Dust Behind Tires
“I just don’t get it.” We were driving. I was with Ginther Brown, a good ole’ country boy. He drove his truck. The road stretched on; we hadn’t seen a speed limit sign in over three miles. Dawn was breaking, “to protest, like slavery was abolished how many years ago?” Ginther went on. “And institutional racism? It’s like they’re reaching for excuses.”
“They?” I asked, cigarette out the window.
“You know what I mean. Shit Kendeel Williams got pulled over just two weeks ago and the cop was nice to him. My daddy even gave him a job on our farm.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” I asked. I always hated these conversations. No one’s mind would change, ever, especially a mind rejecting the reality of the world. Tho, Ginther lived in his own bubble. How was he to know?
Ginther looked hurt. I didn’t care. He was my ride, and me singing his praises because his father had hired a black man was the furthest thing from I planned to do this morning. “I just don’t want you to think I’m racist is all. I suppose you’ll take offense to me saying I treat Kendeel the same as any other man.”
“Congrats.” I was flat, tired of this.
“I just don’t think it’s a race thing. Don’t break the law! It’s as simple as that.” Ginther ashed the blunt and handed it to me. Me being a knowitall I already knewitall. I just didn’t understand how no one else saw it. I almost said it with him, “and if a cop pulls you over be curteous, then maybe you won’t get shot.”
“So being rude nowadays is subject to death?”
“No, but if you’d just listen they wouldn’t have to use force.”
“Who?”
“The police.”
“I wasn’t aware this was a militarized zone. America everyone! Do as you please as long you do what we tell you. If you don’t we’ll shoot! Claim it was cuz we were scared and hey that’s good enough!”
“Blake…” Ginther looked at me, I gave him the blunt. I knew I was being ridiculous but not really. I was beginning to have my qualms with everyone.
“And whose not scared anymore?” I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Ginth,” I began, not believing that I had to actually do this, “how long ago were white people up in arms because black folks finally gained half the rights they had?”
“Half?”
“Fine, three quarters,”
Ginther looked at me like I was nuts, “I don’t know mid-sixites?”
“Sounds about right, I don’t do much research. So that was about sixty years ago. How old is your grandfather?”
“Eighty, are you…”
“No,” I said, “I’ve met your gramps, not a racist. But you see all these protests going on right now because cops are killing black people?”
“Yes.”
“Imagine those same kind of protests only with lynchings, right around the time your grandfather was twenty, because the segregation was happening and Jim Crow was starting to be hanged himself. What I’m getting at is that those racist fucking cunt bags are still alive, and they have had children, many of them.”
“Okay, but that was still a long time ago. We have a black president for fucks sake.”
I shook my head, we weren’t that far removed; I was not getting to him. I took a drag of my cigarette, then of the blunt, passing it back. “Okay, it’s like this. How often do you roll around smoking joints?”
“Everyday,” Ginther replied.
“And how often have you been pulled over?”
“More than a few times,”
“Had any tickets?”
“Two”
“But you’re breaking the law right?”
“Well, not always.”
“I mean right now, smoking that there in your hand. Alright so say a cop pulled you over, right now. And noticed the pot smell.”
“They have before, it’s not a big deal, I’ve gotten off with a warning most times.”
“Right, I said, you’re only proving my point,” I took another drag.
“What?”
“Alright so that cop knew you had pot on you and gave you a warning. Imagine, just try to imagine, that the cop noticed you were a black man and that is why he pulled you over.”
“But he pulled me over because I was speeding. Cops don’t pull people over because they are black.”
I gave him a queer look.
“Okay,” he said.
“Before I go on,” I went on, “do you get even a little scared when you walk by a group of black people.”
He didn’t answer.
“Okay so suppose this cop came up to the car and I was with you, only I was black too. He smells the pot. Only instead of talking to you about it or making a joke he asks you to step out of the car.”
“But he wouldn’t.”
I wanted to scream in his stupid fucking face, but I said, “play along. Get Out.”
“Blake,”
“Son if you don’t step out of that car I may be forced to use force or call for back-up. You’d be liable to be arrested.”
Ginther thought, “what have I done?”
“Out, last warning,’ and to top it off the cop reaches for his gun. Not grabbing, just hey, it’s there.”
“I guess I’d comply.” Ginther said “I don’t want any trouble with the police. But I’d want to know what I’d done.”
“You know what you’ve done, the pot. Okay,” I said, “now when you go to open the door the cop pulls his gun, you’ve opened the door too fast.”
“Blake…”
“Don’t think this doesn’t happen,” I said. “Now you are freaking out and black me is, too. Why is this guy pulling a gun on us for no reason? So you slowly get out, remember Ginther white you got away with a warning. Now as soon as you get out this cop shoves you against the hood and starts searching you.”
“He can’t.” Said Ginther.
“But he is, what do you do? Black me is in the car with my hands on the dash.”
“Blake this is ridiculous.”
“What would you do?” I asked again.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I’m innocent, so I’d have to let the system work it out.”
“Are you?” I ask, “You have pot on you.”
“But it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s illegal isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“What would you do, Ginther? The cop is starting to cuff black you for things white you got away scott free on.”
“Well, nothing all that bad could happen. I’d just let it work itself out. There’s no way I’d be in that deep of shit.”
“White you got away with it, black you got a gun pulled and slammed against a cruiser, do you really think it would ‘work itself out?”
“I don’t know!”
Ginther was getting pissed. Duh. He didn’t get that I was trying to get him pissed, to show him.
“I’d at least keep asking him why, and ask him what right he had.”
“Now he’s putting on the cuffs, aggressively, hurting you, what is our natural response to pain? Squirming. You squirm because it feels like your wrists are breaking, grunting too, and he takes it for you struggling so he slams you to the ground, now you hurt even more.”
“Blake, you’re just assuming the cop is racist.”
“He may not be,” I said, “but he is scared. And he’s scared because you are black. Call that what you want. Are you struggling at this point, Ginther? Your wrists are backwards, head just got slammed against the ground.”
“Wouldn’t you try to help? Explain to him, ask him to stop?”
“Ginther if I try getting out of the car that cop is going to do me just like he just did you. Do you want me to get out?”
“No I suppose not,”
“Don’t worry. I like you enough, Ginther. I’d be in here yelling at that fucking pig telling him you weren’t going to do him any harm. You’re a nice guy, and so is black you. So say you start crying and squirming around because you are in pain. This cop takes that as a threat and pulls out his gun.”
“Why would he…”
“He’s scared, remember…”
“Now you’re on the ground and he has your arms pinned down but they are squirming. ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ he asks. You can’t answer because you’re between sobs. How did all of this escalate so quickly? Anyway, he asks again, you go to reach to show him and he pumps you three times because he thinks you are reaching for a gun. At that point I lose my mind because this cop shot you for no reason so I go to get out and he either beats or shoots me too because at that moment I am a threat as well. Now you tell me,” I threw my cigarette out of the window, “did you deserve to die because you were breaking the law?”
“No,” he said, “but not every cop is like that.”
“Then why are we siding with the one’s who are?”