My Lived Racism Experience

I know some people are saying that (white) people should take the initiative to read books, watch movies, take the time and make the effort to educate themselves. That they shouldn’t put the burden on others (black people) to educate them. “Don’t expect your black friends to educate you!”, they say. I get that, but that said, I think there’s a lot to be gained from hearing about the lived experience of people you actually know. I’m okay with people disagreeing with that. I fully encourage people who don’t know enough about racism to try to learn in whatever ways they can. But I’m sharing my stories because they are real and they are mine. And maybe it might help add some additional understanding of what systemic racism looks like happening to everyday people like me.

But many of you don’t know me. My intention had been to only share this with IRL friends and colleagues. But then it was suggested by a colleague that others in my wider social media circle may be interested too. So here are 3 of my stories.

Are you stealing that?

My father owned a small chain of retail furniture stores while I was growing up in Toronto. He gave my brother and I a small stereo with two speakers one Saturday morning. It wasn’t boxed because he took it off the showroom floor. We took it home by public transport. We got off the bus stop nearest our house, and started walking up the hill to the street we lived on carrying the stereo and speakers in our arms. I was about 10 and my brother would have been 15. As we got about half way up the hill, a police car with two officers pulled up beside us and asked us where we were going with the stereo. They wanted to know where we got it from. We answered their questions and wanted to just keep going. They offered to drive us to our house. Bear in mind it was only about another 5–7 minute walk. Yes it was up a hill, but it was a lovely mild sunny day. We didn’t need help transporting the stereo. Anway we accepted their offer. It didn’t really feel like we had a choice. When we got home, they wanted to talk to our parents. They were out. My dad was working. I don’t remember where my mum was. The officers wanted to talk to our dad. So we let them in the house and called him. I was too young to really understand what was at play, but my dad understood instantly. He gave them a piece of his mind and told them to leave the house immediately. I only came to understand what was at play when I was much older, when my dad was educating/cautioning my brother and me about how black people are perceived in society. We were presumed guilty for the colour of our skin.

Is that really your car?

When I was living in Austin, Texas, at around 17 years old, I was out in my dad’s car one Sunday afternoon. I was driving on the highway in the ‘fast lane’. A police car pulled in behind me. To ensure I wasn’t speeding I set the cruise control to fix the speed at 55 mph. He was trailing quite close to me, I changed lanes assuming he wanted to pass me. He changed right behind me. He trailed me for about 1 or 2 minute. That felt like a really long time. I kept looking in my rear view mirror wondering why he was behind me. Anway, I was trying to rest easy knowing I wasn’t speeding. Soon his siren and his flashing lights came on. My heart jumped. Now I was confused. I knew I wasn’t speeding. He called out over the loudspeaker for me to pull off at the next exit. Now I was terrified. I knew that we were in the middle of nowhere. I recalled a recent story of a white older colleague telling me he’d been handcuffed and beaten in a field by a police officer at a field party once. The officer wanted to show his power. I thought “This is it. I’m going to be beaten up by this cop.” I pulled off the exit, and he came up to my window. In as loud and as aggressive a voice as you can imagine, with a deep Texan accent, with spit flying out of his mouth (like you’ve seen in movies), imagine him shouting, “Do you have a license to drive this vehicle?” I was trembling. I said I did. He said “With very slow movements give me your license and your [insurance] papers.” I said, “My license is in my wallet in my back pocket. Can I get it?” He shouted, “Yes, boy. I said give me your license!” I was terrified. I slowly got my wallet out of my pocket and pulled out the license and gave it to him. I then said, “The papers are in the glove compartment. Can I get them?” He said, “Yes, and move slowly.” I struggled to open the glove box door because my hands were trembling with fear. Anway, I fumbled until I opened it, found the papers and gave them to the officer. Before he walked away, he said, “Who’s car is this?” I told him it was my dad’s. He went back to his car and was there for quite some time, like perhaps 10 minutes. I assume he was running my plates and my license. Finally he came back and said in an authoritative voice, but not yelling, “Do you know you were doing 70 in a 55?” That was one thing I was confident about. I wasn’t speeding. I’d set the cruise control. I said, with confidence, “That can’t be sir. I had set the cruise control to 55.” His tone immediately turned kind (and I do mean kind) and he said, “You should tell your dad to get the cruise control checked.” He gave me my license and papers back and said, with a smile, “Have a nice day.”

“Maam, are you safe?”

When I was in university in Vancouver, it was common for people to drive to Washington State for short holidays or to buy goods much cheaper because of the strength of the Canadian dollar compared to the US. The drive was about an hour to the US border. My (white) female friend and I decided to spend the weekend in Seattle — there was a lovely restaurant we’d longed to check out. On our way down I asked her, “So what’s our story when we get to the border?” She was confused. “What do you mean?” I said, “What are we going to tell the border control is the reason we’re going there for the weekend?” She was still confused and didn’t really want to engage the question. I said, “We need to have a common story about why we’re going in case they separate us and ask.” She thought my concern was as far-fetched as anything she could imagine. She’d crossed that border more times than she could count, with and without people, and never had she been asked what she was going to be doing. I couldn’t imagine she didn’t know what I was talking about. Anyway, I pleaded with her that we decide what our story was. I can’t remember now why I thought telling the truth that we were going to hang out together in Seattle for the weekend was not a good option, though I can conjecture now. Anway, we agreed that the story would be that we were visiting her grandparents for the weekend. It’s important for you to know that she was driving, and it was her car. When we approached the officer, while in the car, the officer asked, “What is the purpose of your trip?”. Bingo. My friend said we were visiting her grandparents for the weekend. He asked to see our ID. At the time you could cross the Canadian/US Border with just your driver’s license. When we gave them to the officer, he said to my friend, in a hushed voice, “Maam, are you safe?”. She said, “What do you mean?” She was genuinely unsure what the question was. “Maam, are you safe with this man?” She was flabbergasted. “Yes, I’m safe, he’s my friend!”. We got our licenses back and drove off. She was livid. She had no idea that this kind of racial profiling was so common. That this was the common experience of her friend whenever he was crossing the border.