Help – (Story by R.C. Peris)

The drive from the freeway to my home in Palos Verdes was long. Too long. Miles and miles by street. Fighting the constant traffic that seemed endemic to California. I was a professor at USC. The commute was brutal but my wife insisted on a fixer-upper in Palos Verdes because from our backyard you could see the bluffs and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Palos Verdes was a quiet residential community full of commuters. A ‘bedroom town’ is what they call it. Full of well to do whites and Asians.

I am a professor of sociology. I am black. I am a woman. My wife is white. All these facts are me but they are not me. They are bullet points for a complex brain. I should add I am generally happy. I have moments where waves of contentment wash over me.

On Monday, the evening drive was smooth. It was a holiday. I had gone to the university to prepare for a speaker series on poverty in America that would take place on campus for three days. Three days of discussing why there are so many poor people in one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Three days of stating that the government could end poverty if they shaved 5% off the defense budget.

When I turned into my neighborhood a police car started following me. I immediately paid more attention to my driving. I was careful not to commit a violation. I slowed my speed. The police car trailed me all the way to my street. I realized the officer had singled me out. I was being followed. I pulled into my driveway and slowly got out of the car.

“Put your hands up,” yelled the office who had leaped out of his car. I was stunned and confused but complied. “Why are you in this neighborhood.”

“I…I…,” I couldn’t catch my breath. “I live here.”

“That’s a lie.” The officer approached, pushed me against the car, and cuffed me. My wife opened the front door. She looked more shocked than I probably did. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve got this covered. Go inside and lock the door.”

“That’s my wife,” screamed my wife. “What the hell are you doing?”

The officer looked confused. “We’ll sort this out at the station.”

When the officer shoved me into the patrol car I realized I was guilty of being black in a white neighborhood. Did he really think I was a female thug driving a BMW with a USC faculty sticker in the car window about to commit a crime against a white person? I stared at my wife as the patrol car sped off. I mouthed, HELP.

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