“I am the Consequence of White Supremacy.”
Emperor Okoro, the Gilded Embare.
San Jose, California February 15, Present Day, 9:50 a.m. PST.
My dad taught me that in life, you are either coming out of a storm cloud or going into one. To me, that means, instead of being afraid of the storm, you appreciate the calm.
Today marked the calm before the most significant storm cloud of my life.
My name is Scipio Harelson; I’m a seventeen-year-old 6’5” 225-pound young Black male. I’m a long way from the cute little chocolate-skinned Black boy people found harmless when I was five or six. I tend to walk around with a smile on my face and a song in my heart to offset my physique’s perceived ‘scariness.’
I am a martial artist: I worked hard to be in shape and skilled at what I do. I had two big days ahead of me. One was happening tomorrow, a full-contact martial arts tournament. All the big scouts would be there. The second was my third-degree black belt test. I prepared for this test day and night. I ate, slept, and woke up with the test on my mind. I worried about being ready. I feared I would forget my forms - oh God, the bricks … why had I said I could break ten?
Oh man, I was graduating later this year. I wondered if I would have time to work before or during my Olympic Development Program. Someone had signed me up for the ODP for martial arts, and when I say someone, I mean my teacher and mentor, Adrian Lake, or Coach. That’s who I was going to see; we planned to spar today to get ready for the tourney.
I was so deep in thought about everything starting in my life that I did not notice the officer approaching me from behind.
“Stop!” he yelled as he grabbed my arm.
I spun to see who grabbed me, my arm coiling for a blow or a block.
“Don’t,” he said; his hand dropped to the butt of his gun as he stepped back. I realized the person grabbing me was a police officer. My hands shot up, and the worries in my head fell away.
“Sorry, Sir,” I said. My heart thundered in my chest. Prickly heat crawled up the back of my neck and scalp.
The officer examined me suspiciously. “Where are you headed? I haven’t seen you around here before.” His blue eyes squinted as he spoke.
His words struck me as weird. I have been walking or running to the studio for at least five years. All the store owners and employees in the area knew me. I knew Mrs. Ngyuen from the Great Wok. Her oldest son had recently died of cancer, and we spoke at length of her memories of him. I am a superb listener, and my shoulders are the perfect size to cry on for her. She cried a lot. I knew Mr. Achebe, who owned the local market store; he always had a bottle of water or juice for me. There was Ms. Rhodes and the ladies at the Rat’s Nest. She has a weird sense of humor. This flashed through my head in a second.
His badge bounced frantically on his uniform. “Are you deaf?” the officer barked.
“No, Sir.” I tried to calm my heart.
“You don’t know where you are going?” he cocked his head to the side as if he was aiming.
“Yes, Sir, I know where I am going.” My dad’s calm voice came to me, reminding me:
Keep your hands visible.
Be extra courteous.
Don’t raise your voice.
Obey every command.
Do not resist in any way.
Survive the encounter.
“Let me see your I.D.,” he commanded. He didn’t move; he just stared at me, eyes squinting.
“Sir, my I.D. is in my bag. Can I get it?” Keeping my hands up, I pointed and nodded at my bag.
“Sure. Take it slow,” the officer said, taking a deep breath as I unslung my pack.
I moved very slowly and deliberately.
Two years ago, a massive shoot-out called The Chicago Massacre happened over an entire weekend. During a protest, someone shot at the police. The police, of course, returned fire, and a massive gun battle ensued. Seven officers and nine civilians died. The following weekend, the Governor empowered the state police to search all the houses and people in the neighborhood. They did, with violent gusto. Gunfights became constant as the Black and White citizens boiled at the Gestapo treatment.
I remember watching the horror unfold. My dad and mom were very concerned. The violence against law enforcement angered the police all over the country, and they were downright terrified now. Some police force captain said, “The best defense is a strong offense,” and the cops all over America took that to heart.
My heart pounded, and my palms sweated so sweaty as I reached into the bag. Was this the time I’d get shot? I avoided gangs and places where gang members hung out. I got good grades because I worked hard. I did all the right things not to get shot. I was not wearing anything that would be considered thuggish. The police have stopped me enough times for me to know all the ways not to look sus. My parents taught me to be respectful and polite.
Yet, here I was about to get shot for doing what I was told to do. I found my wallet and made sure to pull it out slowly. It was a bright green folded wallet my mom got for me a couple of years ago. She did not want it ever to be confused for a gun, so she bought the brightest one she could find. Usually, I hated to carry the green monstrosity. Today, I was glad to have it, and I thanked my mom for being so thoughtful. I pulled the wallet out slowly.
“What the hell is that?” The officer chuckled; his eyes widened in amusement.
“My wallet, Sir.” I tried to open my wallet, but my hands shook. I fumbled it and nearly dropped the wallet. I did not know if I was scared or angry.
The cop took a step back. I wondered what this was like for him. He does not know me from any other stranger. However, he chose to see my skin tone as a threat. If I were him, I would at least be nervous, stopping people for any reason. He was probably terrified. I did not want to add any more tension to this already stressful situation.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly.
