Policed

by Alana Terry

  “So at that point, you jumped on the officer’s back, I assume?” Carl interrupted.

  Kennedy furrowed her brow. “No, that was later. I got out of the car because I was worried about Reuben. I was worried the officer might hurt him.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Nick turned to Carl. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not even more riled up than I am.”

  Carl grinned. If Kennedy suspected he had a sarcastic streak, she might have said he smirked. “Even more riled up? Why? Because I’m black?”

  Nick’s obvious embarrassment would have been amusing if Kennedy’s memories of the entire ordeal weren’t lying just behind her optic nerve, pulsing pain to the back of her eyes and radiating discomfort all the way to her temples.

  He frowned into his cup of water. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Oh yes it is. That’s exactly what you’re saying.” There was no trace of a grin now on Carl’s face. “You’re saying that because I’m black, I need to be just as angry as you, preferably even more so, whenever it comes to any kind of perceived racism.”

  “Perceived?” Nick’s complexion, which still carried the hint of a tan left over from his West Coast surfing days, was now more red than anything else. “All I’m saying is that I’m surprised that you as an African-American man who’s endured more than his fair share of prejudice can be so calm after a cop pulls over a black kid, leaves him bleeding on the sidewalk, and gets away with it.”

  Kennedy could hear the strain in Nick’s voice, could sense the tension in his body and almost see the pulse of his carotid artery. Carl, on the other hand, still leaned back in his chair, and Kennedy got the sense he could just as easily be discussing Paul’s introduction to his epistle to the Galatians as anything else. He turned toward her, his eyes calm. She wondered if he worked deliberately to achieve that degree of peace or if it was just some supernatural gift or a fortunate personality quirk, a blessing from genetics. He smiled at her tenderly. “And how did it feel for you, a white woman, when this big bad white policeman beat up your black friend?”

  She had a feeling Carl expected a certain reply out of her but couldn’t guess what it was. “I didn’t think about it in that way while it was happening.” She spoke slowly, partly so she had time to plan her response and partly because she was trying to mask the tremor in her voice. “He said some really rude things to Reuben, racial slurs I mean, but he was just as crass to me.”

  Her throat tightened. She hadn’t realized how much she was shaking until Sandy wrapped a strong arm around her and said, “I think maybe we should save this discussion for another time.”

  Carl smiled sheepishly. “You’re right, sweetie. Of course. Kennedy, I’m sorry. I know how upsetting this must be.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, too.” For once, his dreadlocks fell perfectly still.

  Everyone stared at their plates. Nick scraped a few green beans around in his gravy.

  “So.” Sandy turned to her husband. “Do you have everything ready for Sunday’s sermon?”

  He shook his head. His usual jocular smile was gone. “I’ll be spending most of tomorrow at the office. Still have a ways to go.”

  More silence.

  Kennedy wanted to apologize. As if Carl and Nick’s argument was all her fault. As if she should have known better than get into an altercation with a cop that would spoil a perfectly delicious meal.

  “I have a meeting tomorrow with one of the teens.” Nick’s comment seemed to appear out of a vacuum, an infinitely dense black hole. As soon as he spoke, he shoved a bit of bread roll into his mouth. Nobody responded. From the living room, a clock ticked, reminding Kennedy of her mother’s grandfather clock back in Yanji.

  “Well.” Sandy spoke with exaggerated cheer and clasped her hands together. “Carl and I haven’t made it official to the church yet, but we’re so close to both of you, I wanted to share some good news.” She glanced at her husband, who nodded approvingly. She reached for an envelope from the countertop and pulled out a photograph. “We just got word that we were matched for adoption. We’re hoping to bring our little boy home from South Korea this summer.”

  Kennedy reached for the photograph that Sandy proudly showed off. Studied the smiling boy. He appeared so emaciated it was hard to guess his age, maybe eight or ten years old. He had two skinned knees, a dimple in one cheek, and a smile that showed two missing teeth in opposite sides of his mouth. Kennedy didn’t know what to say. Were you supposed to congratulate the adoptive parents or was that just for pregnancy announcements?

  “He’s adorable.”

  Sandy was beaming. It was a special expression she only wore when she was talking about her children or grandchildren.

  Nick reached for the photo and raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you guys were planning on adopting overseas.”

  “Neither did we.” Sandy chuckled. “There was one point before we started fostering that we thought about it, but we ran into problems.”

  “Yeah.” Carl’s booming voice was a striking contrast to Sandy’s maternal prattle. “Back in the day when prejudice really was a problem in our country, adoption agencies wouldn’t consider interracial couples. They said we ...”

