Being right…
By Taj Ashaheed
August, 2006
“Know your rights”.
I can’t count the times I’ve heard this mantra time and time again, in context to either my race or my religion. On a hot night two weeks ago, an encounter I had with members of the Denver Police Department brought that lesson to life.
I was returning to work late on a Thursday (by “late”, I mean just after 2 am). Since I happen to work next door to one of the most popular nightclubs in Downtown, I parked behind my building and was talking to the club owner as I made my way to the entrance of my building. Out of nowhere, it seemed, several police officers flew around a corner and surrounded me, requesting a pat-search.
Now, it’s night and I am stuck near a pitch dark alley with a bunch of cops, so I had no problem complying. I was then told I “fit the description” of a recent gunfire report, wherein the suspect car matched the color and make of my wife’s Land Rover which I had just parked. After finding nothing on me, the lead officer, 6’ 5” with spiky hair, weight-room build, and bad attitude to match, asked if he and fellow officers could search my car.
“Ah, the moment of truth”, I said to myself, which I quick followed with a verbal, “Nope”. The predictable retort I got was that I must be hiding something. “Actually,” I said, “I just don’t feel like being harassed by you for no reason”. The reactions I got next were not too dissimilar to what happens when you hit a beehive with a stick. Officer “Spikey” (as I now call him) had veins bulging on his forehead in a way I’ve only seen on cartoons, and other officers began hurling insults and threats to tow my car and even shut down my workplace. It also didn’t help that they easily mistook the long-dried ketchup my daughter had spilled on the passenger seat for blood (since they could only observe it through the window of the locked car).
Of course, the officers couldn’t know, or even care that I was just as angry as they were. While they surely felt they had good reason to stop me, the bottom line for me is that no such reason existed. As the officers continued to berate me and attempt to intimidate me into complying to a car search, I made things worse by asking why they were being “stereotypical” in their treatment of me. Automatically of course, the assumption was that I was “playing the race card”, when in fact, I was just referring to their assumption that my simple exercise of my Constitutional somehow meant I was hiding drugs or weapons in my car. Not surprisingly, this point escaped my audience. So angry and frustrated were Officer “Spikey” and company, that the shooting was no longer their focus, the focus became on whether or not I was a drug dealer drugs. Maybe it was the Land Rover.
I stood there with the officers reciting to myself, litany-like, the list of things I learned in the informal “What To Do When Stopped By The Cops” classes that a lot of young Black men learn from life experience. Stand with arms folded. Make no sudden movements. Maintain eye contact. Use “Sir” a lot. I stand there remembering the time my brother-in-law was shot and killed by Denver police years ago for allegedly waving a knife, or the time just 3 weeks prior when I saw Officer “Spikey” himself body slam a young club-goer in the gas station parking lot just down the street. I’d be a smartass, but I’d be sure to be a polite one.
I spent the next few minutes enduring on an ID check and more asinine “investigative” questions, like why my wife and I don’t have the same last name if we’re really married. I observed with amusement as the officers put on a performance pretending to arrange towing of my car. I assume this was done so that at that point I become scared enough to acquiesce.
As the towing ploy flopped, Officer “Spikey” and crew dispersed abruptly, leaving me a bit taken aback but definitely breathing easier. I recovered enough to realize they’d kept my license, and as I ran after them to request it, “Spikey” told me it must be lost somewhere. In response, I requested and collected business cards from the straggling officers, during the course of which my license was miraculously “recovered”.
Finally at work, and sitting at my desk, I wondered. Do police actually learn tactics designed to work around the claim of legal rights? Is it really so easy to make people who claim these rights in encounters to crack and capitulate to their demands? Do people even know their rights, and just how willing are we to actually stand firm on them?
I can’t say I am angry with the officers for that night. After all, maybe their behavior and approach is a product of their “workplace”, the streets. There certainly are drug dealers and shootings there. And no amount of anger or frustration can discount the degree of respect of have for the responsibility of law enforcement. But amidst the mire of crime and violence and those who perpetuate such, there are people who are doing things like simply going to work. Here’s hoping that our servants and protectors have enough ability to discern and respect this.
