“SIX EASY TIPS to not get KILLED by the POLICE when stopped at GUNPOINT! (results not guaranteed)"

I'm a black man who survived 14 encounters with the police and, (so far) I've lived to tell about them. This story, which I wrote two decades ago, recounts one of them. *THREAD*

I’m walking home from the gym when an LAPD cruiser across the street flashes its lights, cut across four lanes of traffic, and drives up the sidewalk to a screeching stop in front of me. The doors fling open and two screaming cops rush out, aiming their guns at my chest...

It only takes about four pounds of pressure to pull a trigger, firing a bullet into its target. Anyone with firearms training knows that you never place your finger inside the trigger well unless you intend to shoot. Both cops approach me - fingers wrapped around their triggers.

Cop A screams, “Get on the ground!”
Cop B contradicts his partner’s command, “Don’t move!”
The range of my voice is bass. Attempting to sound less threatening, I raise its octave & resonate with it from my nasal cavity rather than my chest. “Could you make up your minds, please?”

“Put your hands on your head, turn around, and get down
on your knees!”
I do.

People walking on the other side of the street look at me and point. Cars slow down to get a better look at me. Drivers crane their necks as they pass by. If I live, I'll at best be reduced to an anecdote to recount later.

A cuff bites into my wrist. My arms are twisted behind my
back, another cuff snicks into place. Hands shove me forward and, without free hands to break my fall, I fall onto my face. A knee digs into my back, pinning me into place like a butterfly specimen mounted on display.

The cop who cuffed me asks, “You have ID on you?”
I measure each word. “In my wallet, sir.”
“Any needles or sharp objects in your pocket?”
“No.”
Hands dig into my pocket and free my wallet. The information on my ID are read off into a walkie talkie.

The cement has scrapped my cheek. It stings. I’m probably bleeding but I don’t dare move. I keep my cheek flush with the sidewalk. After a moment, there’s chatter on the walkie talkie.
A cop says, “This ain’t him.”
The other cop says, “You sure?”
“Yeah, wrong guy. Cut him loose.”

The knee in my back lets up, cuffs are removed, and I stand.
Red and the blue alternating lights from the police cruiser
strobe across their faces. Their name tags say Borjas and Madero.

Borjas reads my More Than Waffles T-shirt and says, “I’ve
been meaning to try that place out. Is the food any good?”
I don’t respond. My hands are at my side, my is posture is
slumped. I control my breathing and remain still.

Borjas shrugs and returns my IDs.
Madero says, “Let’s go.” They walk back to their squad car with its still flung-open doors. The first time the LAPD drew their guns on me I was fresh off the plane, standing at a bus stop in front of the college I was attending.

But, that's the LAPD. I'm from New Jersey. The first time police from ANY department stops & frisked me, I'm not much taller than a doorknob... pausing as they feel the lump under my shirt... my house key around my neck... then, I'm face-down while they search my E.T. backpack.

To the police, if you look like me, you’re a criminal, ipso facto.

Whenever you’re stopped by police while walking, it’s:
1) “Yes, sir. No, sir.”
2) No direct eye contact.
3) Hands out of pockets & no sudden movements.
If you’re stopped while driving, include:
4) Hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel.
5) Look straight ahead.
6) Do not move.

You must be accommodating to the police while they reach inside your chest, rip out your humanity and dignity—sometimes at gunpoint—and discard them on the sidewalk, and at the slightest perceived provocation, close the book on your life story.

It’s the 21st century, but I don’t feel free. Certainly
not free to enjoy mundane things others take for granted,
like an evening stroll without concern of the predators in blue enforcing my de facto curfew… Always wondering, Is today the day I don’t make it back home to Amanda?

It wears on me day after day, week after week, year after year. Trapped in - and by - my own skin. I want to scream.

“Hey!” I say, “Are you two going to tell me what that was
all about?”

The words have left my mouth before I realized I’ve shouted them. I don’t care.

Madero pauses behind the driver’s side door. There’s the
LAPD decal with “to protect and serve” printed in cheerful Coca-Cola font on the door.

Madero says, “Yeah. You almost got shot, homie.”

Borjas says, "You fit the description of--"
I tune his voice out. I know the rest.

He shuts the door. The flashing lights cut off and they
speed away.

END.