I have a very personal experience with police brutality and that’s why these situations are so triggering to me. Every time I see another hashtag. Every time I see another video of a black person being brutalized and murdered by the police I relive that trauma that I experienced at just 7 years old.
The year was 2000. My family and I were moving back down to South Carolina from New York with our white Buick loaded up full of our suitcases. As a family of four at the time, we managed to fit our whole lives— all of our worldly possessions— into those suitcases. We didn’t have much, but we were hopeful that this move to South Carolina would be a fresh start for us and an opportunity to better our lives.
My father was driving and after a nearly 15-hour road trip, we pulled into the neighborhood that we would now call home. It was a sunny afternoon, maybe around 3 pm. Mere blocks from my aunt’s house, with whom we would be living until we found a place of our own, the flashing red and blue lights of a cop car appeared in the rearview mirror. Both of my parents tensed up, which is a reaction most black people have when interacting with the police.
We pulled over to the curb, and as the police officer approached the car, he shines a flashlight into the back windshield of the car (even though it was in broad daylight), peering into the trunk. My father assured us that everything was okay and to just stay calm. He then approached the driver’s side of the car as my father rolled down the window.
The cop asked for his driver’s license and registration— pretty standard. My father obliged, then the cop asked him if there were any drugs or weapons in the car. Slightly agitated, my dad replies no and points out to the cop that he’s with his wife and children, why would there be drugs and weapons in the car?
At that point, the officer directs his gaze at my mom, my 3-year-old brother sitting in his car seat, and 7-year old me. Then he asks my dad if he can search the car. My dad explains that the trunk is filled with our suitcases, stuffed to the brim with clothes as we’re in the middle of a cross-country move. My father then asks the officer if he has probable cause or a warrant to search the car.
The situation escalates, and the officer starts to get violent. He opened the door, yanked my dad out of the vehicle and pinned him to the pavement in the middle of the street in this otherwise quiet suburban subdivision. The officer had his knee on my father’s back as he called for backup on his radio.
I remember being terrified. I was screaming and banging on the window of the car begging the police officer to stop as tears streamed down my cheeks. My mother was trying to keep me calm, but I was inconsolable.
More officers arrived and the bystanders— our new neighbors in this small subdivision, started to come out of their houses and watch from their front porches as chaos ensued. The officers opened our trunk and took all of the suitcases out. They unzipped the suitcases and carelessly tossed all of our clothes, my brother’s pull-ups, and sippy cups into the middle of the street.
All the while, my father was watching helplessly from underneath the knee of the officer, as my father yelled and pleaded for them to stop. As he reminded them that this was unjust, that they had no reason to detain him. As the officer put my father’s hands behind his back as he handcuffed my father, the officer kept yelling out to stop resisting arrest. He wasn’t resisting.
To be clear, they had no reason to arrest him. There were no drugs, weapons, or incriminating items found through their search. The arrest was completely baseless. The brutality was absolutely inhumane.
After the cops drove away with my father. We were quite literally left to pick up the pieces. All of our clothing and suitcases were still strewn across the street from when they searched our vehicle. My mother was left with the task of picking everything up while her two terrified young children cried, shaken by what had just transpired.
Luckily, my father was released the next day. But he shouldn’t have been brutalized by the people who are supposed to serve and protect. Though this happened many years ago, the sense of fear this instilled in me persevered.
Just a few weeks ago I was on the phone with my brother while he was being pulled over by the police. I listened with bated breath and a lump in my throat hoping that he wouldn’t end up as a statistic.
Although this experience was traumatic for my family and I, we came out of the situation with our family intact. There are so many other people whose police encounters end in a fatality due to police brutality.
Black people in particular are more likely to be pulled over in random traffic stops. Police disproportionately use excessive force and murder in their encounters with black people. Even if the cops have a reason to arrest someone, it shouldn’t mean a death sentence.
There are members of law enforcement who make themselves judge, jury, and executioner. This is wrong and this is why the Black Lives Matter movement was created.
George Floyd’s life mattered.
Breonna Taylor’s life mattered.
Ahmaud Arbery’s life mattered.
Trayvon Martin’s life mattered.
Tamir Rice’s life mattered.
Michael Brown’s life mattered.
Sandra Bland’s life mattered.
Eric Garner’s life mattered.
Philando Castile’s life mattered.
There are countless others who never got a hashtag. Their lives mattered.
What You Can Do To Help Support The Black Lives Matter Movement
To combat the issue of police brutality in America we need to facilitate improvement in police interactions and to hold police accountable for their actions. Below I’ve listed a few organizations that help support the Black Lives Matter Movement:
Campaign Zero
Communities United for Police Reform
Communities United Against Police Brutality
Equality for Flatbush
