I thought I had aged out of my prejudices toward police, but apparently, I was wrong.
Like most Black men, I am diffident, if not totally apprehensive, when confronted with the possibility of engaging Milwaukee’s Finest.
Socially, it’s not a problem. But in general, I try to avoid unnecessary scenarios for fear of it ending in unwelcomed and potentially explosive situations.
And that includes performing a civic duty.
For point of reference, our disingenuous history with Milwaukee’s Finest has left a sour taste in the mouths of most Colored folks. In many cases, that taste has been slapped out, along with several teeth and hopes of positive community relations.
Obviously, I’m speaking about a minority of officers.
But there are also many racists—John Wayne wanna-a-bes—wearing badges who taint the department and present threats to Black folks, whether preachers, professionals, or (born-again) prostitutes.
Black men—including boys and aggressive women—are guilty of something, including being ‘uppity’ or spirited. Some cops of that ilk believe we are uncivilized savages in need of a zoo keeper.
With that in mind, imagine this scenario: I was driving through Germantown en route to a hardware store when I saw what appeared to be a wallet with most contents strewed on the street.
It was indeed a woman’s purse; around it was dozens of credit cards and other personal items.
Without fully thinking through the possibilities, I started picking up the materials, occasionally forcing oncoming traffic to detour around me.
Grabbing all but a few business cards, I put the materials in the passenger’s seat and sat there for a moment, thinking about my next steps.
After finishing my original errand, I decided to drop the materials off at a nearby police station.
After concluding my business, the paranoia kicked in again, prompting me to alter my plans. After consulting with my ‘wonderfully and wickedly wise’ wife (that’s called acquiring brownie points), I decided to return home with the thought of calling the police to retrieve the items.
I also considered putting the content into a mailbox since there was an ID in the purse. But given my paranoia, I quickly rejected that second option as my fingerprints were on the purse. And I didn’t want to be accused of anything.
As I approached my house, I saw my neighbors–a retired White couple–helping my wife spread mulch in the front of the house. (Yeah, we live in a neighborhood where people maintain their property and take pride in their yards. You won’t find litter on my block.)
I explained the scenario to the trio, concluding by asking for their recommendation.
After a brief discussion, the consensus was for me to take the materials to the police station versus delivering them to the owner, whose driver’s license provided her address.
Why you ask? While there was no money in the purse (I wouldn’t have taken it anyway), there could have been, and I didn’t want to be accused if someone else had stolen the purse and threw it on the street.
That latter concern comes from the unfounded and insulting stereotype that all of us have ‘sticky fingers,’ borne out of being lazy and void of mores.
It was at this point that I suggested the neighbors take the purse, which provoked a look for which I felt compelled to explain.
Simply put, I explained, I am African American, and fear of police is in my DNA.
Not because we’re cowardly, but because we have witnessed or heard of far too many cops taking out their frustrations and racist agendas on innocent or ‘uppity’ African Americans like me.
Growing up in ‘MKE,’ getting your butt beat by a ‘CIB’ (Confederate in Blue) was considered a rite of passage—albeit a painful lesson on plantation politics.
Obviously, many officers were honest and respectful. Still, the reality is they (Black people with criminal records) (excuse the pun) all looked alike, and thus you never knew which one was a threat (until you were called a nigger (n-word) or had your face shoved into the dirt for ‘talking back.’
Even though that situation has changed—somewhat–a new breed of ‘Trumpettes,’ White Supremacists, and John Wayne clones have replaced the overtly racist. Today, the bad apples refer to you as ‘sir’ before taking off their masks.
And another class of officers is generally good people but fall prey to their fears and false perceptions about Black men. They are overly cautious and fall victim to prejudices and assumptions. All too frequently, they overreact, leading to confrontations in which we almost exclusively end up on the short end of the stick—make that bully club.
Blue and Black are like gasoline and matches, I explained to the White couple.
Sometimes innocent contact can ignite a fire in which someone is ‘burned.’ And I don’t have to tell you who. It’s generally the Black person.
For point of clarification, I respect and admire ‘most’ police. I understand their role, even if some of them don’t. I applaud their courage and commitment.
I have several relatives who are cops, and I even served as a consultant for one recruitment class (albeit a supervisor didn’t like what I said, so I was never invited back).
I have also recommended recruits and went out of my way to lobby for a White candidate I’ve known since (his) childhood.
But even that officer has acquired prejudices and stereotypes about Black folks he didn’t have before joining the department. I only hope that he recognizes me if ever we meet in the line of duty.
Worse still is that I can understand why he has grown callous. Working at a central city station, he sees the worst side of Black life. Eventually, prejudices and confusion emerge. And that scenario is not restricted to White officers. Even Black officers begin to think in terms of ‘those people.’
