- Personal TerrorsFear and Balkanization in Tribal America
By Patrick J. Charles
Prometheus, 2018. 555p. HB, $28
By Amy Chua
Penguin, 2018. 304p.
HB, $28
By Patrisse Khan-Cullors and asha bandele
St. Martin’s, 2018. 272p. HB, $24.99
The first time a police officer runs his hand up the secret space between my legs, I’m sixteen. I’ve just walked out of a dance. I’m not drunk. In fact, with one exception, I won’t even have a glass of wine until my midtwenties. I’m not high. I’ll never smoke a joint or do ecstasy. I’m certainly not armed. Even firecrackers scare me. But I am almost six-three in my boots. I’m over 270 pounds, which was useful during my aborted stint on my high school football team. And, yes, I’m Black.
I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never kissed anyone. I’ve never had sex. But this officer whose face I still haven’t seen knows almost as much about the mystery of my flesh as I do. He’s thorough. He gropes me from neck to ankles, this man who has a baton, a police cruiser, and a gun. He has an authority over me that I’ve never known. I love my parents and listen to them, usually. I listen to my teachers because, despite my size, I’m a nerd. I fear God and have studied the Bible in my free time. But I’ve given myself to my family, my education, and my Lord. I have not given myself to this officer. Regardless, he takes.
It’s possible that entire interaction—from the moment the cruiser’s spotlight hit my face to the end of the encounter, a shove—lasts no more than two minutes. But today, more than twenty years later, I know a truth. This is just the beginning. It’s the preamble to a life of being stopped by police on highways and byways, tailed by security guards in pharmacies (the most recent interaction was January 6, 2018, around 10 p.m. as I scanned a shelf for adhesive bandages), and questioned at events by gatekeepers. Are you sure you belong here? their faces say.
I am a smart-enough teenager. No genius, but curious and good on tests. Still, I can’t identify the variable in this equation to explain why I’m assaulted. Is it my haircut, a high-top fade? Is it the smile on my face as I approach my car? Is it the condom in my wallet that I’ve been carrying around hopefully for over a year?
I don’t get answers. Over the years, I observe the power of the police force. There’s not a single Black male I know who doesn’t have similar encounters. But I don’t talk much to my peers about it, and they don’t talk to me. I think we’re all ashamed. We can’t even protect ourselves. How could we hope to protect our loved ones? In college and grad school, my classmates will ask why I don’t do drugs (not even a joint?) or why I would never call the police under any circumstances. Sometimes I explain it to them. Often, I shrug and change topics.
Yet, slowly I realize it’s not just me and the Black men in my circle. From news reports, books, and the popular culture of film and rap music, I see that it’s the same in Los Angeles, Houston, New York, Detroit, and Atlanta. It’s everywhere we are. Where there’s a population of Black males walking home from school, riding to work, or making a sandwich at home, there’s a well-funded SWAT team, vice squad, or special task force lying in wait.
I’ve always pondered whether I had the capacity to change any of this. I’ve pondered more...