Almost every moment in life has its own power equation.
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“Do you know what a yellow light means?” He shouted, red faced and sweaty.
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I was recently pulled over by a cop, between Second and Third Avenue on Bell in Downtown Seattle–the third car in a minute. The cop approached and greeted me with a scratchy, “Good afternoon.” Seriously good afternoon? I handed him my license, nodding, “Hello.” As he looked at my license, I glanced at his chest for a name or badge number.
“I’ll need your registration.”
“May I ask what I did?” My voice intentionally calm.
“You went through a stop sign.”
Did not, I thought but didn’t say it.
“My registration is in the backseat. Can I get it?”
I dug around the backseat with my ass in the air searching the seat pockets until I found it with the owner’s manual for my car.
◊♦◊
I was pulled over by a motorcycle cop 18 years ago. I was 37, nine months pregnant, driving a Volvo wagon down Broadway to work at Seattle Central Community College. In my side mirror, I watched the cop dismount his motorcycle and walk to my window, his arms hanging forward like a thuggish bear.
“Do you know what a yellow light means?” He shouted, red faced and sweaty.
“Look and proceed with care if it’s clear.” My big belly was pushed into the steering wheel. I was scared. Another angry asshole with a gun.
“You are to stop if you are not already in the intersection.” He blasted. “Your license and registration.”
“Just another angry asshole with a gun. This one in uniform.
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I didn’t move for a second. I glanced at his chest. I wanted a badge number or name. My hands trembled as I opened my wallet. He took my paperwork, stepped away, and got on the radio. I wondered why motorcycles are called hogs, and police are called pigs, and pigs are never called cops?
When he returned, he said, “You ran a red light. What do you think I should do?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“Did you hear me?” Now I was supposed to play the part of his bad child?
“I don’t know what you should do.” I said softly but was thinking give me a fucking ticket, so I can get out of here.
He kept looking at me.
Finally, he said, “I’m letting you go with a verbal warning, this time.” He pushed my license and registration at me.
“Thank you.” I didn’t try to sound grateful, just not provocative.
At work I ran to my office and called the police. The operator said that with no name, license, or badge number, he couldn’t be identified. I ended the conversation with, “Just another angry asshole with a gun. This one in uniform.” That was 1998.
◊♦◊
Biases, suffering, prejudice, sexism, racism are based in fear and scarcity. I am not a bystander. That’s not who I am.
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Years later, as I waited for the officer to process all three of us stop-sign offenders, I wasn’t scared. Was it the end-of-the month quotas? I grabbed my notebook and jotted down the license plates, makes, models, and colors of the two cars in front of me–Ford Escape/dark gray/license #, Prius/Black/license #. I turned in my seat to look at the right and left sides of the intersection behind me. Nothing. I watched the intersection for a minute before turning forward again. I continued watching the street in my mirror. In ten minutes three more cars had blown through the intersection.
When the cop came back, I said, “I don’t see the stop sign.” My tone curious, not threatening. I shaved away any snark. He looked to the intersection and pointed overhead.
“Hanging from the wire.”
I still didn’t see it.
“The Department of Transportation called us to enforce the stop. Metros been complaining. It’s dangerous to have people running it.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve got a good record. I’m giving you a warning.” He handed me a pink warning slip with my ID.
“Thank you.” I paused, “As I’ve been waiting, I saw three cars run the intersection. Six cars total, in less than 10 minutes.” I offered my data, a small woman in my mid-fifties with messy curly hair.
Just then, another car ran the stop sign. The cop stepped forward and signaled the driver over.
“I think it’s a signage problem.” I offered.
“Possibly. I suggest you call DOT and let them know.”
◊♦◊
As I drove off, I looked at the man in the black Prius who was still waiting. He was black. American, African, Fijian, South American, Haitian…? Did he get a warning or a ticket? I wanted to ask him, but instead I nodded as I passed. I didn’t want to provoke the cop. Surely the driver couldn’t ask the questions that I asked or have the conversation I had.
I know white privilege, and have known it well before #blacklivesmatter. Almost every moment in life has its own power equation. Not saying that all cops or (even) most cops are jacked-up on bigotry or anger, but certainly some are. I’m trying to find the Prius driver to ask what happened. I also called the DOT.
Biases, suffering, prejudice, sexism, racism are based in fear and scarcity. I am not a bystander. That’s not who I am.
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Photo: Getty Images
“I can assure that it is not always a gentle woman that they face, but more often argument, rage, and an unwillingness to accept the reality that we did just break the law.”
Wealthy people get full of rage, like to argue and are unwilling to accept reality that they have broken the law which is why they are always trying to get laws passed that grants them immunity for what they have done to the rest of society and how many times they have argue with a cop?
Not sure what the point is to this article. Some people got pulled over one of whom was black? No sign of anything dangerous or irregular other than a sweaty grumpy guy?
We also have to temper our emotions here as we so often lend ourselves to the hyperbole of others, writers building upon what other writers have assumed until we make the giant leap that racism is somehow involved in every action, every aspect of our lives, each time we are caught with our hand in the cookie jar. When we do this, when we imagine, we can easily turn things around in another direction to, perhaps, suggest that this is not a race issue, not “white privilege”, but female privilege. I certainly know that my rather well endowed wife or… Read more »
American cops need far more training when it comes to being police officers. In countries like Sweden and Germany, you spent three or four years at the police academy and they have far more rigorous screening for their recruits not to mention the governments take police misconduct far more seriously than it is here.