It was around midnight last summer when I was driving in Springfield, MA. Three of my brothers were in the car. We had just dropped my sister off at her friend’s birthday party downtown. Not too far from our destination, I heard sirens and saw a flash of red, white and blue lights. Dammit, I thought. Not more than 20 minutes beforehand, I received a speeding ticket for going 75 in a 55. There was no possible way I was being pulled over again for speeding.

As I veered to the right and came to a stop, I grabbed my wallet out of my back pocket and asked one of my brothers to pass me my registration. I started to roll down my window, but seconds later, flashlights pierced through the windows on both sides of the car. “Put your hands on the steering wheel! Put your hands on the dashboard! Put your hands on the headrests!” Talk about being shook. What could I have possibly done? All I could think about was the fact that my brothers and I were young Black males and the officers were White. The tone the officers took was that of superiority. My little brother in the seat right behind me started talking back, voice elevated. I whispered, “Shut up, I’m not trying to die tonight.” My twin brother in the passenger seat sneakily started to record the situation with his smartphone, which was a very smart move. The officers would have to think twice if they were planning on doing some harm.

“We need everybody’s ID,” said the officer on the right side of the car. My twin brother reached toward the floor. I cannot remember verbatim, but I believe the officer said, “Hey, hey!” My twin responded: “I need to get my license from my bag.”

After the officers walked back to their patrol car with our ID’s in possession, conversation ensued.

“Why would you start talking to them like that?” I asked my brother sitting directly behind me.

“I know what I’m doing. You are allowed to ask why you are being pulled over. Why are you so scared?”

That was like a dagger in my forehead. Scared?

“I’m not scared. I’m just trying not to get shot up.”

Truth is: I was scared. Four young Black males driving late at night in a city known for its violence? You better believe I complied with everything the cops said. I wasn’t putting my life at risk because I felt like I had something to say.

“Trust. This has happened to me before,” said my brother. I was sure it had. But that didn’t mean that every encounter with the police will end up being the same. That summer night could have been our last.

After about five to ten minutes, the officers walked back to my car and handed back our ID’s. “You guys are all set. We pulled you over because your car matched the description of a vehicle that was involved in a shooting downtown.”

Geesh, I thought. I hoped my sister was alright.