The red and blue flashing lights cut through the darkness and scared the teenage hell out of us.
It was the middle of the night, well after midnight — probably after 2 in the morning, through the years have erased many of the details — and neither I nor my new friend had a valid reason to be where we were.
And neither of us had a valid driver’s license.
We did, however, have a large bag of contraband in the backseat. And we were suddenly at the mercy of a police officer from the City of Plano, a burgeoning community in the suburbs of Dallas.
The bag in the backseat of the car? Golfballs.
Not drugs or alcohol; not guns or even fireworks.
Just golfballs.
The original plan, concocted by my friend and me, was to sneak out of our houses after bedtime on a Friday night. My buddy said a friend from his neighborhood could get his mother’s car. They’d meet up first, then drive to my house, where I’d sneak out my bedroom window, and off we’d go to the Sherrill Park golf course, in Richardson, to fish golfballs out of pond.
What could go wrong, right?
For starters, my friend couldn’t make it. Remember, this was before cell phones, so he had no way of letting me know what happened. He sent his friend to follow through on his part of the plan anyway. When he showed up at my house, and I climbed out my bedroom window. I tiptoed to the awaiting car, but didn’t see Mike in there. His buddy, whom I didn’t know, said it’d be just the two of us.
Looking back on it through the eyes of a middle-aged man, it seems strange to me that my immediate assessment of this other teenage boy was that he was a safe character. I figured any friend of my buddy's must be okay. The thought that this guy knew how to sneak his mother’s Ford Pinto out of the driveway in the middle of the night, and therefor might have some experience as a trouble-maker, never crossed my mind. And yet he rather excitedly told me how me put the car in neutral so as not to make any noise as he backed it out of the driveway. Was that the know-how of a juvenile delinquent? Perhaps, but it never occurred to me to ask. And my hunch, all these years later, was that, no, he wasn’t a bad kid.
He was a lot like me: just a teenaged boy from the suburbs who had an idea how to get a bunch of free golfballs.
I’m pretty sure once he got a look at a us — once he saw the look of innocence and fear in our eyes — the police officer who stopped us had the same thought.
Although I have no way of being completely certain, I’m fairly sure the color of our skin helped, too.
I’ll say this for sure: It didn’t hurt that we were a couple of white kids.
Does that add up to racial privilege? Yeah, you could probably say that.
When I first heard the concept of “white privilege” a few years ago, I balked at the notion. I had a comfortable, middle-class upbringing, but my parents’ parents were blue-collar workers, lower middle-class at best. And their parents before them? More of the same.
Whatever I have as a grown man in the result of hard work, dreams and the love of my family.
But somehow privileged because of the color of my skin? I wasn’t ready to sign off on that.
I’m still not ready to attribute it all to my whiteness. There are too many other deciding factors, and on a gut level I feel it’s an insult to any human beings to reduce him or her to ethnicity.
But my golfball story shows me that on one night in particular, I benefitted from an understanding cop who took pity on my friend and me. Beyond that, I want to be careful with my assumptions. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder if perhaps things would’ve gone differently had our skin been a different color.
I believe it’s wrong to stereotype people. It has always felt wrong to me, even as a kid; I’m proud of that. I think that’s an indication of my character, and that’s why I’m reticent to reduce myself merely to the color of my skin. That said, when it comes to the telling of my golfball story, I realize there’s some significance in where it all took place: the South in the 1970s.
It would be wrong to assume the cop who stopped us that night was a racist. Yes, he was white. However, as far as racism is concerned he’s innocent until proven guilty, and I never saw anything to indicate he was guilty.
But then again, why would I? And I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?
We were destined for jail. When those red-and-blue lights flashed on, we had a decision to make and only seconds to make it.
Pull over or run away.
It wasn’t in our nature to run.
“Just pull over,” I said quickly. “We’re screwed. We’re going to jail. My parents are gonna kill me.”
“Let’s just tell him the truth, we were just fishing for golfballs,” my friend said. “Maybe he’ll give us a break.”
He did.
