Marc, the neighborhood watch captain
This story isn’t really about Marc. “Marc,” my son laughed derisively later. “Marc!” as if his name was the funniest thing ever. Marc the Mark, he mused. He seemed to think the name was hopelessly weak, lame, white, old. Who knows. He seemed to think it fit the guy, anyway.
Yes, Marc. Our neighborhood watch captain who one day not too long ago observed my son walking with two of his friends in the neighborhood. He was evidently none too pleased with the look of my son walking with his friends, because he trained an eye on them. I guess he came down from his living room window or off his driveway to study their retreating backs.
Either way, he watched them until they had arced into the driveway we share through an informal easement with the neighbor who lives behind us. Just for fun, some years ago, we carved a door into our fence so the kids could have easy access to the park, even though it meant they’d have to use our neighbor’s driveway to get there.
This is the driveway my son and his friends walked up. It was a sunny Sunday morning. They ambled, in no rush, laughing, probably, fooling around the way teen boys do. They’d had breakfast (I’d fed them something yummy — fried eggs and bacon, most likely). They’d just left and gone for a walk to the creek and were on their way back to our house when Marc noticed them.
The boys came in the back door, having come through the fence gate first. I heard their easygoing voices in the laundry room. My son called, “Hey, mom, can you drive us to James’ house?” I said, sure. I got my keys. My son and the two boys piled in. We drove away. We traveled about ten minutes to James’ house the next neighborhood over. I dropped them off, said, “‘Bye.”
When I got home about twenty minutes later, a slew of police cars were parked, idling, or cruising in the neighborhood (I later learned there were eight). I pulled onto my street slowly and carefully, gaping at all the cruisers, a cluster of police on foot, a couple of officers talking to a neighbor — a sight such as I’d never seen in the nearly twenty years I’d lived in the neighborhood.
I got out of the car gingerly. My neighbor across the street, Charles, called, “Hey, Christy.” He jogged over. “Wasn’t Liam walking around here with his two friends a few minutes ago?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Seems our neighborhood watch captain called the cops on ‘em,” Charles said, his voice edged with derision.
An officer approached me then. He asked me about my son and his friends.
“Excuse me? Yes, of course they were walking around. They live here. Is there a problem? Yes, I live here. Yes, there. That’s my house. What is the problem?”
It turns out, Marc had called the police and reported three youths in the neighborhood, “committing a robbery.” I still can’t believe it, but the way I heard it, he actually said that. He said a robbery was underway, with the youths last seen slinking up a driveway he knew didn’t belong to them.
I had a hard time controlling my temper, obviously, but even before my temper rose, the metallic taste of fear filled my mouth. The implications were obvious. Officers had swarmed up the driveway, most likely with firearms drawn (obviously — since a robbery was underway). My son and his friends had been there only a few minutes — maybe fifteen? before. Had timing been different, they might have been asked to halt. They might have turned in shocked surprise to see who knows how many “officers” potentially — probably — with weapons drawn, approaching them.
I can’t think of anything more terrifying.
Here’s the thing. My son is what is called white. My son’s two friends are what is called black. I cannot imagine what might have happened because it’s too appalling.
I was flabbergasted, speechless, and pissed to the hilt.
After I assured the officers one of the youths was my son, the other two were his friends — my friends too, our friends — and they’d just had breakfast in my home, and they’d been walking on a sunny Sunday morning, etc., and no of course they were not robbers, God forbid, trying not to let my acid tone get me arrested (but of course I wouldn’t be arrested, my son said later — I’m white), I jumped back in the car.
I was working by instinct, not really thinking through what I was doing, but going anyway, and doing anyway. I still to this day don’t know if what I did was a good idea or a bad one, but it’s what I did.
I went straight back to James’ house. I got the boys, told them what had happened and asked them to come back with me. They were a little mystified and nervous, but they came. We drove to Marc’s house. We got out of the car. I knocked on the door. He opened the door, scanned our faces.
He led us away from the house, to the sidewalk. I said, “This is my son, Liam. He lives here. He is your neighbor.”
“I’ve never seen him,” he shot back.
“Be that as it may, he is your neighbor, he lives here. These are his friends. This is James, and this is Devon. These are the kids you called the cops on. I want you to look at their faces so you recognize them, so you never call the police on them again.”
He hemmed and hawed, faltered, fidgeted. His expression was faintly smug. He was defensive and self-righteous. When I said, “These boys are 16,” he shot back, “They don’t look 16. They look 20.”
My son later said, “Like there’s a difference. I’m pretty sure a 20-year-old wants to keep his life too. I’m pretty sure he’s not done living.”
I said, “Marc, obviously you understand the implications of this action you took. It was incredibly dangerous what you did.” When blankness seemed to ensue, I said, “Marc, must I remind you there was another infamous neighborhood watch captain not too long ago, as I’m sure you recall.” To that he retorted, “Yes, but he had a gun! I don’t have a gun!”
To which I said, “No, but you managed to draw a dozen guns on these boys this morning.”
The boys were mostly quiet. Liam’s friends mostly looked at their feet. Devon expressed some indignation, some head shakes, some muttered, Mans. James was silent. I don’t know what they thought of what I did. I don’t know what their parents would have thought.
We didn’t stay long. There wasn’t much to say. No apology was offered.
In the following weeks, I wrote and called the police department numerous times. I filed a formal complaint. I asked why we had a neighborhood watch captain, whether he’d been trained, and if so, how. I asked how had he been chosen, what his responsibilities were, how this incident could have occurred, what could be done about it, and what the police department thought about it. I asked explicitly several times what was said, what was called in. What were the exact words. I never got that.
Various public relations-trained police personnel dealt with me. Finally a fairly skilled one, who at least acknowledged the wrong in it and semi-apologized on behalf of the department, managed to shut me down.
In other words, I gave up, finally. I didn’t really know what to do next.
Thankfully, the worst didn’t occur, obviously. But something terrible and meaningful happened. I saw it unfold. I understood the implications. Ultimately, I’m glad I witnessed what I did. How many times had something like this already happened to these boys? How many more times would it happen in their lifetimes? I had now personally witnessed just how starkly and absurdly different their reality was from mine.
I experienced first hand the fear some “white people” seem to have, the strange things they say, the justification they feel. I got how very dangerous and toxic the situation had become, and so quickly. I was ashamed of my neighbor and of my neighborhood, even though it happens to be one of the most diverse in Oakland. Still, with Oakland’s ferocious gentrification, I’m not sure how long that will remain true.
I don’t know what’s next, but I wanted to tell this story. I want it to be part of the record. I want to add it to the staggering pile of evidence that shows what these boys, our youth, are up against, when on any day including a Sunday, at any time, including mid-morning, and during any weather, including balmy sunshine, they can be fingered, literally behind their backs, without their knowledge, and a sizable police presence will appear, ready to do battle.
How does one stand a chance in a world like that?
