Growing up, I had a very unhealthy fear of the police. The hair on the back of my neck would stand on end anytime I saw a uniform with a gun, and I would avoid eye contact at all costs. This fear culminated into a legitimate source of anxiety once I began to drive-especially by myself. Instincts began to develop every time I passed by a police car: Check my speed, put my hands in view, and make sure I look like the perfect citizen. If they pulled out or were behind me, my stomach would twist into knots and I would begin to panic. I would practice my “white” voice to myself, in a practice conversation to make sure that I would sound as non-threatening as possible, until either I was pulled over, or until the car was out of my sight. I wish that I could say that I have outgrown these habits, but I still feel that wave of dread and paralyzing fear every time that I am alone and see a police officer.
I was raised by a white family in a house full of love and respect. Being adopted, they did everything they could to make me feel loved and a part of their family. With that being said, something inside me always made me feel like an outcast; a feeling that I couldn’t shake, no matter what I did. I remember many occasions watching the news-usually a station that was conservative ideologically, as a family and seeing minorities’ mugshots light up the screen, or immigrants being vilified by narratives that I was too young to understand. I remember the looks of disgust on all the faces around me, glaring at the tv screen when people who looked like me flashed before us in dramatic colors. Subconsciously, I began to associate skin colors other than white with filth, with crime, and with danger. I began to hate myself. I began wishing that I was someone that didn’t stick out. I was raised Christian, and I remember the first time that I prayed for God to make me white; I was 9 years old-the same year we moved to an area that, demographically and culturally, was overwhelmingly white. Anytime that I felt out of place or uncomfortable due to my skin color, it would burn into my soul. I would go home afterwards and pray the same prayer: “Please make me look like everyone else, l promise that I’m good”.
It wasn’t until my teens that I began to understand what racism truly was. The idea of judging someone by the color of their skin was not new to me-I had been experiencing that my whole life. The official term for this behavior is what was new to me. Soon, I began to be able to pick up on racist tendencies directed towards me, and I learned how to adapt to them. Growing up in the area I did further encouraged myself to hate my color, and it made me realize that the color of my skin made me a target for unwanted prejudice, anger, and attention from those in power. As I grew older, this hatred of my skin color began to get amplified by my interactions with police officers. Getting asked if I spoke English after addressing an officer in English. Being asked multiple times if I was on drugs or had drugs in my possession, during “routine stops”. The list goes on, and every instance made me more anxious, and more fearful.
I remember countless times being in the car with a very close friend of mine, who also happens to be a minority, and getting tailed by Police cars for uncomfortable amounts of time. Often, these tailings would end in us getting pulled over to be questioned about various crimes that had occurred recently in the area, or to ask if the car we were driving belonged to us. My friend was also adopted by a white family, and both of our cars were registered in our parents names. The honest answer was never good enough for us, it felt. There always had to be proof of our innocence, even though we had done nothing wrong: We fit the description. I remember how angry and scared I would be during those interactions. It reinforced all the feelings that I had towards myself, and how the world saw us: Filth, crime, danger.
As an adult, I carry a lot of these conflicting feelings with me. I have witnessed minorities, predominately African-American, fall victim to this cultural perception of fear and hate in living color, with atrocities of violence derived from this perception being caught on camera. The systemic prejudice towards people of color has put millions of American’s in a state of anxiety that makes them fear for their lives everyday. This feeling can’t be fully described, and it can’t be fully understood by someone who hasn’t experienced it for their entire lives and are just now hearing of it. This feeling is ingrained in us from the moment that we realize our skin color is unsafe. For those who don’t believe it to be true, I don’t blame you. This is America, the greatest country in the history of the world. I could not imagine learning about this dark reality that many Americans face everyday at my age. I understand why many want to justify what is happening with incomplete statistics, or by misinterpreting what those at rallys all around this beautiful country are chanting.
Admitting that this country has an ugly, deep-rooted problem and listening to those that are falling victim to this issue is difficult and painful, but oftentimes situations of discomfort and pain cause growth. Taking the time to understand a completely different perspective of life is not something that one can fully grasp overnight, and nobody expects you to. I really try my best to refrain from the term “white privilege” because of the emotional response that it invokes among coworkers, friends, and even family. The term is not meant to disparage those who are white, but to try and explain that those who are white are privileged to not know the feeling that people of color experience on a daily basis due to their skin color. It doesn’t mean that those who are white are destined to have an easy life, just that this burden that we carry since birth is a foreign concept in this country.
When I first saw all of the outcry and support for the Black Lives Matter movement all over social media and online, I was torn. I questioned the sincerity of posts about the movement, and it felt as if people were posting in support for the attention, or because of pressure from social norms. Then I heard of a protest happening in the town that my wife and I live in now: a smaller, predominately white city in Missouri. I was so proud when my wife said that she wanted to go and support the movement. In my mind, due to my experience so far in this city, I expected the march to be no more than 50 people walking Main Street with a few signs. When we pulled up to the meeting spot, we were overwhelmed.
On a weekday with temperatures scorching into the high 90’s, easily over a thousand protesters of every age, gender, and color were gathered, chanting and supporting one another. I could not believe my eyes. Leaders were speaking arm-in-arm with the PD of our town of change, and hope.
Hope.
Something I had not felt in a long, long time. The march began and the emotion was too much. I lost my voice. I cried. I watched as shop owners came out of their businesses to give marchers water, and words of love and encouragement. Police officers, donning similar uniforms to the ones I grew up petrified from, stood in solidarity beside us. Children and their parents set up stations on every block for those who needed rest with food and ice-cold drinks. Tents for those who needed medical attention were littered throughout downtown. For the first time in a long, long time, I was so proud of the community that I was apart. I was proud of who I was, and I was hopeful for the future.
If you are reading this and are coming away with any feelings other than hope, sadness, or anger, please, reach out to me. My intentions are not to divide, or play the victim card, or make anyone feel guilty for who they are. Doing so would make me no better than those who made me feel how I’ve felt my whole life. The only way that we can truly unite this wonderful, amazing country that I am proud to call home is through respectful, unassuming dialogue on both sides. I believe that miscommunication is creating a divide that is only getting further split by emotions. I was raised to love my neighbors, and I pray that we all begin to learn that loving your neighbor begins with understanding their experience, and letting them know that they have the support of the community.
Furthermore, the push for legislation that would hold those that have created this atmosphere of systemic racial oppression accountable must continue. This is not to say that I don’t support the police. Although I have always lived in fear of them, I have always been thankful that there are American’s that are willing to put their lives on the line to protect and serve this great nation, and I applaud them for their dedication. But, it is possible to support those who serve while simultaneously holding them to the standard that the badge they wear deserves. Please, support those fighting for change, and even more, please exercise your right to vote to put an end to hate on all levels of this country. Political leaders and laws that support everyone who calls America home is the key to healing this country, and our empathy, compassion and love for one another will be the motive. All Lives Matter don’t matter until Black Lives Matter.
Daniel