Everlasting Trauma

Loud thumps rattled my front door one early morning in the mid-1990s. They weren’t normal neighborly knocks. My mind began to race and all sorts of thoughts pushed their way through. Is NYCHA delivering another eviction notice? Is this a raid? Did someone die? Who knocks on someone’s door like that at 6 a.m.?

The thumps continued, until finally my mom and I opened our bedroom doors, gazing at each other. I sure wasn’t going to answer the door, so I stood glued to the floor and looked on as my mother yelled,

“Who is it?”

“NYPD. Is Anthony Tucker home?”

“What’s this about?”

“No worries ma’am. I’m detective so-and-so; we just want to ask him a few questions. He’s not under arrest or in any trouble.”

My mom opened the door, screaming for me to get my ass over there.

As soon as I approached, an officer grabbed me by my left forearm and escorted me to the elevators. My mom stood helpless in the threshold, with an “I’m gonna beat yo butt boy when you get home” look on her face.

As soon as the detectives and I were out of sight, one reached for his handcuffs and closed them around my wrists. I cried out for my mom to help me. Infuriated, she began arguing with the detectives, but they ignored her and pressed the elevator’s button. She yelled, “I am coming to that precinct right now!” and slammed the door.

Silence filled the air as the elevator descended twelve floors. It was raining hard that day, and as we left the building, the officers jogged me to an unmarked car to avoid the pellets of water.

As soon as we hit the road they began to give hints as to why I was in their custody.

I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, yet I was petrified. I was about 16 years old, and my prior interactions with the NYPD and the judicial system had been horrible. When I was 12, I had been made to sign a statement that I hadn’t written. I had stood before Judge Judy — before she became a TV celebrity — and she had sentenced me to one-year probation. I had seen close friends and relatives leave with police only to return months or years later. Was that going to happen to me now?

The officers circled the block in search of what they called the “ringleader”. I chuckled, because I vaguely knew who they were talking about and their intel was way off, but I just replied “I don’t know” to their questions. Every time we drove past a corner they would ask, “Does he hangout here?” This went on for about half an hour.

When we finally reached the precinct I was escorted to a small holding cell on the detectives’ floor. The cell was big enough to hold two or three people at most. I stretched out on the bench, closed my eyes, and tried to think of what I could possibly be accused of.

By the time a detective returned, about an hour later, I had alternated standing, sitting, pacing, and lying down. I hadn’t been in there that long but that time had already started weighing heavily on me. The detective took me to a room with three chairs, a rectangular table, and a small window with a two-way mirror. He told me to have a seat, then closed the door and left.

He returned about 15 minutes later with his partner, a bald guy, tossed a notepad on the table, and took a seat. They both stared at me for a bit without saying a word, and then finally the bald one started.

“So… You want to tell me what happened last night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What happened with what?”

“Don’t play dumb. You and your friends beat that Mexican gentleman.”

I told him that I hadn’t done anything. The night before, as I exited my building, I had seen a group of officers rounding up pretty much any black boy they could find in the area. They had grabbed me along with others and made us stand in a lineup on the street. The victim was maybe 20–30 feet away, inside a police cruiser attempting to ID his attackers. He was able to identify them and they were taken into custody; I wasn’t one of them.

The heavyset detective jumped in as I was answering.

“Don’t fucking play games with us. You beat that guy and your pal we have in custody says you’re the ringleader. Admit it! Now tell us again, what happened last night?”

I began to recite what I just finished telling them, but the bald detective interrupted me.

“You think this is a fucking joke? Listen to me, we have Ramsey sitting in Rikers right now saying you are the one who ordered the attack. Now, if you want I can send you home, just provide me with more details. If not, you’re going away for a long time. So help me out here.”

For a third time, I began to repeat what I had said all along, but this time, the detective pushed away from the table, yelling at me to get up.

“You think we playing with you. Take off your shoes. Give them to me. “

I followed his orders without knowing what would happen next.

The detective pulled the strings from both sneakers, tossed them on floor, and then clapped the sneakers together loudly.

“You’re going away, that’s it. At least two years. Now, hand me your fucking belt. You’re getting booked.”

I started pleading with him, insisting that I had done nothing wrong.

