Thread by @hughhowey

When I was 19, I was pulled over by a cop because I didn't have an inspection sticker on my windshield. I was on my way home from community college. I wasn't breaking any law, wasn't speeding, didn't run a stop sign, didn't fail to indicate. Just a sticker missing.

When the officer told me why I was pulled over, I pulled my inspection out of the glove box. I'd just had my windshield replaced that week due to a crack. The letter certified my inspection until I could get a new sticker. Figured that would be the end of it. Nope...

Back then, I used to smoke Drum tobacco rolled cigarettes. The cop saw the tobacco in the glove compartment along with the rolling papers. He asked me where the drugs were in the car. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. He was serious.

I told the officer that I didn't do drugs (my first time trying drugs was last year, in fact, at age 44). I told him I didn't even drink (I've been drunk twice. Hated it both times). The officer said he'd call in dogs to search the car. This was when it dawned on me...

At the time, I had hair halfway down my back. I wore a do-rag, tied off in a triangle on my head. Had an earring. My car was a convertible, and I often rode with the top down and my shirt off. I looked like what he would probably call a hooligan. It wasn't how I saw myself.

I saw myself as an A student and a good kid. I was a book nerd. I loved building computers. I liked playing soccer. I was a bit of a hippie (wore tie-dye, worked at Ben & Jerry's, listened to Phish, played disc golf).

But there was this other lens to see me through: Long hair, tattoo, goatee, earring, smoking cigarettes, driving a Mustang 5.0 convertible, no shirt on, do-rag. And just those things. I'd never seen myself like that. Didn't realize others had. Until...

This cop had me on my knees in a gas station parking lot, patting my do-rag and asking me if I had anything in there that might hurt him, any needles. It was surreal. Out-of-body. I'd never been in trouble in my life. Now I was under arrest. Why...?

Two other squad cars had arrived and they were tearing my car apart, looking for drugs that did not exist. The only thing they found was a pocket knife under my seat. When I saw them walking toward me with the knife, my first thought was, "I've been looking for that everywhere!"

They called it a concealed weapon. Hence putting me on my knees, handcuffing me, patting me down, and tossing me in the back of a squad car. They left me in there while they went through my car some more. Asked for the code to my briefcase (I was a real dork). I was confused.

I tried to tell the officer in the front seat that he was mistaken. I'm a good kid. I go to school. I make good grades. I'm a complete square.

He didn't hear a word. Wrote me a summons for court. Assigned me to a parole officer.

Sitting down and meeting my parole officer was also intense. This couldn't be me, right? I was never going to have a parole officer. Not in a billion years.

She asked questions. Do you have any tattoos? Yes. Smoke? Yes. I wondered if maybe I did belong there. It was a mindfuck.

The day of court arrived. The judge listened to the facts, held up the plastic bag with the knife, looked at me and the officer, and then ... I will never forget this for the rest of my life...

She lectured the officer for wasting her time with this. She called me up to the bench. Apologized to me. Gave me back my knife! And I was free to go. No parole. No criminal record.

A few months later, I graduated and got a job repairing computers for Tandy. I had to cut my hair for the job. Immediately, I noticed something. People in shops no longer followed me around, watching for me to steal something. Adults treated me differently. It was overnight.

I always thought it was my age that made me suspicious to people. I figured everyone my age was treated that way. But when I got clean-cut and started wearing a tie to work everyday, it was like the world got greased for me. There was no friction anymore.

It opened my eyes. Because here's the thing: I can choose to cut my hair, to wear a nice shirt, to quit smoking, to take the earring out. Black people don't get that choice. And their treatment is far, far worse. It's systemic.

People discriminate. Most of us do. All the time.

We have to change how we see people. We have to change our assumptions. Talk to people. Get to know them. Talk to people with nice haircuts, people who wear ties. Many of them are complete assholes. And some of those hooligans are damn good kids.