I was learning to drive when the Sandra Bland case happened. Bland was pulled over in Texas for not signaling in time. The situation quickly escalated when she would not get out of her vehicle and the officer threatened to use a stun gun on her. Three days later? Bland was found dead in her jail cell.
This was the first time I feared the reality of being a disabled black kid in a nice car with braids down to my waist, learning to drive on Long Island. This was the first time I realized my skin color could lead me to be the next Sandra Bland.
I never got my license.
I am not afraid to be black, but I am afraid that my blackness will be seen as a target. My fear isn’t irrational. The same fear guides and directs the actions that the majority of black people take.
We all have heard the warnings from our fathers, mothers and aunties. We all know: Drive slower in the Deep South, don’t drive around primarily white areas alone at night, don’t engage with the police if you can avoid it, don’t sag your pants, don’t talk “too black,” don’t sell loosies on the corner, don’t wear a hoodie, don’t walk around your own neighborhood with Skittles and Arizona Iced Tea. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.