As a tall white guy, I had never been racially profiled
before. That changed recently on the New Jersey Turnpike.
On the way up on a Friday morning, I took advantage of a
surprisingly empty Turnpike, let my foot get a little heavy, and ended up
hitting 90. Then, I saw the sirens in the rear view.
It happens. Though I have not been pulled over for speeding
in at least decade, I’ve been hit by speed cameras. I should slow down. As the
cop opened his door and walked my way, I only felt stupid. I shouldn’t have
been going that fast. I knew better.
However, it turns out my speed didn’t matter.
No, I was pulled over because I was driving a black 2016
Sentra with DC plates and a missing hubcap. I even had a nice paint smear on my
right side from some idiot in a parking garage. I love my car. But it’s a city
car. You know that it’s been through the ringer.
The trooper, though, just assumed I was Black.
Even though I was admittedly going close to 90 on the Jersey
Turnpike, the first words out of the trooper’s mouth was, “I’m sorry.”
It’s almost hard to believe. He looked at me, my white wife,
and our little dog, and said sorry.
He then thanked me – yes, he said “thank you” – for pulling
over to the side so quickly. “I appreciate that you followed my directions.”
It was at this point that I realized what was going on
because I’ve dealt with a lot of cops in my life, been in a car pulled over a
few times, and never had a cop thank anyone for doing so.
He asked for only my license, and said he needed to run the
plates.
As he left, my wife and I sat there in a bizarre state of
confusion. What was going on? Did he say sorry? At one point, my wife asked if
I was actually speeding, and I said, yea I was.
The trooper came back, gave me my license and told me I was
free to go.
Before he left, he gave me one more instruction.
“You’ll want to slow down, there’s another trooper about
five miles up the road. You’re good after that.”
As soon as I drove away, I started laughing. What else could
I do? It was the most crystalized “white privilege” experience you could ever
imagine. I clearly broke the law. Instead of being punished, I was given advice
on how to avoid getting caught next time.
I am putting this story down to paper because every white
person I’ve told, with one notable exception, was incredulous.
My best friend’s wife was legitimately mad when I told the
story. “You were going too fast! You needed to get a ticket.” She was right, of
course.
This past weekend, I was at the Belmont Stakes in Saratoga
with extended family and speeding tickets came up because my cousin got popped
going 82 on a highway.
As I told my story, my uncle, long retired from law
enforcement, immediately knew where the story was going. Others in the room
asked questions because they were stunned. “He thanked you?” “He told you about
the next speed trap??”
My uncle, though, just shook his head. “And they try to say
racial profiling doesn’t exist.”
I’ve long understood that white privilege, especially as a
tall male, has helped me out in life.
I must admit I did not realize how deeply it infects
society.
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