My Most White Privilege Moment Occurred with Me in Handcuffs
By: Brian Abbey
Tags: Politics, Society, Justice, Equality, Race

Shortly after midnight in the summer of 2003, I left my girlfriend’s house in Pasadena, California, to drive to my Santa Monica apartment, when a police officer pulled me over. My encounter with the officer became tricky. Looking back on it now, I see how individual moments within the encounter might have differed were my skin a different color.

For several blocks, I’d seen a police car following me in my rearview mirror. The empty road that evening made the Pasadena sheriff’s car conspicuous as it followed me through a turn and fell in behind me. Even if you’ve done nothing wrong, a police car on your tail makes you uneasy.

Behind me, the officer turned on his lights, and I pulled to the side of the road. I rolled down the window and reached into the glove compartment to retrieve my insurance and registration.

As the officer approached my window, I sensed trouble. The speeding tickets I received in my teens involved calm, professional officers, but this cop seemed hostile. He ordered me out of the vehicle.

When I stepped out of my Nissan Pathfinder, the officer told me to place my hands on the hood. Despite the alarm bells ringing in my head, I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my voice when I asked if there was a problem. As far as I was aware, I’d done nothing wrong.

I did as instructed and as he patted me down, he asked, “Do you know why I stopped you tonight?” “Why don’t you tell me, officer?” I replied with a hint of sarcasm.

He informed me I had stolen this Pathfinder and replaced the plates. He cited the registration sticker missing from my rear license plate as his clue to the car being stolen. I’d recently moved to Los Angeles from Dallas, Texas, and was overdue to change the plates, but my vehicle’s registration was current and legal. Hearing his reasoning, my laugh was unintentional. I laughed because I felt relieved. While worried he might have a nitpicky moving violation for me, I knew I legally possessed my car. He had no legitimate reason to detain me, so I relaxed.

The officer then handcuffed me and placed me in the back of his squad car. I’d never worn handcuffs outside the bedroom and I had never been in the back seat of a police car. Having your hands locked behind you in real handcuffs is uncomfortable. My arms prevented me from leaning back so I had to lean toward the front seat where the angry officer explained the protocol to a female recruit he was training. He was humorless in his manner and instruction, but this novel experience intrigued me.

I didn’t steal a car; I hadn’t been drinking, nor was there illegal contraband in my vehicle. I possessed confidence everything would work out and listened with keen interest to the police radio.

An urgent-sounding message came across the radio with a numbered code. I looked back and forth between the angry cop and the recruit to gauge their reaction. I then asked them what the code meant. The angry cop became angrier and told me to be quiet. I muttered I was merely curious. He turned around and told me he was taking me to jail as soon as he verified I’d stolen the car. I reiterated the vehicle was mine.

He glared at me, “Once dispatch confirms, I’ll search that car and find something else to charge you with.” I replied, “Why wait? I’ve nothing to hide.”

He jumped out of the car, walked to my Pathfinder, and rifled through the compartments and pockets of the vehicle. I had a momentary flash of concern there might be an old joint between the seats, but his search came back empty. He looked disappointed when he climbed back into the police cruiser and was even more disappointed when dispatch reported the car was registered to me. The vehicle was mine, my insurance was current, and everything was in order. He then asked me how long I’d been in California. It occurred to me to lie and say a few weeks, but I was honest and told him three months. He handed me a ticket for not transferring my plate from Texas to California within the allotted 30-days and gruffly sent me on my way.

After my ordeal, I was cross he possessed the gall to write me a ticket. He had mistakenly cuffed and thrown me in the back of his cruiser. I expected an apology when he removed the handcuffs, but Officer Angry didn’t offer apologies.

On the freeway, I phoned my girlfriend to tell her what happened. The news upset but didn’t surprise her.

“There have been issues with the local sheriff’s department in Pasadena over the years. They’re very aggressive,” she said. “He was aggro,” I replied. “Could you imagine his behavior had I done something wrong?” “You got off easy, all things considered.” “If that’s easy, then what’s his disproportionate response?”

When her roommate chimed in saying it was my fault for wearing a “surfer’s beanie,” I scoffed at her joke but later realized she was somewhat correct. Our appearance can affect the outcome of police matters. What if instead of a beanie I had an afro? What if my white skin were several shades darker? What if I had the last name González instead of Abbey? Perhaps he would have responded the same way, but sitting in the police car, I didn’t have to worry about these things because I’m a white guy with a white name.

The officer was overzealous, but his actions didn’t make me fear for my wellbeing. He was a cop who made a mistake and overstepped reasonable bounds, but the circumstances didn’t threaten to escalate.

I never worried because we don’t live in a world where police routinely abuse and kill innocent white men, which provided me the assurance I’d be fine.

That is my white privilege, even in handcuffs.