Funny Papers

Less than twelve hours after a first draft and I'm in the paper!

http://www.courant.com/opinion/op-ed/hc-op-brathwaite-police-stop-african-american-0201-20150130-story.html

My nephew Tyre (pronounced "tie-REE") is a bright, skinny, bespectacled youth who loves comics and zombies and video games. And girls. Mostly video games and comics, though. When he isn't playing video games or reading comics, he can usually be found somewhere alone, scribbling out short fiction.

Thursday, just like millions of other teenagers, my nephew got up, dressed for school, ate breakfast and walked out the door toward his bus stop in Hartford. Unlike the other millions, however, my nephew was stopped by the police.

Three police officers accosted him while he walked down the sidewalk, demanding he put his hands up. That skinny, African-American kid in glasses with a book bag full of comics and homework posed absolutely no threat to the three adult, armed and well-trained police officers. What's more, he had violated no law. Still, they came at him shouting, "Put your hands up!"

They shined a flashlight directly into his eyes and stared him down for a while. Then, with no explanation, they moved on. "All right," they said, and walked away.

But it wasn't all right. It isn't all right.

I started talking with my nephew about the police a few years ago. I made it clear that it's very rarely ever a good idea to disobey an officer. But, more important, I let him know that, given where he lived and what he looked like, it was likely that they would start "noticing him" soon. He asked me what that meant and I said, "Just do exactly what they say. Usually nothing happens and they just let you go. It's when you give them a reason to hang around that you can get into trouble."

The events in Ferguson and New York over the past few months made our conversations about police more frequent. I try to remain neutral on the subject, eager to protect him but equally intent on not scaring him.

The first time I spoke about the police, he didn't believe me. "That can't happen!" he said. "I thought racism was pretty much over!"

And he meant it. He truly believed that there were no such thing and, for a minute, I believed with him. I imagined how pristine and inviting the world must feel, or, at least, how fair it all seemed. In his world, race was a feature, not a factor.

Coincidentally, the same day I first spoke to him, my nephews and I were pulled over. I did what I always do; pulled over immediately, cut the engine, rolled down the window, quickly removed my wallet from my front pocket and placed it on my right leg, rested both hands on the steering wheel and relaxed. The kids, excited, began asking questions. "This is serious," I said. "Do not joke, do not talk, stay seated. If he asks you anything, tell him the truth. We haven't done anything wrong, we should be fine."

When the officer came to the window and asked for my license and registration, I told him what I was going to do before I did it. Then I did it, with careful, deliberate motion, hands always in sight. He returned to his cruiser. The officer came back and handed me my things. "You can go," he said. No explanation.

"Why'd he pull us over if he was just going to let us go?" my nephew chimed in loudly. The officer turned again and looked at us. I shot my nephew a look of death and he looked at his shoes, silent.

"Have a nice day," the officer said as he turned again to leave. I waited a few seconds before starting the car and pulling off.

This would not be the last time we were pulled over together. The world seemed determined to teach my nephews early just how things might be, how they could be, that things could certainly be fair but that they sometimes weren't, and that, sometimes, unfairness looked like this when you look like we do.

Last night, my nephew insisted that he had been walking to school and nothing more. I knew it was true but pressed him anyway, my anger getting the better of me. And then I apologized. For losing my temper. For the officers. For the world and the people in it who hadn't quite gotten their act together in time for him to miss all of this.

"Remember when I told you that they'd start noticing you?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Well they've noticed you now."

Drew Brathwaite lives in Manchester.

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