Glaring lights poured through the back window as I pinched my cell phone against my ear with my shoulder.
“Oh Josh, thanks for the directions…but uh… I gotta go—I’m getting pulled over.” I said as I coasted my car the curb with slight panic sticking to the back of my throat. Lindsey and I were on our way to a going away party for my dear friend Brittany when I suddenly saw the awful lights of a police car in my rear view mirror.
What could be wrong? I thought for a second. I wasn’t speeding. I stopped at the light. I hadn’t changed lanes without a signal…..Then I remembered—my tags were five days overdue. Five days. What happened to a grace period?
I rolled down my window as the cop walked up and shined his flashlight in my eyes. Squinting into the beam I asked him (after he asked for my license and registration) “Uh, what’s the problem?”
“Your registration has expired and your right rear brake light is out,” he answered dismissively while flashing the light into the back seat and trunk several times.
“What brings you to Thousand Oaks tonight?” He then asked as I looked for my license and registration.
Wait a minute, I thought. What does that have to do with anything? How does he know I don’t live here? I didn’t ask that, but told him what we were doing as I handed him my information.
He took my license and registration and examined them under the light.
“So you live in Pasadena now?” he asked. My license says my residence is in Bakersfield.
“Yes,” I answered, becoming irritated at this point. If you want to give me a fix-it ticket, do it already, I thought.
“Have you ever committed a crime?” he asked seriously.
Oh my freaking gosh—do I LOOK like I’ve committed a crime? I’m actually dressed up tonight! Maybe when I’m grubby, yeah, I could pass for having spent time in juvenile hall, but not tonight! You’ve got to be kidding me—is this a joke?
I genuinely wondered if he was kidding, but his face belied no sense of humor whatsoever. He kept flashing the light into the back seat and asking a battery of questions:
“Is your license expired?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Have you ever gone to jail?”
Uh….no, no, and no, a-hole...I mean, officer, I thought. And so what if I had? Would that make him more likely to give me a fix-it ticket? Would he arrest me based simply on precedent?
As he walked back to his car I looked at Lindsey with an expression of severe agitation.
“He pulled me over because I’m driving a crappy car in one of the ritziest areas of L.A., didn’t he?” I asked. Lindsey nodded. There could be no other reason for his interest in my (non existent) criminal record other than an assumption that someone driving my kind of car could only be in Thousand Oaks/Westlake to engage in some sort of mayhem.
Oh, you caught me officer. I’m here in Thousand Oaks to rob a couple wealthy families and stash the body we got in Westlake trying to rob an Origins boutique.
I was incensed. I was livid. Do they honestly regulate who can come in and out of this type of neighborhood based on the appearance of economic status?
I am not denying that the officer had reason to pull me over—certainly my registration was expired. But he had no other reason to ask me those questions than to discover whether or not I was the type of person who belonged in that neighborhood.
Just like the last time I was pulled over, the officer’s face showed a glimmer of surprise when I rolled down my window. I don’t seem, from the way I dress, speak, act and perhaps because I am Caucasian, like I should be the driver of a car like mine.
My car fits in my neighborhood where the police are preoccupied with the multiple drug lords supplying countless people with illicit narcotics, gang activities and regular shootings that occur on our street. I know this because, despite the expired tags and broken brake light—I had three police cars drive directly behind me in my neighborhood over the last day and a half---and I wasn’t pulled over.
Anecdotal evidence? Sure. Could I be reading into it too much? Yeah, maybe. But when I arrived at the party and told my friend’s dad what had happened he laughed and said:
“I’ve been riding around here with a broken tail light for forever and haven’t been pulled over.” My face fell.
Because the saddest thing that came to my mind as I drove back across the imaginary “tracks” to where I live—is that had I not looked, acted and spoken like someone who really did have a friend in that neighborhood—would the cop have finished the incident the way he did?
As I braced myself for a fat ticket the cop walked up to my window, handed my information back to me with a “here you go,” and walked away with only a “have a good night.”
I have a disgusting feeling that the answer to the above the question is no—he wouldn’t have. There is more than just racial profiling. There's economic profiling too.
