I Can't Watch the Sandra Bland Video

I can't watch the Sandra Bland video. And here's why: My windshield is currently cracked, I am driving a late model vehicle with out of state tags in a town where the police force has a reputation with the DOJ that reads like the Bad News Bears playbook. I am a black woman. With an afro. An attitude. An education. A family who loves me and is proud that although I am away from home, I am happy in my new life. A family that dotes and worries regularly. Making sure my proof of insurance, license and registration are within a non-threatening arms reach is as important as deodorant and lipgloss when I leave the house. I was worried that my license might be too hard to get to buried in my giant leather handbag which is stuffed with all evidence of the black girl magic I practice everyday, so I got a smaller id case with a clear window that I leave in the front console. Subconsciously, making it easier for me to identify myself should it be demanded of me. In Albuquerque, I show my ID a lot.

So back to the cracked windshield. For those of you who are familiar (see also, black) with "Routine Traffic Stops" you know that this is a citable offense, much like failure to signal. What you might not know is that I have a disturbingly unhealthy fear of police officers. Reason being, in my experience, my body is not of importance or value to them. My black body and the spirit it caries is not something they wish to serve or protect. They are even less interested in my intellect and often offended by my ability to communicate and challenge illogical behavior. In all earnestness, I believe that the collective black community is still who police officers wish to serve and protect the white majority from. (I will take this moment to tell you that if you'd like to interject with instances where white people have been abused by excessive police force, don't. That is not what this post is for. Of course they have. I am speaking of MY experience.) I have seen the force with which police officers have handled my family members in public parks when the music was too loud and one of them wasn't standing still and quiet enough to satisfy the officer's need for total attention. I watched in disgust as an officer slammed a 12 year old little brown girl who reminded me of my baby cousin into a cruiser, breaking her jaw. I watched Dajerria Becton, 15 thrown to the ground, straddled and handcuffed by a 200lb police officer while she wore a bikini. I remembered my first two piece teenage pool party at Del Mar Park in Aurora and a part of me died inside. Miriam Carey, Yvette Smith, Tanisha Anderson, Shelly Frey, Darnisha Harris, Malissa Williams, Rekia Boyd, Sherese Francis, Aiyana Jones, and so many more. Dead. But for the grace of God, there go I.

The fearful instruction of my mother that she'd kill me before she let the streets do it made me wary of all potential threats. Drugs, pimps, tough girls, gangs, police, fast cars, easy money, police....they will all kill you. So I made a careful life of only flirting with the flame of the streets just to see how hot it really gets before being burned. I explored some of this during my teenage years when as she would say, I still "didn't think shit stinks" but I was smart and scared so, I survived the brushes with wild life pretty much unscathed. I feel safe from the threats of the streets now as I look upon my 34th rotation. I'm no longer 'bout that life' though I never really was. But as every drug dealer, hustler, gang member, hot boy grows up, gets locked up, or is cut down in the streets; the threat of the police becomes a larger, more tangible Boogie Man at every traffic light. While swimmers on the east coast fret over shark attacks, I create a separate line item in my monthly budget for windshield replacement. There are more police officers than sharks in my world. And I feel like I have better odds with a shark only taking a limb than a police officer taking my life.

So, yeah, I can't watch Sandra Bland go from disgruntled commuter on her way to a job interview to death by trash bag in her jail cell (with a broken arm) three days later. I want to be alive three days from now and the reality is that quite reasonably, I could not. One misstep. One insulted officer. One degree of anger in my tone could be the catalyst to my death. Do you understand the stress associated with that type of reality? The other night at work, I was replacing trash bags in the restroom and thought to myself, "how empowered by desperation would I be if I wanted to use this bag to end my own life? And how powerful would the person have to be if they used it to murder me?" We are not okay.

In February, I could have been Sandra Bland. I was driving around Albuquerque looking for work. Perhaps missing a turn. Fiddling with GPS and cell phone, smoking a clove. Bored, hot, stressed, broke, black but still happy to be alive and on the precipice of a new beginning. I try to stay with the feeling I hope she had in the car before she got pulled over. I can't handle imagining what she went through up until the time she drew her last breath. I just can't. ‪#‎IfIDieInPoliceCustody‬ I didn't take my own life. I didn't give it away, either.