I thought about how this must look to the people driving by. My cheeks flushed, and I felt the heat of the blood rushing to them I was glad my skin was dark so he could not see me blush.
He probably thought I was a criminal. I pulled out my California I.D. and handed it to him.
“Wait here,” he said as he turned and walked to his patrol car. I figured he must not be too scared because he turned his back on me.
With my hands still in the air, I waited for him to run my I.D. I knew he would not find anything. I knew Coach was going to at least poke his head out of the door to see where I was soon.
It dawned on me that I did not know this officer. Coach also served as the city police department’s defensive tactics instructor, and for years I was his faithful companion. I had a chance to meet most, if not all, of the officers on the force. My parents had been all for it. They hoped it would slow down or stop the police from harassing me as I got older. It worked a little bit, I suppose. It had been a unique opportunity afforded by my parents’ friendship with Coach. However, these last two years, Coach has been dedicated to helping me train for the ODP, so he missed meeting the recruits of several previous classes.
My parents truly wanted me to be safe; I had two strict curfew times, one if I was walking and one if I had a ride. The former was before sundown, and the latter was no later than eleven p.m. I didn’t complain, even though it was frustrating to have to cut my nights short. I understood their fear. The police have stopped me eleven times in my life. Each time has been scary and humiliating. Usually, I “fit the description,” but sometimes, they said I was just suspicious.
The officer was only in his car for a minute when I heard sirens coming from all directions. I didn’t think my heart could beat any faster.
A wild thought came into my mind.
Run! Fly away!
I knew if I did, I would not live, and it would be my fault. So, I pushed the alien thought away and stood there with my hands up, hoping to survive the encounter.
The officer poked his head out of his cruiser. “You can put your hands down!” he shouted. His eyes were blinking rapidly.
Trap!
The word and the image of a mousetrap appeared in my mind. The thought was not mine.
I can't explain it, but I listened.
“I’m fine, Sir, thank you,” I responded, just loud enough for him to hear me. He stared at me for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders and ducked back into his cruiser.
Another cruiser came screeching and bouncing into the parking lot. The new officer brought his SUV around to box me in. The officer walked up to me calmly and expressionless. I recognized him immediately. I saw him in line at the Great Wok, and we nodded to each other as he had been in one of Coach’s D.T. classes.
He walked up to me, put my arms down, spun me around, and slammed me up against the nearby wall. There was no recognition in his eyes.
“Stop resisting,” he ordered, pushing me harder into the wall. I tried to relax my arms more.
This was it; this was how I was going to die.
“Sir, why am I being detained?”
“You fit the description,” he growled.
I turned my head, and to my surprise, one officer had turned into ten. I felt the cold cuffs on my wrists and heard them ratchet closed. “Sir, I was just on my way to my martial arts class; it’s right there, just a few doors down. My coach is there, and he can vouch for me. His name is Adrian Lake.” I hoped his name would jog the officer’s memory. It didn’t.
He roughly turned me to his car and pushed me toward it. I could not believe this was happening to me, again. I had not done anything wrong. I was just going to train for my big day tomorrow. I knew if I got into the back of the cruiser, I would never be seen again. It was an absolute certainty to me. My legs stopped moving; I did not want to die.
“Sir, why are you arresting me?” I shouted. I tried to dig my heels into the concrete to no avail.
“Stop resisting!” he responded. He was on my right side, leading me to the cruiser. He put his left leg in front of both of mine and pushed. I pitched forward, and he slammed me on the hood of the cruiser. My breath left my lungs in a huff. Before I knew it, punches pummeled me.
“Stop resisting!”
“Stop re-fucking-sisting!”
“Stop resisting!”
“Stop re-fucking-sisting!”
“Stop resisting!” was all I could hear. I clenched my teeth, tucked my chin, and tried to raise my shoulders. Then a baton hit me on the back of the legs. I did not fall. Then the strike came again, and I wasn’t sure if I could keep standing. If I fell, I was dead. They had trapped me between two impossible choices.
“Hey! What the hell is going on here?” Coach’s voice cut through all the yelling and roiling confusion.
I couldn’t see him, but his presence was a godsend. Coach was 5’8” and 160 pounds of pure death. Adrian Lake has been my mentor, coach, and friend for eight years. We met when I was nine, and he became a family friend. He and my dad served in the Navy, not at the same time, but it bonded them. He and my mom were fast friends as well. Her calming spirit and energy leveled his near-manic need to wander and made them all fun to be around. When the three of them got together, they were hilarious.
All those years ago I wanted to be a ninja and wouldn’t take logic as an answer. My parents took me to the local karate school and signed me up. At the time, Adrian was the head instructor. The owner at the time did a team-building exercise with the students and their families. My parents and Adrian became friends, which was terrific for me because I got extra lessons at my house. I got good, good enough to compete.
