Active Shooter

And so one day, my husband almost got shot too. We were driving to Racine to get lottery tickets, and my husband drives like an old man. He doesn’t think so, but it’s true. It was a sunny day. I had off for some reason from teaching. It was a weekday. We were driving down the freeway, and a semi-truck started riding our ass, and driving erratically in and out of lanes. He eventually went around us, but not before swerving and almost making my husband swerve and drive into what divided us from oncoming traffic.


But we survived. We come closer to the exit and my husband gets over. We notice there is a sheriff’s car behind us. No lights on. We weren’t being pulled over, but it was there. My husband proceeds to the gas station, pulls up to a pump. The sheriff’s car pulls in behind us. There are no lights. No reason for us to be pulled over. My husband jumps out of the car ready to go get his ticket and pay for the gas he planned to pump. He jumps back in the car immediately. I am startled. He says, “He has his gun drawn.”

I freak out. I don’t know what I said from there. You can imagine, though. I am my momma’s daughter. I am an American citizen- Northside of Milwaukee. We had done nothing wrong. I made my fear, which grew into anger vocal. Fuck that shit. We got kids and shit. He works at the post office. I am a teacher.  I called someone to tell me what to do in this situation.

The cop quickly realized his error was apologetic. There was a complaint that we were smoking weed.(Probably from the asshole truck driver.)  I’m too goofy to smoke weed. Deputy Danker was my D.A.R.E. representative in the 5th grade. Yeah, we don’t smoke weed. Why was the gun needed, though? No answer. He was a white man. The subsequent patrol (because now there are several sheriff cars), who came on my side Latino. I was crying and screaming. I saw he sympathized with me in his face, but he couldn’t say. He instead tested the truck’s windows to see if the tint was too dark. He told me it would be ok. No tickets issued.

By this time, I’m out of the car. I want badge numbers. Mugs want to up strap for no reason. Nope. Nope.


Today,  Diamond Reynold’s interview today on Good Morning America was more than I can handle. I couldn’t help thinking that was almost me. Her daughter sat in the back while her father was murdered. My kids weren’t with us, but maybe they would’ve cried like Alton Sterlings’ son, “I want my daddy.”

I have been trying to write something since last week about this. I am pained. I feel helpless and sad. I cannot separate myself from these murders because I see myself in these people. I see every black man I have loved and love still as being a possible target. Please don’t make me mention my son because some greater power help the universe if one hair on his head is ever touched. I cannot separate Sandra Bland from myself or my daughter, who is more myself than me, or the women who raised me. 

I have no answers still. I don’t know why black is so scary. I don’t know why some people cannot see people because we are light filled. We just want to go home to our families too.

Let us live to be morethana#.