Tuesday, May 9, 2006 at 1:01am
Rising above racism
I have wanted to be free of racism all my life. But it wasn't until I was in my 30s, crying on the banks of the Hudson River after an altercation with the police, that I committed myself never to be subject to racism again.
I had ridden my hybrid mountain bike over Manhattan's George Washington Bridge to the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. It was a blazing hot summer afternoon, and I was shirtless, wearing shorts, a pair of army boots — Doc Martens and Flight Boots were all the rage — listening to Charlie Mingus' "Oh Yeah."
After riding for an hour or so, I was pulled over by two NYPD cars, two New Jersey sheriffs and a paddy wagon. The officers had started following me the minute I came across the George Washington Bridge. They were under the impression that I was "shopping," casing homes so I could come back later to rob them. As ridiculous as that sounded, I could see these officers weren't joking.
As a black man, I've been subject to various forms of racial profiling, but nothing like this had ever happened to me. Seeing them look and treat me like a dangerous felon was horrifying. Standing outside in the beaming sun, sweating, practically naked, with the intersection blocked and people out of their cars staring at me was humiliating.
When the officers informed me that they were putting my name through an FBI check, my anger gave way to fear. Nothing I said convinced the officers of my innocence. More than that, no one knew where I was. I realized I hadn't left a note for my roommates because I simply had gone out for a bike ride. My parents didn't live in New York City. All I kept thinking was "I can't let them take me to jail."
The questioning resumed when I came up clean on the FBI check. They asked if they could search me, and I agreed if they gave me the name and badge number of every officer. This incensed them. The lead officer snapped, "You wouldn't be doing this if you weren't guilty." I replied, "I'm doing this because I'm a black man all alone who has done nothing wrong." Then the officer said to me, "You have to admit, you are an intimidating-looking character." Then he asked what I did for a living. It seemed as if my freedom hinged on my answer.
I looked at him and the other officers and said in my best, articulate, learned, exasperated brogue, "I am a model." I told him that I was riding my bike for exercise and was represented by John Casablanca's Elite Modeling agency.
Well, a bomb went off. The officers apologized profusely. The lead officer asked if I could help his daughter, an aspiring model.
My answer wasn't a complete lie. I was an aspiring actor and did some modeling gigs from time to time. However, tending bar and waiting tables paid my rent, and I was not represented by Elite Modeling agency.
The lead officer asked if I was heading to the Palisades Park on the Hudson River. I said yes. He offered me a police escort. I told him I appreciated the offer but thought I could make it on my own. The intersection was cleared. Traffic resumed. The officers left.
Well, I made it to my new secret place and cried. I cried because I couldn't understand how people could be so misguided. I cried because it hurt so badly. I cried because I had to lie.
Sharing this story with others as I returned to my life didn't make me feel better. The comments from friends and acquaintances left me feeling this was an unfortunate but very real fact of life. That was something I could not accept.
Over the next couple of years I began exploring my spirituality. A book that I found very helpful was "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" by Mary Baker Eddy. It helped me see that my identity is made up of what God or divine Love is. I was learning that my worth and legitimacy come directly from God. I could see that I was good, whole, beautiful, capable, intelligent and strong because divine Love was telling me so. I held on to this concept of identity shared in the book: "Identity is the reflection of Spirit, the reflection in multifarious forms of the living Principle, Love."
This spiritual insight allowed me to see that who I am is not contingent on another person nor can it be infringed upon or taken advantage of. I also learned that this truth is the truth for everyone. A few years after this liberating insight, I had moved down South and was pulled over in a mostly white, upper-middle-class neighborhood. I was driving without my headlights on. I assumed I was just going to receive a warning. But when the officer reached my car, he told me he smelled drugs. There were no drugs in my car.
Instead of feeling angry, violated, humiliated, scared, I was calm. When I suggested to this white officer that he might be mistaken, he started screaming at me. He said: "Are you calling me a liar? If you don't have any drugs, let me search your car!"
I reached out to God in prayer, and this thought came to me: "I am not going to let you make this mistake." The thought was not aggressive. It was a quiet internal message, assuring me that God was present and that my prayers were already being answered. As the officer yelled, I looked at him. Not at his belligerent gestures, but at a fellow citizen — a brother.
