I shudder with each death of a black man killed by a police officer. I often shed another tear, reflecting upon the times I was stopped, for little more than driving while black or being followed while shopping in stores. I’ve been stopped and searched far more times than my white colleagues and through intimate discussions with them, most simply can’t or won’t try to understand.
Sadly, I have grown accustomed to being profiled and treated like a criminal for no legitimate reason.
It happened during high school in Palm Beach County.
Following my freshman year in college it occurred when I returned to Florida.
As a young Army captain following my nearly five years serving overseas it happened.
On a cold rainy night in South Georgia I was stopped for speeding in my new truck. The young white police officer screamed and pointed his pistol in my face while my hands were on the steering wheel. I yelled repeatedly, “I am an Army officer.” He removed me from my vehicle and pressed my face against the hot truck hood. I never resisted him, but that situation quickly spiraled out of control until his supervisor arrived and acknowledged the big mistake. They quickly backed down and ushered me away in the rain while I sobbed for 45 minutes with mixed emotions; feeling lucky to be alive and quite upset that I was treated with such violence and disrespect.