What's it like?
By Brandon Astor JOnes
"What's it like to be an African-American male in America?" Well, come with me on a non-fictional walk through Washington, DC, and I'll tell you how it's been for me.
The distinct hum of an Italian-made Vespa motor scooter and its sight came into hearing and vision simultaneously. Astride it rode a District of Columbia policeman. In one hand he held the scooter's handle bar; with the other he was pointing his service revolver directly at me as I walked.
Before coming to a complete stop — all in a single motion — he dismounted and flung the scooter over on its side in the middle of P Street, while both wheels still turned. He ordered me to "Freeze!" and place both my hands atop my head. In mortal fear for my life, I immediately complied. He then told me to move back, turn around and face the wall.
As he radioed for "back-up", he took my hands down and tightly cuffed them behind my back — all the while pressing my upper torso into the brick wall.
"Turn around shit head! I wanna know where ya comin' from and where ya goin'?"
I heard an approaching automobile behind him as I replied, "Home. I'm on my way to work."
"Where's that?"
"Buddy's Tourist, down on Sixth Street, North West."
"What's your home address?"
"Fourteen forty, Rhode Island Avenue, North West. It's the Fourteen Forty Hotel."
"What do you do at Buddy's Tourist?"
"I'm the second shift desk clerk." I could hear the voice of at least two other policemen approaching as I studied the progress of a huge red ant scaling upwards on the brown brick wall that was only an inch from my nose.
The hands of a plainclothes policeman began searching through my pockets, from behind me. The plainclothes man said to the uniformed policeman, "Come with us while we take him inside to see if they can identify him". The three of them escorted me about 10 metres to the corner of Eighth and P streets, at which point they turned me left, and we entered a branch of the Riggs National Bank.
Inside, they paraded me past each teller's window. I was suddenly grateful that all the tellers were people of colour. Each one looked at me and unequivocally declared that I was not "the robber". One of my many fears was that one of those tellers could have been a Caucasian-American, with a "they [men of colour] all look alike" mentality. In such a case, if (s)he wasn't sure about me, that would have been sufficient to arrest me for bank robbery.
Twice before I'd been mistakenly identified in precisely that fashion. In one of those incidents, I was eventually cleared and released the next day. In the other one, I was kept in jail for 87 days because I was unable to post a bond. I lost my job; and, after three court dates, I was released only because no one came forth to testify against me. I've yet to be cleared of that charge. I knew it could easily happen again. All a witness needs to be is a little unsure.
Still not convinced of my innocence, the other plainclothes policeman turned to me and ordered me to repeat after him: "All right, this is a stick-up!" I did as I was told. The tellers were gathered before us in a group, and almost in unison they shook their heads, indicating that my voice struck no chords in their memories.
With the exception of the uniformed officer, the policemen went to the side of the bank's lobby for a quick conference. Moments later, from across the room the older one looked at me and shouted, "Okay, you can go now".
Looking at them all, in raging but wisely silent anger, I thought to myself, "That's it? No we're sorry for the mistake and inconvenience?" I was brought back from my fantasy into the real world when the uniformed officer touched my wrist while taking the handcuffs off me. I looked at my watch. It was sixteen after three. I was late for work.
I didn't relish the thought of the look that was sure to be on the face of Robert, the man I was to relieve, who had already worked from seven to three and who needed to be at his second job at four. Of course, being an African-American himself, even though he wouldn't appreciate my being late, he'd understand why and what it was like to be constantly held up and harassed by the police.
Suddenly noticing how the handcuffs had caused my wrists considerable pain and swelling, I began rubbing them as I quickly headed for Sixth Street. That is what a mere 20 minutes is often like in the lives of African-American males, in urban America.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to receive letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]