Drive Slow, Homie

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Nothing scares me more than thought of some cop beating my ass then carting me off to jail where some sexually frustrated gorilla-like criminal three-times my size tries to mold me into his own twisted version of Beyonce.

“Do the uh oh” takes on a whole new meaning when a black man has a case pending.

Up until Thursday I’ve never been pulled over by the po-po. Reason being for five years while attending Howard University in Washington, D.C. my only mode of transportation was my left and right foot, respectively. Though it’s happened to my brother and other people I know on a number of occasions, I’ve never had to deal with “driving while black” because I’m forever “walking while broke.”

But, now that I’m home temporarily (and Jesus wept…Buddah probably did, too) I’ve been driving and I’ve finally been pulled over.

This however wasn’t an issue of race; it was an issue of a quota-filler seeking police officer pulling me over for speeding. Five minutes away from home at that!

Yeah, yeah, so it’s really my fault, blah blah blah. I honestly don’t remember speeding since he pulled me over shortly after the light turned green. All I remember is dancing to Tank’s “My Body.” If you haven’t heard it, go listen to that and “Coldest.” Those are my favorite songs to drive to when I’m not jiggin’ and singing-a-long to “Ay Bay Bay.”

Moving on, I see flashing red lights behind me and a man over the speaker saying, “Pull your black ass over, bitch.” Ok, so maybe he said something more along the lines of “Pull your vehicle over to the right!” but at the time, it sounded more like the former. I, petrified, pulled over to the left. Cars were driving to the side of me and well, the po-po was behind me, I didn’t want to move, much less drive in the direction he wanted to beat me in.

I eventually pull over to the right and into a parking lot across the street from a gas station. It was dark and sitting right in front of a toll freeway. I’m thinking, great no witnesses, the third coast Rodney King is born.

So an officer approaches the car and the first thing he says is, “Put your hands on the wheel!” in a bit of a hostile tone. You know the tone. That, “I’ll beat your ass” tone. I’m saying, “Alright, yes sir, this is my first time,” while thinking in my head, “Damn, you’re acting like I got priors and warrants.” He’s a black officer so I’m thinking he really will beat my ass.

He says, “Well it’s a first time for everything.” Obviously. He goes on, “Where were you headed so fast?” I say home. He asks if I even saw him behind me. “No sir.” Of course I didn’t, I was dancing to Tank on repeat, I know you saw me and I bet that’s why I got pulled over.

I sit there and wait while he runs my ID and the license plate numbers. I’m waiting and waiting and waiting. My hands still on the wheel. I’m no fool.

As soon as I take my hands off the wheel he pops up and he’s like, “HANDS ON THE WHEEL! HANDS ON THE WHEEL!” Alright, homie. Be cool. Whatever you say. I don’t want a club wound on my head nor do I want a bullet in my chest.

I guess the neighborhood I was in wasn’t exactly the safest, but yeah, I’m used to that. Judging from the way he acted, I’m guessing so is he. After he hands me back my license and insurance card he hands me a written warning.

He then asks me whose car is this and if it’s an ’07. I guess after making me wait about twenty minutes to see if he wanted to knock me out, he felt small talk was in order.

I look at the written warning and I see that the speed limit is 35, but he neglected to write how fast I was going under “alleged speed.” Whatever, he says he’s not a hard ass, so he won’t give me a ticket. I’m just grateful for that, for him not beating my ass, and for me not having to perform “Deja Vu” behind a cell.

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