At the time, I was serving with AmeriCorps: Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA). I worked with grass-roots organizations to improve the lives of people in the community. As a VISTA volunteer, I felt I was serving my community.
Looking at that police officer, I realized he probably felt the same way about his job — he too was working hard for his community. I was grateful for this insight. It assured me that he could recognize honesty and truth.
I told the officer I'd consent to a search if he called another officer to be a witness. This didn't make him happy, and he asked me to get out of the car. A few moments later, another officer arrived and told me I had two choices: I could allow them to perform the search or they would call a judge and get a search warrant. "Either way, we're going to search your car," he said. They gave me a few moments to think about their proposal.
I held onto the spiritual ideas from my prayers. They made me feel confident and comforted in this situation. But I was most grateful for not being angry. In fact, I felt that I was helping the officers do the right thing. By including them in my prayers, I knew God was embracing each of us, giving us right ideas and showing the right course of action to take.
It was about this time that I thought about brothers in a spiritual way. I have three brothers, and though we've had our share of knockdowns, we love each other deeply. I see our love expressed in the respect and care we have for each others' lives. And I realized that these officers were my brothers too, with one Father-Mother, God, as our Parent.
As I was praying, I noticed a change in the first officer's attitude. His whole demeanor changed. He came over to me. In a gentle voice he said, "Sir, I am going to have to give you a ticket for driving without your headlights on." I told him that I understood, thanked him and drove off.
This experience taught me that prayer is a proactive way to handle any situation that comes my way. I learned that I don't ever have to feel helpless about injustice of any kind.
Racism seems to be a plague in our society. Learning who we truly are is the antidote. I'm reminded of this line in Nelson Mandela's 1994 inaugural speech: "As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
— — —
Kwadjo Boaitey is a writer who lives in Stone Mountain, Ga., with his wife, the lovely Karama. He is a lifelong Christian Scientist who is devoted to uplifting public thought. You can send him an email at {email kwadjosun@gmail.com}kwadjosun@gmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Kwadjo Boaitey
— — —
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions
of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any.
All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are
not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.
I had ridden my hybrid mountain bike over Manhattan's George Washington Bridge to the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. It was a blazing hot summer afternoon, and I was shirtless, wearing shorts, a pair of army boots — Doc Martens and Flight Boots were all the rage — listening to Charlie Mingus' "Oh Yeah."
After riding for an hour or so, I was pulled over by two NYPD cars, two New Jersey sheriffs and a paddy wagon. The officers had started following me the minute I came across the George Washington Bridge. They were under the impression that I was "shopping," casing homes so I could come back later to rob them. As ridiculous as that sounded, I could see these officers weren't joking.
As a black man, I've been subject to various forms of racial profiling, but nothing like this had ever happened to me. Seeing them look and treat me like a dangerous felon was horrifying. Standing outside in the beaming sun, sweating, practically naked, with the intersection blocked and people out of their cars staring at me was humiliating.
When the officers informed me that they were putting my name through an FBI check, my anger gave way to fear. Nothing I said convinced the officers of my innocence. More than that, no one knew where I was. I realized I hadn't left a note for my roommates because I simply had gone out for a bike ride. My parents didn't live in New York City. All I kept thinking was "I can't let them take me to jail."
The questioning resumed when I came up clean on the FBI check. They asked if they could search me, and I agreed if they gave me the name and badge number of every officer. This incensed them. The lead officer snapped, "You wouldn't be doing this if you weren't guilty." I replied, "I'm doing this because I'm a black man all alone who has done nothing wrong." Then the officer said to me, "You have to admit, you are an intimidating-looking character." Then he asked what I did for a living. It seemed as if my freedom hinged on my answer.
I looked at him and the other officers and said in my best, articulate, learned, exasperated brogue, "I am a model." I told him that I was riding my bike for exercise and was represented by John Casablanca's Elite Modeling agency.
Well, a bomb went off. The officers apologized profusely. The lead officer asked if I could help his daughter, an aspiring model.