“Oh Josh, thanks for the directions…but uh… I gotta go—I’m getting pulled over.” I said as I coasted my car the curb with slight panic sticking to the back of my throat. Lindsey and I were on our way to a going away party for my dear friend Brittany when I suddenly saw the awful lights of a police car in my rear view mirror.
What could be wrong? I thought for a second. I wasn’t speeding. I stopped at the light. I hadn’t changed lanes without a signal…..Then I remembered—my tags were five days overdue. Five days. What happened to a grace period?
I rolled down my window as the cop walked up and shined his flashlight in my eyes. Squinting into the beam I asked him (after he asked for my license and registration) “Uh, what’s the problem?”
“Your registration has expired and your right rear brake light is out,” he answered dismissively while flashing the light into the back seat and trunk several times.
“What brings you to Thousand Oaks tonight?” He then asked as I looked for my license and registration.
Wait a minute, I thought. What does that have to do with anything? How does he know I don’t live here? I didn’t ask that, but told him what we were doing as I handed him my information.
He took my license and registration and examined them under the light.
“So you live in Pasadena now?” he asked. My license says my residence is in Bakersfield.
“Yes,” I answered, becoming irritated at this point. If you want to give me a fix-it ticket, do it already, I thought.
“Have you ever committed a crime?” he asked seriously.
Oh my freaking gosh—do I LOOK like I’ve committed a crime? I’m actually dressed up tonight! Maybe when I’m grubby, yeah, I could pass for having spent time in juvenile hall, but not tonight! You’ve got to be kidding me—is this a joke?
I genuinely wondered if he was kidding, but his face belied no sense of humor whatsoever. He kept flashing the light into the back seat and asking a battery of questions:
“Is your license expired?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Have you ever gone to jail?”
Uh….no, no, and no, a-hole...I mean, officer, I thought. And so what if I had? Would that make him more likely to give me a fix-it ticket? Would he arrest me based simply on precedent?
As he walked back to his car I looked at Lindsey with an expression of severe agitation.
“He pulled me over because I’m driving a crappy car in one of the ritziest areas of L.A., didn’t he?” I asked. Lindsey nodded. There could be no other reason for his interest in my (non existent) criminal record other than an assumption that someone driving my kind of car could only be in Thousand Oaks/Westlake to engage in some sort of mayhem.
Oh, you caught me officer. I’m here in Thousand Oaks to rob a couple wealthy families and stash the body we got in Westlake trying to rob an Origins boutique.
I was incensed. I was livid. Do they honestly regulate who can come in and out of this type of neighborhood based on the appearance of economic status?
I am not denying that the officer had reason to pull me over—certainly my registration was expired. But he had no other reason to ask me those questions than to discover whether or not I was the type of person who belonged in that neighborhood.
Just like the last time I was pulled over, the officer’s face showed a glimmer of surprise when I rolled down my window. I don’t seem, from the way I dress, speak, act and perhaps because I am Caucasian, like I should be the driver of a car like mine.
My car fits in my neighborhood where the police are preoccupied with the multiple drug lords supplying countless people with illicit narcotics, gang activities and regular shootings that occur on our street. I know this because, despite the expired tags and broken brake light—I had three police cars drive directly behind me in my neighborhood over the last day and a half---and I wasn’t pulled over.
Anecdotal evidence? Sure. Could I be reading into it too much? Yeah, maybe. But when I arrived at the party and told my friend’s dad what had happened he laughed and said:
“I’ve been riding around here with a broken tail light for forever and haven’t been pulled over.” My face fell.
Because the saddest thing that came to my mind as I drove back across the imaginary “tracks” to where I live—is that had I not looked, acted and spoken like someone who really did have a friend in that neighborhood—would the cop have finished the incident the way he did?
As I braced myself for a fat ticket the cop walked up to my window, handed my information back to me with a “here you go,” and walked away with only a “have a good night.”
I have a disgusting feeling that the answer to the above the question is no—he wouldn’t have. There is more than just racial profiling. There's economic profiling too.
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