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In December 2017, as I was approaching the end of my final pregnancy and wrapping up grad school, I made a legal right turn on red. Almost immediately, I noticed the blue lights of a police car behind me. I initially thought I might have committed a minor traffic violation. When the officer approached, he asked for my license and registration, then began interrogating me about my presence in the area. I explained that I was on my way to my internship, yet he persisted, questioning why I, with a license from a different city, was there.
In that moment, I wanted to respond with sarcasm, perhaps remarking that cars exist for the very purpose of traveling from one place to another. But instead, I felt uneasy and vulnerable, standing alone on the roadside, my large pregnant belly evident beneath my dress.
The officer then accused me of being in the area to purchase drugs. When I pointed out my prominent pregnancy, he callously replied, “Pregnant people smoke crack all the time.” My anger surged. I had never touched drugs, nor did I drink. How could someone tasked with protecting the community misjudge a visibly pregnant woman as a criminal?
It seemed he refused to accept that I—a small, articulate, and intelligent Black woman—could be in a predominantly white neighborhood for legitimate reasons, like furthering my education. To him, my presence was suspicious, a stereotype that he apparently felt justified his harassment.
Despite his unjust treatment, he ultimately let me go, though I couldn’t help but wonder if the outcome would have been different if his dash cam had not been recording. As I drove to my internship, he followed closely, parking as I waddled into the building.
What struck me most was my instinct to rationalize his behavior as anything but racially motivated. I didn’t want to believe it could be about race. I thought maybe it was the way I spoke or drove. Anything other than my race or gender felt easier to adjust. Yet, I realized I could never change my race, so I sought out other explanations.
A kind, Christian colleague of mine, visibly flustered, rushed to confront the officer, suggesting his actions were racially motivated. I brushed it off, assuring her I was fine, but deep down, I was hurt. Once again, I felt like an outsider in the country where I was born.
This experience was not new to me. Some days, I muster the strength to speak out, while at other times, it feels safer to remain silent. Yet, it shouldn’t be this way. No one should have to compromise their safety based on how quiet they can be or how comfortable they make others feel.
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Summary:
In December 2017, while visibly pregnant, I was racially profiled by a police officer who unjustly accused me of drug use and questioned my presence in a predominantly white area. Despite my attempts to explain, he marginalized my identity and education. This experience highlighted the ongoing challenges of racial profiling and the discomfort of feeling out of place in a society where one should feel safe.