to startle Natalia, I quickly unlocked my vehicle, stepped outside and greeted the police officer.
“What are you doing here? Where are you going? Really? How long were you in Miami? Where are you from? When are you leaving?” He shot each question out of his mouth as if the gun he had holstered on his side wasn’t enough to scare me into submission. Hold up, my dude, let me just answer your questions and all shall be well.
My mouth went a bit dry as anxiety threatened to swallow me up, so I answered more than he needed to know. “We’re just stopping here after a long drive on the turnpike from Miami. We were at a wedding and the reception ended really late. We’re calling some relatives to make sure they’re awake and left the door open for us to come by. We’re from Chattanooga, but um...not really? We just go to school up there. Um… we leave later this evening after we rest up for the day, sir, ” I stammered just a little and probably had really well-defined answers for someone who was obviously panicking inside (I hoped, because it’s true).
I guess it goes without saying that this particular police officer did happen to be White, but I try not to place blanket statements or stereotypes on people. I was hoping he’d do the same for this young Black man and his Afro-Latina girlfriend.
The man simply nodded as I answered each of his questions, but deep down he knew he wasn’t satisfied. “Do you have a driver’s license, sir?” he promptly asked me. Thankfully, my wallet was already in my left hand, prepared to hand it over and prepared to NOT reach into a pocket or anywhere in my car and end up shot. I handed it over and he immediately went back to his cruiser to somehow check the facts of my story (I really wish my driver’s license included that I just graduated from college with a major, four minors, was an SA President, never smoked or drank, etc., but I guess this is how the world welcomes me).
I sat back in my car and closed the door as Natalia looked at me, reassuringly. We were both confused in that moment. I was irritated because it was happening. I was being racially profiled just for parking at an establishment that was open 24 hours a day. I didn’t miss a stop sign. I hadn’t ran a red light. Was this actually happening to me? I articulated every answer as respectfully and carefully as I could, yet he still felt like he needed to verify my truth. How would he know if I was telling the truth anyway?
What felt like eons finally came to a close. He returned to my car, but his final question took everything within me to remain calm. “Do you have anything illegal in your vehicle, sir?”
NO WAY. RELAX.
I obviously answered no (and it was the truth).
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, sir,” I said without hesitation. Police dude went on to mumble some half-witted explanation about how there was usually illegal activity in parking lots and he just wanted to make sure. He left the premises and I sat in my car for a hot second wishing I could load up Super Smash Bros. Ultimate and take the edge off. What I really wanted was to safely get back to my grandparents house near Atlanta and wake up to some oatmeal, orange juice, and love.
Natalia and I asked a fellow Wakandan lady who worked at the store if it was normal for policemen to harass people in the parking lot. “Oh yeah, sometimes they come around since that bar is across the street. Even when Uber drivers come through, they give them a hard time, too. I swear, I’ve let them know that I’ll call them when something’s actually happening and they’re needed. I’m so sorry this happened to you. He was just bored.”
He was just bored.
I almost wish I had kept the wedding tuxedo on from earlier that day. It’s a shame to think it’s safer to wear some nicer clothes every time I have to do a road trip, no matter how hot it is outside. Would me wearing something nicer have changed anything, though? What if Natalia wasn’t a witness? What if I didn’t already have my wallet in my left pocket where he could obviously see it? Would he have thought I was reaching for a weapon?
What if he forcefully tried to search my car? Would he have “found” something illegal? What would the news say about me if the cop decided to shoot me in “defense?” What if I were apprehended and Natalia was left alone in the parking lot?
Yes, I should have gotten his badge number and name. I was extremely freaked out. It was probably around 3am by then and I desperately wanted to be in a safe space to sleep--I was a wreck.
First things first, friends, know your rights. I thought I knew mine, but in fear, my anxious mind really blanked. Policemen don’t actually need to know all the answers, nor can they search your car without a warrant.
But here’s the thing...if I would’ve said he was not allowed to search my vehicle and I dodged his questions, would his suspicions be aroused and would he have searched my car anyway...or worse!?
Policemen are sworn to protect us, and I’ve met so many great police officers. Good more than bad. Don’t take this as me downplaying the obvious issues nor saying that all are inherently evil. I wish, though, that it took more than just a few weeks of training for an ordinary citizen to pick up a gun. Diversity training? Knowing your biases? I hope this continues to change. But please, know your rights, be safe, and…when in doubt, record for the world to see. The power’s in our hands.
It happened to me.
It could happen to you.
Trayvon Martin could have been Phillip Warfield.
