July 15, 2002
Brutal Passage
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| cheo tyehimba More articles by cheo... |
In the wake of last week's video-taped account of police brutality against 16 year-old Donovon Jackson, I'm reminded of an incident in my own past. It is a rites that is unfortunately all-too-familiar to many black men in America.
It was a Saturday night in early February 1987. I'd just finished watching a videotape of Paul Robeson in The Emperor Jones, and since the video store was about to close, I decided to return it.
A tumult of winter wind smacked me in the face when I opened my door, and, as I slushed through the snow-covered parking lot, Washington, D.C., felt more like Siberia. I made my way onto the street and began moving through the white, muted night. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light behind me.
Then a voice emanated from a bullhorn: "Stop where you are! Keep your hands down!"
Cautiously, I inched my head around to see a police car roll to a stop, and, through the blinding bleached glare, I saw a cop jump out and come at me, his hand already on his gun holster.
I heard myself protest, "What's the problem? What's up? I haven't done anything!"
"Let me see your I.D...Now! Easy," said the cop, his hand now firmly gripping his gun.
I know I should have been scared to death, but instead, somehow, I had the nerve to be indignant. I quickly tried to explain that I lived right around the corner, that it was my neighborhood. I had been staying with my cousin in Arlington, Virginia, a suburb of D.C. for a few months, while attending nearby George Mason University.
But I never got the chance to explain any of this to the officer. He ignored me, told me to "shut up" and reminded me to keep my hands where he could see them. He grabbed me and slammed me hard onto the police car, where he proceeded to pat me down. His partner stood nearby with his gun drawn.
"Don't move. I have to call this in," he barked, snatching my DC driver's license.
"See, Barton Street" I said. "It's right there on my license, right here around the corner."
He ignored me and ducked back into the squad car.
His partner approached and began to question me. By now they knew I wasn't who they were looking for but I could tell they'd decided to wield their might with me just in case I had any notions of committing any illegal acts in the future. I stood out there in the frigid cold waiting--like forever, while they played their little power game. It was infuriating as hell. Finally, in the background, a dispatcher's voice on the car radio blared: "Large Black male, at least 6'3", wearing a tan or yellow overcoat--over."
"You fit the description of someone we've been looking for in this area," said the cop when he returned.
It was cold as hell, the video store had closed, I'm 5 feet, eleven inches tall and my overcoat was black, not yellow. I was seething. "Can't a Black man walk to the store on a Saturday night without being bothered" I growled, from someplace within me I never knew existed.
"We're just doing our job," the cop replied, handing me my I.D... "Stay out of trouble," he said, obviously amused by my anger. They both hopped in the patrol car and sped off down the dark street. I stood there, numb, not sure what to do. Finally, I decided to walk. I crossed the street and headed toward the Key Bridge. I walked over into DC. I walked to cool off. I walked to find answers. I walked to keep from exploding. It was after 6am by the time I returned to Barton Street.
This wasn't the first time I'd had to submit to the police and their arrogant, racist attitudes--yet it was the closest I'd come to actually being brutalized by them. I was about 21 when this happened, and as a young Black male in my "most rebellious period" according to some government statistics at the time, I was Public Enemy Number one.
Looking back upon the incident now, I am surprised that it didn't end tragically. I am grateful to God and the ancestors that came before me - people like Medgar Evers and Malcolm X, who courageously stood up to the police and in doing so, allowed me to believe that I could do the same. Still, it is a sad testament of American justice, that virtually all men of African descent have to endure a brutal rites of passage (psychically and physically) within the American law enforcement system.
Perhaps, in some distant future, we will learn to live in a society where men, of all races, classes and religions will have equal opportunity to choose their passages into adulthood instead of being submitted to a prescribed set of beliefs that enable some and victimize others.
Copyright © 2002 Article by Cheo Taylor Tyehimba. All Rights Reserved.
[NOTE: This article is not to be reproduced, forwarded, or distributed in any form without *explicit* permission from the author.]
Posted at July 15, 2002 10:27 AM