DRIVER'S RACE LEADS TO HARASSMENT BY POLICE

I am a black male, in my mid-30s. I am college-educated, am raising two
children, and, like most folks, am overworked and underpaid. I am also the
latest in a long history of victims of a national phenomenon that my
community refers to as a D.W.B. (Driving While Black). Recently, I found
myself in a situation similar to that of lots of other Americans. My family
vehicle was bursting at the seams and it was time for a much-needed
expansion. Because of our active lifestyle and fondness for everything
outdoors, I decided to go with an SUV. I settled on a used Chevrolet
Suburban with low mileage, an immaculate leather interior and some very
attractive after-market accessories.

For weeks after the purchase, my chest seemed to swell with each compliment
from friends and strangers alike. All are surprised to hear that it's six
years old. I am happy. I feel like I have made an excellent choice.

So, what's the problem? On June 20, a relative and I were on our way to the
Wachovia branch in Jamestown at 11:30 p.m. to make an ATM withdrawal for my
son's scouting trip. He needed cash the next day. As I sat at the stoplight
in front of the Jamestown Library, I noticed a car slowly pull up behind
me. In a moment, the light changed and, as I pulled off toward the bank, I
saw the unmistakable flashing, blue lights of a police car. My first
reaction was to ask aloud what I possibly could have done.

The Guilford County sheriff's deputy was very cordial and professional.
After asking for my driver's license and registration, he informed me that
my headlamp was out. He also asked if I knew the speed limit through
Jamestown, as he thought that I was traveling around 42 in a 35-mph zone.
After briefly returning to the cruiser to run my information through the
database, he reappeared and asked me to step out of the car.

I was wearing Bass deck-style shoes, khaki pants and a golf shirt that I'd
gotten the week before for Father's Day. I did not think my clothes were
particularly trendy but rather conservative considering the extremes of
loose and tight-fitting clothes that I find myself constantly at odds with
my children about.

By this time, backup had arrived, which I thought was a precautionary
decision by the officer because I had a passenger in the car. The officer
explained that he would let me off with a verbal warning, and he showed me
which headlamp had expired. I was very thankful, not just for the officer's
grace but because I had no idea the lamp was out. "It's a routine traffic
stop," I thought. "These guys are here to protect and serve."

But it was the officer's next line of questioning that turned the
conversation into an unforgettable event. He asked whether I was aware that
there is a drug problem in High Point. I greeted the question externally
with a blank stare, while internally a safety valve was released and the
old and familiar feeling of racism began to seep from its detention center.
Was I aware that there is a drug problem in Greensboro? Was I aware that
High Point/Greensboro Road is a pipeline for distribution? Did I have a
weapon? Did I have any narcotics? Did everything in the vehicle belong to
me? Where was I going? Why was I withdrawing money only to return home with it?

With each dehumanizing question, the circumstantial revelation became
increasingly clear and the natural racial defense mechanism that I learned
in early childhood began to kick in. My thought pattern became instinctive.
Nothing I'd done in my life up to this point mattered right now. Not the
years that I've served as PTA president, Scoutmaster or youth minister. Not
the years of service with my Young Poets group, as a math camp tutor, choir
member, mentor or even as executive director of a nonprofit welfare-to-work
program that I had created. I was on trial because I was blessed to be a
black man, and my background was inadmissible evidence.

Each verbal slap in the face was a harsh reminder of the hypocrisy in this
country. Each question held a further indictment of my skin color, and I
would be forced to defend myself in a roadside kangaroo court. Each probing
question that went beyond "routine" fertilized feelings of disgust and
mistrust until, finally, the ultimate in degradation: "Do you mind if I
search the passenger compartment of your car?"

I can't adequately explain what racism feels like. It's hard to describe
the movement that starts so deep within, somewhere between the pit of your
stomach and your very core. It is, at the same time, nauseating and
infuriating. It has the emotional components of fear and rage and death and
rape and confusion and hate, each struggling to dominate your
consciousness. There is an instant when you can either control your anger
or let it go. There is always a critical point during the confrontation
when you have had enough. I had reached that point.

After repeatedly refusing to allow the search and being repeatedly asked
why, I told the officer that it was because I had nothing to hide. He
performed a beautiful soliloquy on how he was just doing his job in the war
on drugs, how I should support him, how law-abiding citizens, when stopped,
happily consent to searches, and I also should allow the search if I were
clean.

However, what he said next made me realize how powerless racism is designed
to make you feel. He said that if I did not allow them to search the car,
it would make them "suspicious." Suspicious? I have never been suspected by
law enforcement of anything. The inference was that refusing to allow the
search would create a cloud of criminality surrounding my new car. I would
create suspicion in the law-enforcement community. But my mother drives the
car. My father drives the car. Oh heavens, my son drives the car! So, after
20 minutes of refusing to allow the search, my real choices were clear to me.

Who, in this scenario, had become the real criminal? I weighed the evidence
against him. Was he just doing his job? If he were, wouldn't he have
allowed me to continue after warning me about the headlamp? Would he have
brought up the issue of drugs the way that he did? Would he have brought up
the issue of suspicion?

I told the officer that I supported him in his duties but strongly
disagreed with his method for carrying out those duties. I told him I knew
I had been profiled as a young black man with lots of disposable income. I
was not stopped because of my headlamp. I did not fit the criminal profile.
But my gray strands of hair and Pinehurst outfit had gone unnoticed. The
only things that mattered were the ride I drive and the skin I am in.

I relented. I had to stand by and watch my privacy, my rights, my car
violated. I had to trust that this officer would do the right thing, that
he wouldn't find something inside my car to misconstrue, or that he didn't
have some drug-bust quota to meet. I allowed him to search my car because I
cannot afford to play a high-stakes game where the rules change as play
progresses. I cannot wonder each time I pass a cruiser if I'll be delayed
from my travel, either temporarily or permanently. I cannot think twice
about whether to loan my son the car without wondering if he will return
safely. In short, a moral stand could make me a target of the law.

Over the next two days, as I passed through Jamestown, I saw two other
black males driving trucks who'd been pulled by sheriff's deputies. I drove
past the spot where I was pulled over and pointed it out to my kids. Black
parents have to use these instances to teach their children how to survive
racism. So I pointed, and I taught. I taught survival skills, and I quickly
quelled even the slightest fears, anger or any notion that we did not
deserve to own such a fine vehicle. I preached the virtues of hard work and
its fruits.

And as I drove, I noticed again the library just a few yards from where I
had been stopped. The library was actually a restored elementary school.
Back in 1976, I had been overwhelmingly elected its first black student
body president. Even then, I was old enough to know why the adults and
teachers made such a big deal of it. In sixth grade, I had such hopes for
the future. My, how time flies, I said to myself as I searched the faces of
my own two teen-agers for understanding. That was a long time ago, or was it?

Peter E. Mason Jr. lives in High Point.