My answer wasn't a complete lie. I was an aspiring actor and did some modeling gigs from time to time. However, tending bar and waiting tables paid my rent, and I was not represented by Elite Modeling agency.
The lead officer asked if I was heading to the Palisades Park on the Hudson River. I said yes. He offered me a police escort. I told him I appreciated the offer but thought I could make it on my own. The intersection was cleared. Traffic resumed. The officers left.
Well, I made it to my new secret place and cried. I cried because I couldn't understand how people could be so misguided. I cried because it hurt so badly. I cried because I had to lie.
Sharing this story with others as I returned to my life didn't make me feel better. The comments from friends and acquaintances left me feeling this was an unfortunate but very real fact of life. That was something I could not accept.
Over the next couple of years I began exploring my spirituality. A book that I found very helpful was "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" by Mary Baker Eddy. It helped me see that my identity is made up of what God or divine Love is. I was learning that my worth and legitimacy come directly from God. I could see that I was good, whole, beautiful, capable, intelligent and strong because divine Love was telling me so. I held on to this concept of identity shared in the book: "Identity is the reflection of Spirit, the reflection in multifarious forms of the living Principle, Love."
This spiritual insight allowed me to see that who I am is not contingent on another person nor can it be infringed upon or taken advantage of. I also learned that this truth is the truth for everyone. A few years after this liberating insight, I had moved down South and was pulled over in a mostly white, upper-middle-class neighborhood. I was driving without my headlights on. I assumed I was just going to receive a warning. But when the officer reached my car, he told me he smelled drugs. There were no drugs in my car.
Instead of feeling angry, violated, humiliated, scared, I was calm. When I suggested to this white officer that he might be mistaken, he started screaming at me. He said: "Are you calling me a liar? If you don't have any drugs, let me search your car!"
I reached out to God in prayer, and this thought came to me: "I am not going to let you make this mistake." The thought was not aggressive. It was a quiet internal message, assuring me that God was present and that my prayers were already being answered. As the officer yelled, I looked at him. Not at his belligerent gestures, but at a fellow citizen — a brother.
At the time, I was serving with AmeriCorps: Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA). I worked with grass-roots organizations to improve the lives of people in the community. As a VISTA volunteer, I felt I was serving my community.
Looking at that police officer, I realized he probably felt the same way about his job — he too was working hard for his community. I was grateful for this insight. It assured me that he could recognize honesty and truth.
I told the officer I'd consent to a search if he called another officer to be a witness. This didn't make him happy, and he asked me to get out of the car. A few moments later, another officer arrived and told me I had two choices: I could allow them to perform the search or they would call a judge and get a search warrant. "Either way, we're going to search your car," he said. They gave me a few moments to think about their proposal.
I held onto the spiritual ideas from my prayers. They made me feel confident and comforted in this situation. But I was most grateful for not being angry. In fact, I felt that I was helping the officers do the right thing. By including them in my prayers, I knew God was embracing each of us, giving us right ideas and showing the right course of action to take.
It was about this time that I thought about brothers in a spiritual way. I have three brothers, and though we've had our share of knockdowns, we love each other deeply. I see our love expressed in the respect and care we have for each others' lives. And I realized that these officers were my brothers too, with one Father-Mother, God, as our Parent.
As I was praying, I noticed a change in the first officer's attitude. His whole demeanor changed. He came over to me. In a gentle voice he said, "Sir, I am going to have to give you a ticket for driving without your headlights on." I told him that I understood, thanked him and drove off.
This experience taught me that prayer is a proactive way to handle any situation that comes my way. I learned that I don't ever have to feel helpless about injustice of any kind.
Racism seems to be a plague in our society. Learning who we truly are is the antidote. I'm reminded of this line in Nelson Mandela's 1994 inaugural speech: "As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
— — —
Kwadjo Boaitey is a writer who lives in Stone Mountain, Ga., with his wife, the lovely Karama. He is a lifelong Christian Scientist who is devoted to uplifting public thought. You can send him an email at {email kwadjosun@gmail.com}kwadjosun@gmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Kwadjo Boaitey
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions
of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any.
All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are
not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.