In urban America
A reader asks, "What is it like to be a Black man in America?" I could go on for days answering that question but time and space will not permit that so I will just give you a view of a few minutes.
The distinct hum of an Italian-made Vespa motor scooter came into my fields of hearing and vision simultaneously. Astride it rode a District of Columbia police officer. In one hand he held the scooter's handlebar; with the other he was pointing his service revolver directly at me as I walked.
Before coming to a complete stop he dismounted in the middle of P Street and flung the scooter over on its side, both wheels still turning. He ordered me to "Freeze!" and place both my hands atop my head. In fear for my life, I immediately complied. He then told me to move back, turn around and face the wall.
As he radioed for "back up," he took my hands down and tightly cuffed them behind my back — all the while pressing my upper torso into the brick wall.
"Okay shit head! I wanna know where you comin' from and where ya goin'?" I heard an approaching automobile behind him as I replied, "Home. I'm on my way to work."
"Where's that?"
"Buddy's Tourist, down on Sixth Street, North West."
"What's your home address?"
"Fourteen forty, Rhode Island Avenue, North West. It's the Fourteen Forty Hotel."
"What do you do at Buddy's Tourist?"
"I'm the second shift desk clerk."
I could hear the voice of at least two other police officers approaching as I studied the progress of a huge red ant scaling the brown brick wall that was only an inch from my nose.
The hands of a plainclothes police officers began searching through my pockets from behind. The plainclothes officer said to the uniformed police officer, "Come with us while we take him inside to see if they can identify him."
The three of them escorted me about 10 metres to the corner of Eighth and P streets, at which point they turned me left, and we entered a branch of the Riggs National Bank.
Inside, they paraded me past each teller's window. I was suddenly grateful that all the tellers were people of colour. Each one looked at me and unequivocally declared that I was "not the robber". One of my many fears was that any of those tellers could have been the kind of white American who entertains the idea that "they [men of colour] all look alike" mentality. In such a case, if s/he was not sure about me, that would have been sufficient to arrest me for bank robbery.
Twice before I had been mistakenly identified in precisely that fashion. In one of those incidents, I was eventually cleared and released the next day. In the other one, I was kept in jail for 87 days because I was unable to post a bond. I lost my job, and, after three court dates, I was released only because no one came forth to testify against me. I have yet to be cleared of that charge. I knew it could easily happen again. All a witness needs to be is a little unsure.
Still not convinced of my innocence, the other plainclothes police officer turned to me and ordered me to repeat after him: "All right, this is a stick-up!" I did as I was told.
The tellers were gathered before us in a group, and almost in unison they shook their heads, indicating that my voice struck no chords in their memories.
With the exception of the uniformed officer, the cops went to the side of the bank's lobby for a quick conference. Moments later, from across the room the older one looked at me and shouted, "Okay, you can go now."
Looking at them all, in raging but wisely silent anger, I thought to myself, That's it? No "we're sorry for the mistake and inconvenience"? I was brought back from my fantasy into the real world when the uniformed officer touched my wrist while taking the handcuffs off me.
I looked at my watch. It was 16 minutes after three. I was late for work. I did not relish the thought of the look that was sure to be on the face of Robert, the man I was to relieve, who had already worked from seven to three and who needed to be at his second job at four. Of course, being an African-American himself, even though he would not appreciate my being late, he would understand why and what it was like to be constantly held up and harassed by the police.
Noticing how the handcuffs had caused my wrists considerable pain and swelling, I began rubbing them as I quickly headed for Sixth Street. That is what a mere 20 minutes is often like in the life of an African-American male, in urban America.
BY BRANDON ASTOR JONES
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-77, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA, or email <brandonastorjones@hotmail.com>. Jones is seeking a publisher for his collected prison writings. Please notify him of any possible leads. Visit Jones' web page at <http://www.brandonastorjones.com>.]