It’s one of the reasons I believe it is critical to rotate cops before the disease of prejudice taints their vision.
As a chronicler of police misconduct and questionable killings of unarmed Black men, I cannot ignore the reality of profiling and misconduct. Nor can I dismiss the view of many African Americans that the police are seen as an occupying army whose primary purpose is to contain and control.
That task is facilitated through intimidation and, in far too many cases, violence.
One of my nieces revealed, following Sunday House of Grace church services, her most recent experience with the ‘po ‘po. She said she was treated with disrespect and intimidation after being profiled and followed for a mile while driving through a suburban area.
When she dared to ask the officer for his name and badge number, he not only arrogantly refused but showed her his copy of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850.
My grandson had a similar experience the same week, prompting my wife to quiz him about the rules of contact and survival provided by parents to Black boys to enhance their possibility of survival if confronted by ‘bad’ cops.
That we must teach our children how to respond to police speaks volumes about our fears for their safety and the possibility that contact can lead to their death.
My grandson said he felt his engagement with the police would lead to a violent confrontation, but God, or luck, was on his side that night.
I can relate. There was an incident where I felt I would have to put my Vietnam War experience to work when I was confronted by a ‘BIB’ (bully in blue) who thought he could punk me out.
Since I am committed to reducing the length of Signifyin’, I won’t get into a history of police relations.
And it’s irrelevant how few bad apples are in the barrel because it is hard to make a distinction or to dismiss the ever-present headlines of police misconduct around the country.
Unfortunately, George Floyd’s execution revealed not only the existence of a cancer within the ranks of police, but the silence of their colleagues.
And it doesn’t help that many politicians and police unions either hide their heads in the sand or seek to convince the public the men in blue are merely doing their jobs under stressful conditions and generally without public support.
But that latter claim comes with a caveat.
I should not have to think twice about doing my civic duty. Particularly since I pay unnecessarily high property taxes, partly because in Milwaukee, 43% of the budget goes to ‘law enforcement.’
According to data, over 200 Black men were killed by police last year, nearly 30% of the total. And that figure doesn’t address police shootings, many of which are suspicious, at the very least. Wisconsin (Milwaukee) stats are consistent with that national percentage.
By coincidence, I got my first job in the newspaper business when the sole African American reporter at the old Milwaukee Sentinel offered me a job at the newspaper as a copyboy.
She was impressed that a 15 years old Black boy standing outside North Division high school was able to provide an intelligent and articulate answer to a question for her paper’s pulse of the community column.
Ironically, the question addressed a proposed city ordinance ‘that would allow non-property taxpayers to file complaints against the Milwaukee Police Department.
In essence, that meant most Black Milwaukeeans would be granted the ‘rights’ supposedly already guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution.
Little did I know at the time, most Black folks would contravene that new ‘right’ out of fear of reprisals or the assumption an accused police officer would be exonerated anyway.
Today, we need police more than ever. The local homicide rate matches the death rate in Ukraine, as the central city is becoming a Western Beirut.
We are held hostage by urban terrorists on the one hand and terrorized by the police on the other.
As one brother explained, many tribal members view themselves incarcerated in a maximum-security prison plantation, with the police as overseers. If the inmates don’t terrorize and rape you, the overseers will.
That’s an exaggeration rooted in truth.
It also explained why 96.7% of Black Americans under the age of 98 hold their breaths when they see a flashing red light behind them.
The dichotomous part of this scenario is rooted in my hesitancy—whether justifiable or not—to do what I was instructed to do as a Christian, citizen, and tribal member.
Like education, the criminal justice system only works when there is a partnership between the system and the citizenry. The fact that I traveled an emotional roller coaster ride speaks to an issue contributing to the record homicide, domestic violence, and terrorism paradigm that adversely impacts our lives.
Fortunately, as I left my house, I recalled a recent engagement with a Germantown police officer who was not only polite and respectful but went out of his way to accommodate. In fact, I emailed the G-town police chief to applaud the officer’s conduct.
To my surprise, when I entered the G-town police station, I was surprised to be met by a sister who was cordial and expressed gratitude for my good citizenship.
Maybe things are changing, at least in the suburbs like Germantown.
I can’t say the same thing about neighboring communities, particularly Menomonee Falls, Butler, and Wauwatosa, each of which has been named in complaints by Black folks who were afraid to speed but more afraid not to.
Older migrants from the south can attest to their fears of confronting Barney Fife while driving through Confederate lands en route to the ‘free north.’
Our generation believes ‘the South’ starts at the Canadian border.
Hotep.
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