Black and Armed in America: Because the Color of My Skin Tone

Philando Castile‬’s death is a senseless tragedy, one many people of color are all too familiar.

I can personally relate to the situation to which Castile faced as an African-American male, with whom in my early 20s, had a Louisiana concealed weapons permit.

While driving in Baker Louisiana on Groom Road, I encountered a white, Baker Police Officer under similar circumstances as Castile, but I was alone in my car.

Concerning my 15-year-old contact with law enforcement, I survived, but unfortunately Castile didn’t.

The background of my situation is summed up. I was speeding on Groom Road in Baker Louisiana, and I never expected an officer to be standing outside of his patrol car checking for speeders. In fact, I never saw his patrol car, but he was standing there in uniform. The officer directed me to pull over, and I did. When I pulled over, and I ensured that my hands were up in the air because, under Louisiana law, a person with a concealed weapons permit must inform a police officer if he or she comes into contact. I didn’t want to be shot, so I held my hands up so the officer could visually see I was not a threat to him.

However, as soon as I told the officer that I had a concealed weapons permit, and I had a loaded gun, the first thing the officer did was pull and point his service weapon at me. I still had my hands up in the air. We were looking at each other, face to face. I could tell he was nervous because his facial expressions and his skin tone became pale red. I was nervous, and he was nervous too. This was a bad situation, and I didn’t want to do anything to make it worse. I couldn’t believe the situation I was in, but I already knew to avoid any miscommunication or make any furtive movements. I had a gun trained on me.

I didn’t get a ticket that day and lived to tell my story today. But my encounter with law enforcement that day is seared in my mind for the rest of my life. But instantly, upon me reading about Castile‬’s death, it sent me into a whirlwind of reflection.

I told a few friends about my situation, but, otherwise, I’ve mainly kept this story to myself for over 15 years. Individually, my story didn’t mean anything, but collectively it means everything in light of Castile‬’s death.

The officer had me get out the car at gunpoint, and I allowed him to disarm me. Upon conclusion of the encounter, the officer unloaded my weapon and placed the gun, the bullets, and the unloaded magazine on the backseat of my car. I wasn’t stopped because the color of my skin tone, I was speeding, but that white officer on that day surely pulled and pointed his gun at me because the color of my skin tone.

He ran my license for wants and warrants and informed his dispatch, per protocol, he had my gun in his possession by recordation of the serial number.

I was polite with the officer as most African-American parents would educate their children to be when they encounter law enforcement, and at the end of our encounter, the officer told me to “have a great day.” Now, I don’t know about most people, but if you’ve stood at gunpoint for about seven minutes, I don’t know what kind of day you’ll have, but I suspect it won’t be great.

If I could meet that white, Baker Police Officer today, I would thank him for not taking my life. I understand today more than I realized 15 years ago that if he had killed me, it wouldn’t be any repercussions because the color of my skin tone.