The invisible visibility of black women and police
By: Shamontiel L. Vaughn
Tags: Racial Profiling, Police, Black Women, Racism, Black Men

I thought about this moment while reading John Ross “White Privilege and #BlackLivesMatter.” There have been many moments when I strolled past police SUVs, vans and cars, and barely got a glance, similar to white men like him. The usual reaction is indifference. However, I’ve interviewed a few as a journalist, one of which was a white officer who looked up my website after a phone conversation. He then emailed me to tell me I was “cute.” Another was a black man — and noticeably handsome — who, after a year of casual chatting and flirting on my way home on the Metra, told me he was a narcotics officer. (I would never date an officer. If he wilds out, who could I possibly call for help?) These are those moments when I am seen as a woman first.

When black women see black male strangers be profiled

I was on my way to Border’s for the millionth time (I used to work there, but this was a leisurely visit). Without a care in the world and daydreaming about all the books and magazines I would buy before I left, I stood up when the el reached my stop. A black man on the opposite side of the train stood up to get off, too. When the doors opened, a group of white officers stepped onto the train.

“C’mon, man, I’m just trying to go to work,” I heard the brotha say in an almost pleading tone.

Photo credit: Pedro Lastra/Unsplash

I turned around, confused. The officers cornered him as he stepped off the platform, walking him backward. I gazed at him wearing a tan trench coat, suit and a black top hat. He was carrying a suitcase that was quickly taken away from him but still looked like he stepped off the pages of GQ. I hadn’t noticed him on the train, but I loved his whole outfit now that I was paying attention.

More importantly, I now didn’t know what to do. I could’ve easily jogged down the steps and made my way to Border’s. However, that just wasn’t an option. I won’t say all black women do this, but the average black woman may — we immediately feel obligated to look out for “our” men when they’re in danger. (And sometimes it’s to our own disadvantage when the anger from black men is directed our way.) I may not know this black man, but he could’ve easily been my grandfather, father, uncle, cousins, nephews, (ex)-boyfriends, male friends or anybody else. And I would hope another black woman who observed a scene like this would do the same for him. Her presence makes a difference — sometimes.

Photo credit: Koshu Kunii/Unsplash

So I slowed down. I “looked” for something I “forgot” in my purse. I “needed” to check my train schedule. I couldn’t “find” my smartphone. Eventually I ran out of reasons to be on the train platform, and it was just us two plus the officers. For all I know, he could’ve really been a criminal who got caught up. But it just doesn’t work that way with black women like me. For me, there will always be a glass-half-full approach to any black man approached by officers. I’m always going to need proof before I assume the worst.

I sped-ran downstairs so I wouldn’t lose sight of him and turtle-walked through the alley, staring above at the platform. They were just talking. Low. But he was unharmed — physically, that is. I’m sure the officers figured out I was paying way too much attention to him. Eventually I walked across the street to the bookstore, only to go directly to the top floor to stare out of a cafe window. By that time, they were gone. I don’t know why they stopped him. I just didn’t want to see him on the news as a victim of police brutality that night. For some black women, it is more stressful (or as stressful) to see a black man be profiled as it is for us to be profiled. There’s only so much we can do as onlookers when we don’t know what lead to this incident. But leaving the scene feels like betrayal.

When black women see black men they know be profiled

For about eight years, I lived in an apartment a couple of blocks from the lakefront. It was a beautiful location, and I loved walking over there to dig my feet in the sand or to walk a few miles to people watch and sit by the boat docks. A childhood friend who became a significant other had just moved from Texas. We were on and off for the course of five years, but in our time apart, he’d had a not-so-great childhood after moving to another state. As with most black men I know, he was not a big fan of police.

Photo credit: Benjamin Rascoe/Unsplash

As we walked at night along the lakefront bike path, I saw a police car out of the corner of my eye. I knew why it was there. The beach had just closed for the evening, and everyone was heading out. The officers honked at us, saying, “Ya gotta go.” I gave them a head nod and strolled on. But I could feel him tense up next to me. He mimicked them, “Ya gotta go.” I could tell he was reading this moment much differently than me. I linked my arm in his — a simple touch. I made eye contact.

All it would take was for him to make one smart remark for this whole night to go left. When you’ve constantly been stopped for minding your business, it is much more difficult to identify when there’s a legitimate reason to catch the police’s attention. Meanwhile I lost count of the number of times I was kicked out while walking solo, along with a flock of white people. From the ice grill on his face, I could tell he wasn’t seeing it like that though.

I made some kind of flirtatious comment (I forgot what it was) to redirect his attention. It worked. He stopped looking at them and smiled, looking down at me. I know this experience for him would’ve been different if he was walking alone, just moving into this town and not understanding the neighborhood routine. But I also know he could’ve easily been like the guy on the train — stopped and held for any reason at all. We left that park and headed back to my apartment. He never said a word about that bike path walk, but when we returned, I made a point of leaving before it closed.

When black women realize location makes them different somehow

I’ve already told the story of my first time being profiled. As a teenager who went to a high school next door to a police station, I was constantly asked where my ID was. It was the reason that “Higher Learning” was my favorite movie for well over a decade. I could relate to Ice Cube saying, “No, let me see your ID.” (I still don’t know what to say about Ice Cube’s current politics.) Initially I was naive enough to think that cops were checking everyone’s IDs, until one particular incident where it was no way to confuse it for what it was — unapologetic racial profiling of a brown girl while letting a blonde girl of the same age stroll by for the exact same reason I was stopped.