I interrupt my regularly scheduled blogging about my Alaskan vacation (which is coming along slowly) for a story that needed its own blog post. Today, my taken for granted white privilege was challenged. Today, I lived through an experience I never thought I would. Today, I was racially profiled.
Last night, Mother had suggested that Emily and I should drive to the Nationals game today because it would be nicer than riding the hot crowded metro. The drive would be no problem-oh so easy. To be fair, mom did warn us about some of the ways we could be led astray. However, the combination of GoogleMaps confusing directions, Emily’s direction reading, and my inability to follow Emily’s directions caused us to accidentally cross the bridge past Nationals Ball Park and into Berry Farms. Very soon after making this mistake I learned that Berry Farms has the highest homicide rate out of all the Washington DC neighborhoods. Don’t worry, no one was shot while we were there. That wouldn’t have been as funny…
After crossing the bridge I failed at making a quick U-Turn and had to drive through Berry Farms to get back to the main road. As I was pulling onto the main road, mere feet away from making our left turn back to our intended destination I noticed a car behind me that had police lights in the front though it was a civilian vehicle. This car also kept making short police-car noises. I couldn’t think of any reason they would be stopping me (I certainly wasn’t speeding), but I pulled over into a dirt/gravel “parking lot”. Two cops got out of the car that had been following me, while about four other police officers popped out of a nearby parked police car. These officers were not messing around. They were wearing bulletproof vests and my sister noticed that they had their hands on their guns while they approached our car. They asked for my license, registration and proof of insurance. Of course I gave it to them, but I had no idea what they possibly wanted until they started talking.
I don’t remember the exact order of the questions—I was a little flustered—but they were all entertaining. What are you doing in this neighborhood? (We got lost trying to get to the Nationals Stadium). Are you two drunk? (No!) Were you here to buy drugs? (No.) Do you smoke weed? Do you smoke cigarettes? Cigars? (No no no). Are you aware this neighborhood has the highest homicide rate in DC? (I do now). What’s your relation? (We’re sisters). Who’s older? (She is. By eight years.) Why were you driving in this neighborhood? (We just want to get to the stadium. We have the directions in our hand. We can show you the tickets.) You shouldn’t be in this neighborhood (well no duh. I’m not finding this situation particularly enjoyable.) Don’t come back here again. It has the highest murder rate etc. Now turn left at the next light (Oh. You mean the left at the light that I was going to take two seconds before you stopped me. Thanks officers.) *Of course I didn’t say all these things, but I was thinking them.
Also, in the middle of this lovely exchange the police asked if one of us was hurt. We were really confused (we even checked ourselves for wounds) until the officer commented, “is that blood all over the inside of your car,” referring to some stains on the car door on the passenger side of the car. We informed him it wasn’t blood, but we couldn’t tell them what it was. The reason was we didn’t know what the hell it is. While the Corolla was in San Antonio it had gotten a mysterious, splattered stain on the inside door. David probably told me what it was, but I don’t remember.
The whole situation was hilarious to Emily and me. We had just wanted to get to the stadium and had taken one very wrong turn. In the moment, I could not comprehend why the cops were interrogating us. The cops, on the other hand, were completely serious and actually thought we were trying to buy drugs in the neighborhood. When we told them how we had gotten to Berry Farms (we were lost, honest) they did not believe us. Despite the Ball Park being less than a mile away, they thought it was a really flimsy and implausible explanation for why we were there. We had the directions (from home to stadium) in our hands and we still seemed suspicious to them.
However, in hindsight it sort of made sense that the cops stopped us. Why would two white women be driving into a predominantly black neighborhood known for drugs and death? The police could probably also see we choking back laughs the entire time. They thought we might be drunk or high, but we were only smiling b/c I don’t think either of us could believe the questions they were asking us. As Emily said, they got the completely wrong people. I certainly never thought that anything like this would ever EVER happen to me. Who would stop a privileged white woman? They would never suspect me of anything. But I learned that anyone can be racially profiled. Anyone. It all depends on circumstance, context, and horrible twisted bad luck. I don’t begrudge the police their jobs—which is all they were trying to do. Going after buyers instead of sellers is a good idea. But in this situation they profiled the wrong people. My mom brought up a good point relating to the Arizona law. After being targeted because of our race, we could imagine (though we’ll never experience it b/c of the many white privileges we still have) how scary it would have been for someone in the same situation—the cops wrongly stopped them for doing drugs—who didn’t have the papers needed to show the cops because they weren’t a legal citizen. Let’s just say, this experience was great for my sociological education. So much to analyze.
However, I’d like to end this post on a lighter note. I don’t know how accurately I conveyed how hilarious I found/find my very unexpected interaction with some very serious cops, but it still makes me giggle. I also still can’t believe it happened to me. Anyway, after we told my mom and our friend Anne (also at the game) what had happened we all started to joke around about the experience. Since my sister and I were taking such a long time to get to the game, my mom had been tempted to call us to see where we were. She was glad she didn’t, b/c a phone call while being questioned by the cops probably wouldn’t be good. I then informed her it would have been absolutely terrible. My ring tone is a rap song that is exactly the kind of rap song a super white person who might buy drugs would listen to. I can only imagine:
“Were you here to buy drugs?”
“No.”
“So you’re really in this neighborhood by accident?”
“Yes of course officer we would never…”
Cream on the inside. Clean on the outside. Cream on the inside. Clean on the outside. Ice, ice cream, Ice cream paint job.
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