Ok, so blogging isn't quite as easy I thought it would be. I started off pretty strong, but have fizzled a bit over the past few weeks. Part of it is a lack of time. Between work, my son, household chores, and my unyielding obsession with Madden Football and online poker, I don't have a lot of free time for writing. I've also been lacking inspiration, not in things to write about, but in the means to convey it. Like many artists, I find inspiration in conflict, and unfortunately, I've been having a pretty good go of it as of late.
I decided to take some time off from work. I like my job, but I've been steadily approaching burnout for a few months now. I wanted travel, nothing complicated or fancy - just a little road trip to get me out of the rut. I set my eyes on Toronto, booked a room, packed my car, and left my house at 4am for the long drive. A little tired, but excited.
I crossed over the Rainbow Bridge to the Canadian checkpoint at around 2pm. It was a gorgeous spring day. There were about seven booths open, each with about five cars waiting in line. The lines moved quicker than I expected, as the booth attendants appeared to make only a perfunctory review of passports and licenses. I spotted a Canadian officer. At first his presence seemed normal, as he casually surveyed the rows of cars waiting to pass through, then I noticed him take position at the booth. Not just any booth - the booth that I was approaching.
The minivan in front of me handed their docs to the attendant in the booth. There appeared to be some brief conversation as he assessed the docs for 4 passengers. He handed back the docs and they drove off. I rolled up to the booth, and the officer - not the attendant - walks up and asks for my documents. This does not feel like a routine check. He starts asking me what I suspect are standard questions, but since they are coming from him and not the attendant, I become visibly annoyed. Why are you here? How long are you staying? Where are you going? Some of these he asked multiple times as if trying to catch me in a lie. Who do you work for? Where are you coming from? Is this car yours? He asks me for registration, and I am steaming.
"Do you normally asks these question to everyone?" I asked angrily. A spirit of defiance rising within me. My heart is pounding, as the sense of fear and anger course through my veins. Yes, he replies, but that answer is a lie. Mine was the only car being investigated by an actual officer. Perhaps the question he was answering yes to was whether or not he did this to everyone who happened to be black. That I can believe.
Well, resistance and pride are not a formula for success with white male law enforcement. I know that, so I was not too surprised when he instructed me to pull over to the side, where I was greeted by a dozen or so additional officers. I overhear him giving them the backstory: "I was asking him simple questions, and he got all angry. He's acting like he has a right to be here." You mean I don't? I started to ask, but before I could a large officer stood before me just inches from my face. He wore dark shades concealing his eyes, but his body language showed how desperately he wanted me to do something stupid like take a swing at him. He asked me if I was carrying any weapons then proceeded to frisk me. Behind us, the other officers began searching my car. I wondered if they'd be relieved or disappointed when they didn't find anything illegal.
I was brought inside the station and told to take a seat. The officer with dark shades handed my docs to another officer behind a computer and whispered something. I imagine it was something to the effect of: just hold him in here while we search his car. About ten minutes passed and the officer behind the computer calls me up. "I think there has been a mistake" she says, "everything checks out". Really? You don't say? You mean they didn't find the 20 kilos of cocaine? You didn't discover my dozens of open warrants for violent crimes?
A few minutes later, the first officer from the booth comes in. He's all humble and conciliatory now, and starts trying to explain why he was initially suspicious. It had nothing to do with the fact that I am black. Apparently, my car looks like I had driven a long way. Huh?! So from fifty feet away you couldn't see that I was black, but you could see that my tires were worn down? And so what if I did drive a long way - people from Florida or Texas aren't supposed to visit Canada?
"You profiled me, bottom line" I said flatly. "You saw a black man, and you decided to investigate. I didn't see you coming up to the booth to ask any other driver any questions. Just me." "I am sorry you feel that way, sir" he said as he handed me my documents. A few of other officers still stood around my car, just finishing their fruitless search for contriband. I couldn't be sure if they shared his suspicions.
"Whatever." I got in my car and drove off. Is this what I have to expect from the rest of my trip? Suspicion, Police harassment? I was pulled over two more times while in Toronto, once for slow-rolling through a stop sign, and the other for not wearing my seatbelt. Justifiable stops perhaps, but I can't help but believe that the officers were motivated as much by my being black with out-of-country plates, as they were by the minor infractions themselves. To be fair though, neither of them gave me a ticket, and both were very polite. But still...
Despite my fair skin and hazel eyes. Despite Barack Obama, Tiger Woods, LeBron James, and Denzel Washington. Despite almost one hundred years of progress. Being black is still often a crime onto itself. In America and beyond.
