Triggered Fingers
By: J. S. White
Tags: Black Scholars, BlackLivesMatter, Police Reform, Police Misconduct, White Supremacy

Triggered Fingers

“Looks can be deceiving” and “don’t judge a book by it’s cover” (or variations of such) are phrases most of us have heard since we were kids. The phrases emphasize a belief that what you see on the surface often doesn’t exactly capture what’s below. They typically are offered to describe how someone or something that looks unpleasant may actually have purpose or value if you dig deeper. But sometimes it works differently. Folks who don’t know my history may look at me as the 40-something father in the culturally-diverse suburban town who coaches his kids sports’ teams. Or the middle-class, M.I.T. graduate living on the quaint cul de sac who is passionate about Black issues but is far removed from the people for whom he fights and attends protests to support. Some may comfortably assume this captures who I am. But they don’t know my story. And had things gone differently 25 years ago, they never would have.

For much of my adolescence and early adult life, I was an unimposing, 5'6", 142 pound (soaking wet) long distance runner. Despite my unintimidating stature, I was rarely afraid of anyone. Notwithstanding a few childhood fights, I was never the aggressive kind of kid. I was always an honors student and top of my class — gifted, athletic, and a leader in my school community.

From early on in my primary years I was labeled exceptional. My 1st grade principal used to call me the absent-minded professor because, as smart as I was, I would probably have had a penchant for forgetting my head if it wasn’t locked in between my shoulders. In 5th grade following the vote for our school’s first ever superlatives, my classmates dubbed me Dr. Charm and the Mad Scientist. During 8th grade graduation, I was pinned with so many honors medals, the left side of my gown did a gangsta lean. High school was no different except now I was a National Honor Society, two-sport varsity letterman in cross-country and track & field and (along with a plethora of academic honors) was selected as Most Likely to Succeed upon graduation.

I didn’t have many dreams over the course of that childhood. If I did dream, it was usually for a winter with heat or electricity in our home. The sound of the soft hum of the kerosene heater and the flicker of the Spanish candles still trigger memories of desperation and survival.

I’d dream that my mom would have some extra money to make a McDonald’s trip. Every time we approached Exit 44 on I-87, I’d quietly wish that we’d leave the highway to hit the golden arches on the way home.

I dreamt of being able to do back-to-school shopping since that holiday was almost never celebrated in my home. Seeing my friends flaunt their new kicks and outfits at the beginning of each school year always cut deep.

One thing I never dreamed of, however, was attending the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Growing up poor in an urban city didn’t afford me the opportunity to know much about the Institute. But on August 22, 1996 enrolling at M.I.T. became my reality. Frighteningly though, seventeen months prior, the actions of a Waterbury, Connecticut police officer could have ended that fantastical journey before it ever began.

On Friday March 31, 1995, my brother’s then girlfriend, Nicole, her friend, Shaka, and I had just stepped out of our local movie theater after seeing the Damon Wayans comedy, Major Payne, which opened the week prior. The movie trip, for me, was an opportunity to relax before I would take the SATs the next morning. We had a great time watching the flick and that joy spilled over onto the sidewalks of the theater.

As Nicole called for our ride home, Shaka and I laughed while making Street Fighter video game sounds towards each other. Out of nowhere, an officer appeared, chiding us for “playing in the street and obstructing traffic”. Immediately we were confused because neither of us had left the sidewalk and, despite it being early evening on a Friday, there wasn’t much traffic into or around the theater parking lot.

When we told him that we weren’t bothering anyone nor obstructing traffic, the officer demanded Nicole get off of the phone and ask for our ride to pick us up across the way at the mall. I instantly objected. If not for one of the girls persuading me that it wasn’t worth it, I’d have likely cursed him out for harassing us. Instead, at their urging, we all began to walk away.

In my frustration, I walked faster than the two girls and didn’t notice that they had decided to duck into an arcade about 100 yards away from where we were accosted by the officer. Shaka yelled to me to follow them but I didn’t hear her at first. Both girls then yelled for me and I turned around to see what they were saying. The officer appeared in my periphery asking me what did I think I was doing? When I told him I was going to follow the girls into the arcade, he yelled, “no you’re not” before slamming me up against a brick mortar wall.

