You may have noticed I have a particular concern about
social justice in general and race relations in particular. Not long ago, my family had a disappointing encounter with the local police department. I’ve mentioned it in other posts, and
addressed, at length, my feelings about what occurred, why it happened, and the
strategy used by the officers. This post
isn’t really about that. This story is
me and my life in a nutshell. Forty
percent tragedy, forty percent comedy, and ten percent sheer absurdity! This stuff just never happens to normal
people! (Footnote: someone smarter than me pointed put that my numbers only add up to 90%. The other 10% is to keep you guessing!)
I was on my way home from grocery shopping one early
evening. I was tired and cranky as
hell. I called my husband’s phone to
have him get everybody outside to help me unload when I got there, but he didn’t
answer. Not necessarily weird. As I got closer to home, I barely noticed there
was a hoorahrah happening across the street, a couple of doors down from our
house. I’m sad to say, it’s not a rare
occurrence in my part of town, and it doesn’t even mean something exciting is
happening. It just means that the
police have encountered a black person.
So, I ignored it completely, and I pulled into the driveway.
I blared the horn to alert the fam I was home and started gathering
up stuff to take into the house, when I noticed something odd. “Why is the side door standing wide open like
someone fled the house in a panic?” As
the light bulb goes on in my head, I slowly turned around to take another look
at the circus across the street. Sure
enough, there was my kid, surrounded by cops and a crowd. My first thought was fear that someone had
gotten hit by a car or something.
Nope. “Oh sweet Jesus! What did those dumbasses do
now?” is what I thought next, because you know
that teenage boys are not always the best decision-makers. So, I headed across the street to see what
the heck was happening, and I called my son’s name. One of the officers whirled around, and I
heard my husband tell him who I was. I
was instantly on guard when I saw how upset my son was.
As I got more information about what was going on, I started
getting mad. I asked, “It takes three cops
to question one 8th grader?” I
found myself glaring indignantly at the officer. Just then, I sort of became aware of
myself. I realized I was standing there
with my big, ugly grandma purse in one hand; in the other I had… a can of
TUNA. Oh. My.
God. I played it off and very casually
put the can in my purse, but the damage was done. There’s really just no regaining your
credibility when you have allowed yourself to look as if you’re going to
assault an officer of the law with tuna fish.
The event very quickly fizzled out after that. I will go to my grave wondering if it was
because a white person showed up, or if the officers merely wanted to get the
hell out of there before they had to institutionalize the crazy tuna lady.