August, 2006
“Know your rights”.
I can’t count the times I’ve heard this mantra time and time again, in context to either my race or my religion. On a hot night two weeks ago, an encounter I had with members of the Denver Police Department brought that lesson to life.
I was returning to work late on a Thursday (by “late”, I mean just after 2 am). Since I happen to work next door to one of the most popular nightclubs in Downtown, I parked behind my building and was talking to the club owner as I made my way to the entrance of my building. Out of nowhere, it seemed, several police officers flew around a corner and surrounded me, requesting a pat-search.
Now, it’s night and I am stuck near a pitch dark alley with a bunch of cops, so I had no problem complying. I was then told I “fit the description” of a recent gunfire report, wherein the suspect car matched the color and make of my wife’s Land Rover which I had just parked. After finding nothing on me, the lead officer, 6’ 5” with spiky hair, weight-room build, and bad attitude to match, asked if he and fellow officers could search my car.
“Ah, the moment of truth”, I said to myself, which I quick followed with a verbal, “Nope”. The predictable retort I got was that I must be hiding something. “Actually,” I said, “I just don’t feel like being harassed by you for no reason”. The reactions I got next were not too dissimilar to what happens when you hit a beehive with a stick. Officer “Spikey” (as I now call him) had veins bulging on his forehead in a way I’ve only seen on cartoons, and other officers began hurling insults and threats to tow my car and even shut down my workplace. It also didn’t help that they easily mistook the long-dried ketchup my daughter had spilled on the passenger seat for blood (since they could only observe it through the window of the locked car).
Of course, the officers couldn’t know, or even care that I was just as angry as they were. While they surely felt they had good reason to stop me, the bottom line for me is that no such reason existed. As the officers continued to berate me and attempt to intimidate me into complying to a car search, I made things worse by asking why they were being “stereotypical” in their treatment of me. Automatically of course, the assumption was that I was “playing the race card”, when in fact, I was just referring to their assumption that my simple exercise of my Constitutional somehow meant I was hiding drugs or weapons in my car. Not surprisingly, this point escaped my audience. So angry and frustrated were Officer “Spikey” and company, that the shooting was no longer their focus, the focus became on whether or not I was a drug dealer drugs. Maybe it was the Land Rover.
I stood there with the officers reciting to myself, litany-like, the list of things I learned in the informal “What To Do When Stopped By The Cops” classes that a lot of young Black men learn from life experience. Stand with arms folded. Make no sudden movements. Maintain eye contact. Use “Sir” a lot. I stand there remembering the time my brother-in-law was shot and killed by Denver police years ago for allegedly waving a knife, or the time just 3 weeks prior when I saw Officer “Spikey” himself body slam a young club-goer in the gas station parking lot just down the street. I’d be a smartass, but I’d be sure to be a polite one.
I spent the next few minutes enduring on an ID check and more asinine “investigative” questions, like why my wife and I don’t have the same last name if we’re really married. I observed with amusement as the officers put on a performance pretending to arrange towing of my car. I assume this was done so that at that point I become scared enough to acquiesce.
As the towing ploy flopped, Officer “Spikey” and crew dispersed abruptly, leaving me a bit taken aback but definitely breathing easier. I recovered enough to realize they’d kept my license, and as I ran after them to request it, “Spikey” told me it must be lost somewhere. In response, I requested and collected business cards from the straggling officers, during the course of which my license was miraculously “recovered”.
Finally at work, and sitting at my desk, I wondered. Do police actually learn tactics designed to work around the claim of legal rights? Is it really so easy to make people who claim these rights in encounters to crack and capitulate to their demands? Do people even know their rights, and just how willing are we to actually stand firm on them?
I can’t say I am angry with the officers for that night. After all, maybe their behavior and approach is a product of their “workplace”, the streets. There certainly are drug dealers and shootings there. And no amount of anger or frustration can discount the degree of respect of have for the responsibility of law enforcement. But amidst the mire of crime and violence and those who perpetuate such, there are people who are doing things like simply going to work. Here’s hoping that our servants and protectors have enough ability to discern and respect this.
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