“What y’all doing out this late, boys,” the officer calmly asked, taking control of the situation. Was he on high alert, hand near the gun on his belt? Was he looking for a fight?
If he was, nothing about his betrayed it.
We threw ourselves on his mercy. We told him the truth. We were just a couple of knuckleheads out rounding up golfballs.
He asked if we liked to golf. We said we did, but that we were running low on golfballs. We’d lost a bunch in the pond and thought we’d get some back.
He smiled, understandingly.
“Y’all got driver’s licenses,” he asked.
“No. Just our permits, that’s all,” my friend said sheepishly.
“Neither one of y’all have a license,” he asked, surprised by our stupidity.
“No, sorry.”
The police officer stood there for a second or two, deciding what to do next. There’s no doubt there would’ve been some paperwork involved if he’d brought us in to the station, or even if he’d issued us tickets. I don’t remember him going back to his car, but it seems likely he did, perhaps just to make sure he hadn’t pulled over a stolen vehicle. But he must’ve been satisfied we weren’t criminals.
“Tell you boys what we’re gonna do,” he said.
He pointed to my friend in the driver’s seat.
“You’re gonna drive your buddy back to his house and I’m gonna follow you the whole way,” he said.
He pointed at me.
“You’re gonna go home. Walk in the front door or sneak in through the window, I don’t care,” he said. “But I’m gonna be watchin’ you so don’t get cute.”
“Yessir.”
He pointed back to my friend.
“Once you drop him off, I’m gonna make sure you get home in one piece.”
“Yessir.”
He looked at both of us, deadly serious.
“Y’all shouldn’t be out here this time of night, especially without a driver’s license,” he said. “That’s just dumb. I must be in a good mood. I’m goin’ easy on you two. But I better not ever have to pull either one of y’all over again … ever. Y’all hear me?”
“Yessir.”
“Okay. Enjoy the golfballs.”
We didn’t have time to divvy up the balls, so I’m pretty sure my friend ended up with all of them; I wasn’t about to drag a plastic trash bag of balls through my bedroom window.
Of course we knew we’d gotten away with something. The ride back to my house was very quiet. We breathed sighs of relief and briefly giggled at our good fortune. But other than that, little was said.
Neither of us considered ourselves privileged.
Lucky, yes.
Privileged? No. It never occurred to either of us.
I live in Utah these days, and there isn’t a great deal of racial diversity. That needn’t mean anything nefarious. Growing up in Texas, I had many more black friends and acquaintances. We sat next to each other in class; played on sports teams together; liked the same girls. Some of us lived in the same neighborhoods; others didn’t.
I never considered the opportunities — the lucky breaks — I had that they might not have.
But I know I did.
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| Austin American Statesman |
I think it’s important I understand that, and I’m happy to share my story. However, I’m not inclined to read more into it. It’s not unreasonable to wonder if the cop who pulled us over that night may have treated one of my black friends differently. If he had, it would’ve been terribly and perhaps tragically unfair. But it’s also unfair to expect me or any other white person to believe the color of our skin makes us inherently racist.
It’s unfair to reduce a person’s humanity down to skin color.
Racism exists in American history, yes. But from there it’s a massive leap to say America is a racist country, systematically or otherwise. For all the unfortunate history, there are countless examples of individual goodness; of parents teaching their children to love others, regardless. There are countless examples of friendship and harmony; countless examples of goodwill and good faith.
To ignore those examples minimizes the good in people — all people — promotes division over inclusion and unity. Nothing good can ever come from that.
I’ve heard about “white supremacists” but I’ve never met one, ever. I don’t think anyone I associate with classifies as one. Oh, I’ve heard inappropriate jokes, and I must admit I laughed at times because I was less understanding; less sensitive, though I don’t particularly like that word. But I’ve also tried to be a positive example of someone who sees content and character over skin color, not because it’s a “woke” thing to do, but because it’s what I believe is the right thing to do. I realize it may appear I’m burying my head in the sand, but my perspective is more positive than that.
I believe in goodness over evil, and if that means I’m wrong, I’ll live with it.
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