Sitting at a stoplight, thumbing my phone screen, I saw the policeman out of the corner of my eye. His motorcycle pulled up alongside my car. Slyly, I dropped the phone and placed both hands on the wheel, a picture of concentration.
I kept my gaze straight ahead, hoping — ostrich-style — that if I didn’t see him, he couldn’t see me.
It was no use. I heard the siren behind me and pulled over, sighing at the prospect of yet another ticket. I sifted through possible responses. Should I argue? Beg? Cry? Pretend to have an emergency?
I struggle to respond appropriately to policemen. I was raised in a time and place when a certain belligerence toward police was accepted and even subtly condoned. The men in blue were commonly referred to as “pigs” and assumed to be corrupt. I carried this attitude through my early adulthood. My interactions with traffic cops were rife with casual sarcasm, and I promptly racked up a stack of tickets as a result.
As an adult with the responsibility of teaching children that policemen are friends, community helpers and allies, I work to reframe my thinking. Policemen came to my rescue during an apartment fire, responded quickly to the theft of my car, intervened when students or their families were victims of violence, and kept us safe from harassment during last year’s teacher strike. I have casual friends in law enforcement. I appreciate them keeping dangerous people off the streets.
Still, I am scared of the men in blue. As a middle-aged white woman, I am not a likely victim of police brutality, but I am frightened anyway. Recent news events have convinced me that belligerence is no longer an option.
All of this raced through my mind as the young policeman strode toward me.
He leaned into my car. I already knew the drill. He’d ask if I knew why he stopped me. I’d bite my tongue because there is no right answer to that question. If I feigned ignorance, I’d look dumb and careless. If I admitted to a traffic violation, I’d look like a scofflaw. He gestured toward my phone and asked what I’d been doing.
My voice quavered a bit. I wasn’t texting, I told him.
He repeated the question louder.
“Checking the time. Checking stuff,” I shrugged.
He gestured angrily toward the clock on my dashboard, his volume rising, questioning why I would use a phone to check the time. He told me lying to a police officer was a serious offense.
He demanded my license and registration. My hands trembled as I handed him my paperwork; I wasn’t sure if it was from anger or fear.
He asked where I worked and if I had children. I whispered a response, hoping compliance would save me from a ticket. His face red, spittle flying from his mouth, he accused me of being a bad teacher and a poor example for children. Again and again, he hammered at me, calling me a liar and demanding to know what I had really been doing on my phone. He demanded to see my phone.
I boiled with anger. Phrases like “illegal search and seizure” floated through my mind. I didn’t have to give him my phone. I didn’t have to tell him my profession, nor how many children I have. I didn’t have to answer a single question. All I owed him were my license and registration.
Mutely, I handed him the phone. I was terrified by his rage and furious at being reduced to tears by a man half my age over something so insignificant.
Mostly, though, I didn’t want a ticket, and I was willing to give up my rights to avoid it.
He skimmed through my texts. Satisfied, he handed back my phone and told me he would let me off with a written warning this time.
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” I was crying openly.
I drove away, wondering what would have happened if I weren’t white, if I weren’t middle aged or female, if I’d had a different profession or no job at all, if I had raised my voice to match his. I was suffused with relief at avoiding a ticket, but even more relieved that the situation didn’t escalate. A submissive attitude saved me from a ticket and kept me safe, but it cost me my dignity.
I still don’t know if it was a worthwhile trade.
