True story: I’ve been pulled over maybe four times in my entire life, and every time it happens the first question the police officer asks is, “Is this your car?”

The most recent time was after I covered a girls basketball tournament at Lake Central in January. https://twitter.com/romeovillekid/status/1265486253614673920

I told the cop that it was my car. Then, he asked me what I thought I was being pulled over for. To be honest, I didn’t have a clue. I wasn’t speeding, and I knew I wasn’t.

He then asked for my license and registration, which I gave him AFTER I told him what I was reaching for.

He goes back to his car, to (I assume) run all of my information. I’ve only had one ticket in eight years of driving, so I wasn’t worried about my record. But then another police car pulls up on the side of my car, I guess for backup.

The cop finally comes back after about 15 minutes and then this conversation ensues.

“You know why I pulled you over?”

“No.”

“Well, you weren’t speeding. You were just going fast enough to catch my attention.”

What a ridiculous statement.

He didn’t give me a ticket.

But when he finally gave me my stuff back, he looked over the license again and said, “You’re a long way from home.”

I then explained to him that I recently graduated from U of I, bought a new car and now work for the Times.

Maybe that was enough for him to think that I wasn’t a threat... But regardless of how he may have been feeling, every move I made within those 15 to 20 minutes was based off the unwritten rules my parents taught me years ago as a little Black boy, who is now a Black man.

Made it home, just like I always have. But every time I get pulled over — even with a clean record, a degree and a good job — there’s always that split-second when I think maybe this is the time I don’t make it home.

And my parents will be the ones on TV begging for justice.