The force with which he threw me into the wall bruised my shoulder — doctors would later conclude that the bruising went down to the muscle. As I chided the officer for violating my rights, he forcibly put my hands in handcuffs behind my back. After tightly locking the handcuffs, he proceeded to squeeze them until they clicked one unit tighter, causing my wrists to swell and bruise.

After sitting on the ground, handcuffed for violating no laws, frustrated while onlookers gawked at the black kid, likely assuming I was some thug (even though a thug wouldn’t be deserving of this maltreatment) a paddy wagon pulled into the parking lot. My 17 year old, Black, high school junior body was thrust into the wagon with 2 other arrestees from some other incident (or no incident at all since they could have been unjustly hemmed up like I was).

I’ll never forget being brought into the holding cell, standing in there waiting for whatever happens in situations like this… handing over my shoe laces, getting fingerprinted and photographed. At some point, I was put into a cold solitary cell with a long metal bench the size of a narrow, twin bed. Unbeknownst to me at the time, that bench would be where I would sleep overnight. In the pre-mobile device era, contacting someone who wasn’t at home was difficult. That night happened to be one of the very rare occasions my mom took a well-deserved respite from parenting and had gone out with some friends. By the time she had gotten home, my brother was asleep and she hadn’t seen the note he left her describing what happened; it wasn’t until the morning that she found out I was in a cell downtown.

I spent that night in the frigid metal and concrete cell curled up in a ball. I tucked my body inside as much of my t-shirt as I could stretch over my legs. As the hours continued to creep by, all I could focus on was not missing my SATs in the morning. Although, I was only a junior and taking the SATs very early, missing that long awaited day would have been devastating.

At about 9:30 that next morning, I was released to my mom after she arrived at the station. The trip to the SAT testing site was 45 minutes and the test began at 10AM. My mom drove like a bat out of hell and got me there 10 minutes late. By the grace of God, and against protocol, the testing proctor allowed me to still sit for the test despite my tardiness.

A few weeks later I received my scores. I got an 1180. A couple days later a letter arrived from the Dean of Admissions at M.I.T. The letter praised me for taking the initiative to sit for the SATs as a junior. She asked that I consider applying to M.I.T. next year. For a kid who had lived in poverty his entire life and knew almost nothing about Ivy league level schools, particularly the science and engineering behemoth that M.I.T. was, I didn’t really know how to receive that favor. But when I brought the letter to my high school chemistry teacher, he put it into context for me and began cultivating the seed that letter had planted. Just over a year later, I was sitting in on my first Advanced Calculus lecture as one of 65 Black students in M.I.T.’s Class of 2000.

Much of my M.I.T. experience shaped me into the person I am today and connected me with many of the most influential people in my life. So it brings me to tears thinking about the fact that on that one night back in March of 1995, all of that experience could have been erased. None of it might have happened because of a police officer’s interest in harassing three black kids coming out of a movie theater.

I’m triggered when I see images of the police officers abusing George Floyd. That could have been me calling out to my mama.

I’m triggered when I read about the “ride along” Freddy Gray took in the back of a paddy wagon. That could have been my frail body bouncing around in the back of that vehicle until my neck snapped.

I’m triggered when hear about the hostile police officer who harass, then arrested Sandra Bland. I think about when I was pulled over for Driving While Black. It breaks my heart that I had to give my then nine year old son, who was with me, “The Talk!” so soon.

I’m triggered when I look at my Black son and think about him driving some day, listening to his music loudly, only to be accosted by a white man who believes our Black faces are invading his sacred white spaces.

I am triggered because I know that one unnecessary decision by that Waterbury officer could have erased the numerous opportunities I’ve been blessed to receive because of that letter M.I.T. mailed to me in the Spring of 1995.

And I think about the opportunities missed by Trayvon and Tamir and Danroy and Jordan and Breonna and Sean and Oscar and Philando and Ahmaud and Sandra and LaQuan.

I think about the countless, nameless lives who were thrown off track by that one unnecessary decision made, not by them but, by police officers.

In the blink of an eye, most of you would have never known me or crossed my path simply because my Street Fighter impersonation irritated the sensibilities of a white man with a gun who wasn’t pleased that my Black face invaded his sacred white space.

Just like that, like Michael Brown and Eric Garner… like Rekia Boyd and Aiyana Stanley-Jones… like Walter Scott and Kathryn Johnston… like Atatiana Jefferson and Sam Dubose… before you can take your next breath… I could have taken my last…