I knew little about Adrian’s background, except he had been in Afghanistan for a couple of tours. He has a photographic memory and was faster than any fighter I have ever seen. Sparring with him always proved to be a new lesson.
All the blows stopped; it was a miracle. The officers still pressed me on the hood with their forearms.
“Do you know this man?” one of the officers shouted.
“He is a child, and yes, I do know him. He is my student.” My head was being pressed into the hood of the car. I was facing away from the conversing adults. People had crowded around the eight police cars and two police motorcycles, most of them filming with their Globals. Great! I saw Ms Rhodes and Mr. Achebe looking concerned and angry at the same time.
“Well, he fit the description of a robbery suspect. Someone hit the thrift store up the road,” I heard the officer say.
“No, they didn’t,” Coach responded matter-of-factly.
“What?” the officer was taken aback.
“There was no call to 911, no radio call to respond to a 211, 211A, 211S, 243, 245, 415, 417. There wasn’t even a 507 call. So, I’ll ask again. What the hell is going on here?”
I could feel the hesitation emanating from the police officer. “Are you a lawyer or something? Do you have a police scanner?”
I didn’t hear a response from Coach. I assumed he was standing there with his hands casually at his sides with his eyebrows up. He was probably standing just out of reach of the officer and far enough away that he did not have to look up into the officer’s eyes.
“Coach Lake?” the officer asked as if waking from a fog. There was a beat, then the weight on me was released, and I was out of the handcuffs.
I stood up and rubbed my wrists. I snatched up my bag. The first officer appeared before me.
“Here,” he said flatly.
I jumped at the sound of his voice. I hated myself for that flinch. “Thanks,” I returned, taking the card from him.
I turned and walked to the studio, my head hung low and tears burning my eyes.
Thanks? I clenched my jaw so tight I thought my teeth would shatter.
I heard Coach come in five minutes later. I sat in the middle of the padded floor meditating, trying to calm my raging heart.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You like that question,” I responded.
“It serves me well enough.”
“It served you well outside. Thank you.” My nose burned. I breathed.
“You’re welcome, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m meditating, calming myself down.” I breathed in for four, out for four, and held for four. My mind was still racing over the altercation. Why did I flinch? Thanks? This wasn’t my first time being stopped. I should have kicked that cop’s ass! Then I’d be dead.
“No, you are not; you’re beating yourself up,” the words came quietly, but they stung, and I shot to my feet.
“What should I be doing? Flailing my arms and screaming?” I swung my arms and turned around to face him.
“No,” Coach stated simply.
“What?” I was so confused. I just wanted to disappear. I felt small and angry.
“Focus,” he spoke in a normal tone as he raised his finger.
“You have control over your own mind. You can respond any way you want. You can choose healthy or harmful or anywhere in between. However, you may not eat it. You may not swallow it and hide it away; you must spend it.” His voice was quiet and intense. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m fucking pissed!” I screamed at him. That relieved some pressure.
“What can you do about the anger?”
“Nothing.”
The thought of the police officers beating me for being afraid angered me again.
“What can you do with the anger?”
“Use it,” I muttered.
“Good,” then Coach was directly in front of me, hitting me in the stomach.
Well, he tried to. I dropped my arm and absorbed the punch out of reflex. I pushed him away from me, and he came at me again.
After thirty minutes of off-and-on sparring, I was able to submit Coach three out of four times. It was a record for me. We were both tired and sweaty. I started looking for my shirt. It had come off somewhere along the way.
“Do you feel better?” Coach inquired. He smoothed the wrinkles from his gi and retied his black belt.
“Yes, I do,” I half lied. The embarrassment of the encounter was still with me, but the Anger seemed to have dissipated during our sparring.
“Good. You are lucky you have that tournament tomorrow, or we would be sparring with combatives next.” A dangerous smile creased his brown face, and a twinkle sparked in his dark eyes. In addition to standard martial arts like Taekwondo, Kali, Jeet Kune Do, and Brazilian Jujitsu, Adrian taught me modern military combatives. The combatives art taught me about aggression and efficiency in an actual fight. I learned rapidly about the difference between fighting for points and fighting to live.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “I don’t think I could take getting beat up three times today,” Coach’s eyes stopped smiling.
“You’ll be alright; just take a cold bath tonight, and you should be good as new in the morning.”
He patted me on the back after I slipped my shirt on.
“Do you have a ride home?” Coach inquired. He tried to ask casually, but I could tell it worried him I would try to walk home.
“Yes, Sir. Ian will be here to pick me up soon.”
I looked out of the big front windows and saw the lights of Ian’s parents’ car pulling up to the studio’s parking spaces.
“I think that’s him now,” I said.
I was grabbing my bag and heading for the door when Coach stopped me.
“Hey! You better be on time tomorrow. You are the first match.” His reminder sent chills over my skin and brought a smile to my face.
“I won’t be late. Thanks again, Coach.” I smiled and headed out the door.
“No problem, kid,” I heard him say before the door closed.