Personal Reflections on Race and Racism
By Scott A. Williams
This post was originally published on Scott A. William’s Medium account.
I was born in 1967, just four months after this photo of my father and sister, Sandra, was taken. At about the age of five I knew I wanted to be a police officer because that is what my hero and champion in life did for a profession.
These past few weeks I’ve made a conscious effort to share personal stories and articles to help educate those who follow me on race and racism. As a result a number of friends have called me to discuss the issue of race. These conversations have reminded me of many personal incidents from my life. I share these accounts not to make you feel guilty, but rather to enlighten and educate.
My first experience of racism was when I was 9 years old. My parents had just purchased our family a new home in Freeport, NY on Long Island. My family was one of the first black families to move into this section of Freeport and my dad had already given me the “Talk” that all black parents give their sons. “Be respectful to cops, not all of them are your friend…” One day while riding my bike in the neighborhood a policeman stopped me and asked me why was I riding my bike in Freeport and not in my own neighborhood of Roosevelt. I respectfully told the officer I lived around the corner and told him my address. He didn’t believe me and actually told me not to lie to him. I insisted that that was where I lived. He put my bike into his trunk, put me in the back of the car, and drove me to the address I gave him. He marched up to the front door and rang the bell. My father answered the door and I could see the anger on his face and the white officer’s face turn red. My father ended a very lengthy conversation by saying, “Make sure you pass along to the other officers who patrol this area that I am a New York City Transit Police Officer, and that I expect each of you to look after and protect my son when you see him out and about. My dad, like he always did, handled the situation with grace.
Two years later, I was sledding with a friend of mine at the local public elementary school. It was a snow day so all of the local kids were at the school sledding down the big hill. I was the only black kid there. A white custodian came out and called me over. He asked what I was doing there. I told him I was sledding with friends. He told me I wasn’t allowed to be there and took my sled from me. I went home and my father asked where my sled was and why I was crying. My dad calmly sat me down, made me a cup of hot chocolate and told me not to move from the kitchen table until he returned home. About 30 minutes later he returned with my sled. I was so happy to have my sled back, I never thought to ask him how he got it back. Fast forward, I’m 17 or 18 , and I’m cleaning out the garage with my dad and seeing the sled on the wall, I ask him how he got it back. My dad says to me that he went up to the school, found the custodian, showed him his badge, and threatened to call Nassau Police if he didn’t give him the sled. The guy went to his car and pulled it out of the trunk. My dad then wrote his license plate number down and had it run to find out his address. Later that night he went to his house, keyed his car, put sugar in his gas tank and left a note that read, “if you ever f- - k with my son again, I will kill you!” Needless to say, all the times that I was up at that school, that man never messed with me again.
My sophomore year in high school I was walking from our school to the deli with my friends Derrick and Scott. All three of us black teenagers. We went to the Waldorf School of Garden City, a private school in an all white, tree lined suburban neighborhood. We were all wearing our Waldorf basketball jackets and dressed in very nice clothes. Midway to the deli, which was about a mile from the school, three police cars converged on us. They executed a felony stop, had us lay on the ground as if we were criminals. Then they approached us and stood us up and had us lean against the car with our hands spread out on the cold car and our feet spread apart. When asked why they stopped us, they did not tell us at first. After about 20 minutes the mother of one of our white friends from school drove by and inquired what was wrong. The officer told her we were suspects for a burglary. She vouched for us, but they continued to keep us there. By now, 30 to 40 minutes have passed, it’s 30 degrees and we are still detained. Then one officer approaches us and asks us why we are in Garden City and not Hempstead, the next town over that is primarily a black neighborhood. We told him we went to the Waldorf School, even though that was pretty evident. He then said we could go. Before we gathered ourselves and continued on to the deli, another officer says, “next time you hear a house alarm you should cross the street”. All of our parents demanded a public apology from the Village of Garden City, as did the principal of our school, Mr. George Rose. We got it!
Now I’m 22 years old, a rookie police officer in the U.S. Secret Service. Off duty, driving with my friend, Robin, also black and a member of the Secret Service, in his new black BMW. The two of us, carefree and engaged in conversation. A police car is making a left turn into his apartment complex in Laurel, MD on a wide single lane road. Cars ahead of us swing around him on the right and pass him. Robin does the same. All of a sudden, lights and sirens. This off-duty local police officer pulls us over. Long story short is he pulled us over for driving while being black. It happens so often, it’s infuriating. Needless to say, after a snippy exchange and us showing him our credentials and badges we were allowed to continue on our way.
I have so many, many more stories like these. I often think what if I didn’t have a father who was a police officer always teaching and protecting me? What if my parents didn’t work so hard to send me to private school, summer camp and fill my days with tennis lessons, music lessons and other activities so my time in the street was limited? What if I wasn’t, myself, a police officer with a badge? What might have happened to me along the way? Would I be here to tell these stories? Would I have been arrested on some trumped up charge? Might I have been roughed up, or worse, killed?
Each of these experiences, and the many more I didn’t share have shaped who I am in some way. These are just my accounts. Multiply these by the millions of black men and boys across our nation. Just think about that, it’s scary and it’s real.
Even when I was a police officer, I wasn’t comfortable as a black man. Every day I’m on edge. Every time I see a police officer, especially when driving, I’m on edge. It’s not how one should have to feel or live. It’s not fun and it’s not easy being black in this country.
I believe we need major reforms in law enforcement, and policies must be implemented to break down the institutional and structural racism that exist in law enforcement as well as in education, healthcare and so many other aspects of our society.
I will end for now, but ask you this simple question that I’ve asked everyone I’ve spoken to these last two weeks. If you could keep everything you have accomplished in life and all your financial resources, but you had to be black instead of white, would you make that trade? So far not one person has said yes.
Just to be clear, although it’s hard to be black in America, I’m proud to be black and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m just asking that all forms of racism be rooted out and dismantled, so it’s just a little easier and more fair and just for us black and brown people.