When Safety Becomes a Question Mark: A Black Man's Reality with Law Enforcement - Part 1

Setting the Scene

When we think about safety, it’s often wrapped in assumptions—who is safe, who is dangerous, and who gets to decide. As a Black man, safety is a question I navigate daily, a reality shaped by history, bias, and experience.

A week ago, that question took on a new weight when I was stopped by law enforcement in my own neighborhood. What began as a simple drive to pick up my daughter quickly became an encounter that left me shaken, frustrated, and reflective.

This isn’t just my story—it’s the story of many Black and brown individuals who live with the reality of being profiled, questioned, and judged based on the color of their skin. Through sharing this, I hope to shed light on those experiences and spark a deeper conversation about how we move forward.

The Encounter

It started as an ordinary evening. I had just left an event for a nonprofit I proudly support and was heading to pick up my daughter. Driving north on Logan Avenue, I turned right onto Plymouth Avenue and immediately noticed something unusual: a sheriff’s vehicle parked in the shoulder lane at the intersection. Cars don’t typically park there, and the sight of the vehicle felt out of place. As I drove past, I caught the driver leaning in for what looked like a closer look at me.

Something felt off.

I continued driving east on Plymouth, but in my gut, I knew what was coming. Moments later, the vehicle made an unnecessary U-turn, weaving into traffic to fall in line behind me. My instincts were confirmed when the flashing lights came on.

I made the deliberate decision to pull over into a well-lit private parking lot. My parents had taught me from a young age that, as a Black person, choosing where you stop matters. If you pull over on a public street, the police can tow your vehicle. But on private property, their authority to do so is limited. These lessons were rushing through my mind as I carefully selected the V3 Center parking lot—a space I knew well.

Why there? Because I also knew the people inside. This was my community. I knew that if something went wrong, I could send a message for help and someone would come. This wasn’t just strategy; it was survival. Community is what policing should be—looking out for one another, holding each other accountable, and showing up for each other in times of need. These are the things that went through my mind as I parked my car.

The sheriff approached my window, motioning for me to roll it down, and then asked me to lower the passenger window so his partner could inspect the inside of my car. I complied.

“License and registration,” he said in a tone that felt both authoritative and irritated. It was as if my mere presence—and my questions—were an inconvenience to him.

I handed him my license and politely asked, “Why did you pull me over?”

“We’re just making sure the neighborhood is safe,” he responded curtly.

Safe from what? Or who?

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he asked for my insurance. I asked for his permission to reach for my phone to pull it up, and he agreed. As I showed him my proof of insurance, I asked again why I had been stopped. His answer didn’t change.

Then came the question that lit a fire inside me: “Do you live in the area?”

I looked at him, frustrated but calm, and replied, “You have my license right there.”

Still holding my license, he repeated the question. “Do you live in the area?”

“Yes,” I said firmly.

In that moment, I felt an ironic sense of pride and privilege. I had been educated on how to handle situations like this—what to say, how to act, how to protect myself. And yet, I was still frustrated. Frustrated by his refusal to answer my questions, his refusal to give me his badge number, and the audacity to pull me over in my own neighborhood for something as egregious as simply being Black in North Minneapolis.

The interaction escalated when he pulled out a device to measure the tint on my windows. “Your front windows are too dark,” he said.

I pushed back. “I’ve never been pulled over for tinted windows before. All four of my windows are tinted the same, and I bought this truck from a dealership.”

He assured me I wouldn’t get a ticket but wouldn’t provide any documentation to confirm the issue. I pressed him for clarity to avoid future stops, but his responses grew shorter and more dismissive. He walked away without giving his badge number, leaving me with more questions than answers.

As I drove off, I felt a complex swirl of emotions—anger, frustration, and a deep, simmering rage. The sense of privilege I felt from being rooted in North Minneapolis was clashing with the reality of being profiled in my own neighborhood.

And yet, I had to push it aside.

I drove straight to my daughter’s basketball game, knowing I would have to show up with a smile on my face despite having nothing to smile about. As a Black man, this is a daily decision—to carry the weight of these experiences while making the conscious choice to show up anyway. The world constantly tries to steal our joy, yet we find ways to hold onto it.

That night, I walked into the gym, masked my emotions, and prepared to move forward. But the weight of the encounter lingered, heavier than I could shake.

Leading Into Processing

As I drove to my daughter’s basketball game, the encounter replayed in my mind. Every detail, every moment of frustration and fear lingered, refusing to let go. How could I focus on cheering her on when the weight of what had just happened was still so heavy?

But I had no choice. I had to push it aside, put on a smile, and show up.

Have you ever had to mask your emotions, pretending everything is fine when inside you’re still reeling?

In Part 2, I’ll explore how I processed the pain of that moment and the lessons it revealed about resilience, community, and the cost of carrying these burdens alone.