“I am leaving to start the paperwork. If you don’t want to get sent to where your buddy is, your story better be different next time I come in here.” He picked up the shoestrings as he left the room.

After he left, I sat there trying to figure out why my mom wasn’t there yet. Later I found out that I was at an age — 16 — when police could interview minors without an adult present, so they hadn’t allowed her in.

For a really long time no one came to check on me. It turns out the detectives had actually gone back out to the streets in search of the person they had been looking for earlier. When the bald detective finally returned he asked if I had any “new information” for him.

I started repeating my answer yet again but this time the detective got in my face, so close I could feel his breath on me, but careful enough not to actually touch me. “I am putting your ass away, because I have Ramsey sitting in Rikers pointing the finger at you.”

I knew there was no way Ramsey would say I was involved when I wasn’t. Then I thought that maybe he was trying to take me down with him, maybe I should make up something to appease the detectives. But I decided to continue to repeat my truth. “I wasn’t there.”

“Ok, you want to do this the hard-way! You’re going to sit in a lineup and when that victim points you out I am going to add five years to your time.”

I shrugged in response, but I was terrified.

The detective took me back to the holding cell. I had no idea how much time had passed but I was exhausted. In the cell, I made a pillow with my skully hat and used my jacket as a blanket.

I woke up to the sound of a detective talking to a woman. “Just walk straight back to that open door ma’am.” I hopped up to see Ian walking through with his mother. It was the “ringleader” they had been searching for earlier — he was allowed to have his mother present because he wasn’t yet 16. I gave him a “what up” nod as he passed my cell.

They interrogated him with the door wide open but I couldn’t make out anything they said. All I heard coming from the room was loud crying from both Ian and his mother. The only words I could make out were, “I didn’t do it. Come on man, you can’t do that.” Not too long after they had arrived, they walked out the same way. This time, I kept my head down as they passed.

I thought about my mom not being there and cried quietly.

That’s when I heard an officer shout at me to get up. He tossed a hat into my lap and told me to put it on. It was a baseball cap: the victim had said that one of his attackers was wearing one.

The detective took me to a lineup room and told me where to sit. I took a deep breath and placed the cap on my head as seven other guys entered the room, each wearing a baseball cap.

The process started.

“Number 4 please look this way. Thank you! And now turn your head to the left. The same for number 2, thank you.”

Any command we received, we followed. Once it was over, all of the other suspects were escorted out first. I sat there waiting for my turn, when a voice coming through an intercom ordered, “look this way one more time.”

I thought they really were trying to get the victim to point me out. But he didn’t.

The bald detective came in and escorted me back to the interrogation room. He threw my belt and shoes at me, and said, “You’re free to go.”

“That’s it. Just like that?”

“I will be watching, Mr. Tucker.”

I jetted out of the precinct without even putting the belt and laces back on, running home with my pants sagging and my sneakers flopping loosely. The streetlights were now on: I had been in there for hours.

At home, I boxed the shit out of my bed and pillows.

I am reminded of this experience often, as life for black boys hasn’t gotten any easier over all these years. The film #WhenTheySeeUs brought back this memory, one of many that haunt me and still traumatize me to this day. This experience was just one of too many others that left me emotionally damaged, living cautiously and in fear. Truth is, if left untreated, pain is stagnant, and time doesn’t always heal it. Too many black and brown boys live with this burden. Too many black and brown boys experience injustices like this without any repercussions on the system that inflicted this pain on them. They come to view the violence done to them as the norm. In turn, we grow not to trust anything associated with the “justice” system. Like so many others, I was an innocent boy and the system tried its best to bury me. They didn’t succeed, but they still did their damage.

Harassment and injustice like the ones I and countless others have experienced have become so frequent that our black and brown boys perceive this to be “the way life is.” They accept the wrong that’s done to them and just keep pushing forward without any assistance, left to cope on their own. Somehow many still manage to persevere through the adversity, but they are left to navigate on their own. Mental health support for black and brown boys is hardly a priority for society, in most cases it’s just non-existent. What researchers call “Adverse Childhood Experiences” are contributing to long-term mental, physical, and behavioral effects. Having to be reminded of traumatic experiences with no tools to help come to terms with the pain is a huge social issue for our black and brown youth. The adverse experiences of our childhood are proven to have negative effects that continue well into adulthood.