I can remember vividly the time I was pulled over by a police
officer with my daughter in the car. She was maybe 4 or so, all golden curls
and sweet disposition, sitting in her carseat in the back of our Honda Civic.
We had just finished painting pottery with some of her friends and were heading
home along one of the main thoroughfares through downtown when I noticed the
police car signaling behind me.
I found the nearest spot that I could to pull over. I
immediately felt anxious, because I had no idea why I had been pulled over. My
mind started to race a bit, because I wasn’t speeding. I hadn’t changed lanes
inappropriately. I didn’t go through a red light. I couldn’t figure out why I
was being pulled over. But I glanced at that face in the back and knew that I
needed to provide the appropriate perspective for the little one who was
watching me so closely.
I smiled, and said that a police officer wanted to talk to us,
so I was pulling over. She asked why. I told her that I didn’t yet know what he
wanted, but that police officers are here to help us, so we will find out.
About that time he showed up at my window. He smiled and greeted us both in a
friendly way, taking note of my daughter in the back. I honestly can’t remember
if he asked for my license and registration, but I do remember that he was
quick to let me know that he had pulled me over because one of my brake lights
was out. He asked if I was aware of that, and I said I wasn’t. He suggested I
get that fixed right away, and I agreed I would. He smiled some more, presented
my daughter with a sticker, and then left us to continue on our way.
As we pulled back out into traffic, my heart still racing a bit,
I made sure to smile brightly in the rearview mirror as I told my daughter how
nice it was that the police officer let us know our brake light needs fixing. I
wouldn’t have known it was broken otherwise. She was very quiet for several
moments. In a small voice, she asked if I was going to tell Daddy. About the
brake light, I said? Of course, he’ll want to help us fix it. Another pause.
No, she said. About the police officer. Of course, I said. The police officer was
just there to help us. Of course I will tell Daddy about that.
For a long time, that has been one of the funny stories in my
back pocket. The punchline, of course, being the last part where she wonders if
I’ll tell her daddy about the police officer.
I keep thinking of that story today, and it doesn’t feel so
funny. My heart has been heavy this week with the horrific death of George Floyd
and the country blowing up in response. This week I sat on the couch with that
same sweet girl, now a teenager who is trying to process the world like the
rest of us. We have had many opportunities for discussions of race lately, and
I was sad for yet another tragedy to spark opportunity. She wanted to know
about what happened to George Floyd. So I told her the truth, fighting every
motherly instinct in me that wanted to protect her from it at the same time, wanting
to shield her from it just as I had wanted to keep her from anxiety in the back
of the car those many years ago.
The hardest part was the question she asked me as she processed
it: Why did no one call for help? And I understood. I understood her instinct
to think there must have been something else that can be done, there must have
been some authority to call, there must have been someone else to intervene.
After all, that’s what I’ve taught her from the youngest age. The police are
our helpers. That’s who we call. They will protect us. They will make it
better.
Which made it all the more painful, in this moment, to have to
gently respond with another question: Who was there to call? If you call 911
when someone is being harmed, they send the police. In the case of George
Floyd, the police were already there. The police were pinning George Floyd
down. The police were ignoring his cries for help. The police were ensuring the
bystanders stayed back and did not interfere. The bystanders, pleaded with the
police officers to help George Floyd as he lay dying. The police did not. Who
was there to call?
In recent years, I have often heard a quote from Fred Rogers
referenced: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother
would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are
helping.’” I have thought of this quote many times when trying to help my
children process the pain in this world. I thought of it as I sat there with my
daughter. I thought to myself, who were the helpers in this story? All I could
come up with is the bystanders who recorded this. The witnesses who said that
this would not be forgotten, that everyone would know what happened in George
Floyd’s last moments. They were brave. They were helpers. I pray to God their
actions will help the next person. But they could not save George Floyd. It’s
not enough.
I think of that story of my being pulled over by a police
officer, and I think how easy it was for me to know what to say to my daughter
in that situation. How clear it was that she needed to know that police officers
are helpers. That she should cooperate with them whenever asked. That they are
here to take care of us. That everything would be fine.
My heart is burdened by the knowledge that for many mothers, that
conversation is not the same. That for parents of black sons, black children, the
conversation can never be so simple. That at best, discussion of police officers
must involve care and caution and must communicate a double-edged sword of
protection vs. suspicion. And at worst, that discussion must include all-out
fear. Warranted fear. And I ache.
From my place and position of safety as a white woman, a mother
of white children, I ache. I ache to acknowledge the pain and fear of all of
the mothers, all of the sons, all of the families out there who fear with no such
position of safety provided by their skin. And so I pray, and I share my heart,
and I pray for everyone crying out against this injustice, that these voices
will be heard, and that our world will be changed. That if we all cry loudly
enough against these injustices, we can be the helpers this world needs. I pray
that one day, our voices will be enough.