  “So,” Sandy interrupted, her voice still chipper and cheerful as ever even as she glared at her husband, “we don’t know much about him yet. We know his name’s Woong, and we know he’s had a pretty hard life so far. The orphanage can’t tell us his real age. I’ve just been praying so hard about this adoption, and I knew as soon as I saw his picture he was ours. I can’t explain it, really. I took out that photo, saw those little missing teeth, that grin — he looks pretty mischievous, don’t he? Well, soon as I saw him, I knew in my heart that God had called me to be his mother.” She laughed. “I feel like Sarah. Look at me. Already a grandmother with two more grandbabies on the way, and God’s decided to add one more son to our family.” Her eyes glistened. “It’s just so hard to wait now that I’ve seen his face.”

  “That’s great.” Kennedy wondered what it would be like to love someone you’d never met. What if this Woong boy was even naughtier than his picture hinted? What if he had learning disabilities or medical issues nobody knew about yet? What if he didn’t want to leave the orphanage? What if he hated his adoptive parents and gave them nothing but grief for his entire childhood? The Lingrens had agreed to take him in without knowing any of those things. Not only take him in, but love him as their own son. Well, if anyone could do it, Carl and Sandy could.

  “How long ago did you start planning another adoption?” she asked.

  Sandy let out another giggle. Kennedy was amazed at how she looked ten or fifteen years younger just talking about her newest child. “We’ve been thinking about it for some time now, but we didn’t want to get our hopes up. Like Carl said, we had our troubles with international adoptions in the past.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, back in the old days when racism still existed.”

  Kennedy bit her lip, hoping Carl wouldn’t be baited into another round of verbal boxing.

  Naive of her.

  “I’m not saying racism doesn’t still exist. I’m just saying it’s not the number one problem facing America today like Gordon Clarence and his followers want everyone to believe.”

  “You surprise me sometimes.” Nick frowned. “I would think that someone who’s been through what you have — like being told ‘back in the old days’ you couldn’t adopt a child from another country because you were black and your wife was white — I wouldn’t think you’d forget everything you’ve gone through so quickly.”

  Carl ignored Sandy’s pleading eyes. “Nobody’s forgotten, son. Nobody except these revisionist historians who make their fortunes keeping racism alive. Tell me, what would happen to Gordon Clarence and his million-dollar book deals if racism weren’t an issue anymore?”

  “But you ...” Nick tried to interject, but Carl cut him off.

  “Yes, you’re absolut
ely right. I’ve experienced racism firsthand. My whole family did, for generations back. From the plantations to Jim Crow to the bus boycott when my mama walked six miles to work both ways for a year. Did you know my father spent the night in jail after sitting in with Dr. King at a whites-only restaurant? You want to talk racism? You want to tell me how bad it was? I don’t need that history lesson, son. I lived it. My daddy lived it. My grandparents and their parents and grandparents lived it. So when you jump online, and you read a story by some college-age journalist who hasn’t ever seen the inside of a jail cell or the wrong end of a riot baton, when you read his gut-wrenching story about a white idiot committing a crime against his black brother, you and everyone else out there shouts racism. But you know what? There’s no one race that holds the monopoly on murder or drug abuse or gang violence or any other vice you name. So when a white cop assaults a black college student with absolutely no provocation, is it possible he’s racist? Sure. But is it also possible that he’s just a deplorable human being?”

  Kennedy glanced around the table. Nick frowned, occasionally picking at a green bean, and Sandy set down her picture of the South Korean orphan and offered it sad glances from time to time. A few beads of sweat had coalesced on Carl’s forehead.

  “You asked why I’m not more upset about this police incident. The truth is, I’m livid. Kennedy knows I’d do anything for her. I’ll walk her down to the police department and help her file a complaint right now if that’s what she wants. But I don’t think that’s what you’re really asking. I think you’re asking why I’m not aligning myself with the so-called Reverend Clarence and waving picket signs and strong-arming the police department into firing their racist cop. Because I don’t have all the information yet. He might be racist, sure. Or maybe he’s a bad cop who hates everyone equally. I don’t see the feminists out there protesting, do you? I don’t see them picketing and riling up the masses because a male cop pulled over a female college student. In fact, what disgusts me the most about this entire ordeal is that everybody seems to forget the fact that there were two victims of this crime. You’re so ready to call this a case of white-on-black police brutality. Then where does that leave Kennedy? Are you going to tell her that her skin’s not dark enough so she didn’t actually suffer? Who’s rallying for her, I’d like to know? Who’s waving signs and demanding justice on her behalf?”

  Kennedy felt the flush creep up her face when everyone fixed their eyes on her. Sandy held her in a protective half hug.

  Nick fidgeted with one of his dreadlocks. “I can see what you’re saying, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply that what Kennedy went through wasn’t bad. But then there are other cases that are even more clear-cut, cases where white cops harass black teens who aren’t doing anything other than driving or walking down the street in the wrong color skin. What about that? Don’t you think there needs to be some kind of oversight? Some sort of accountability?”

  Carl crossed his arms. “Tell me something. If you’re a cop and I told you to track down a dangerous suspect, five-foot-eight, close-shaved haircut, no facial hair, and that suspect happens to be black, is it possible that you might mistakenly pull over one or two innocent citizens for questioning?”

  “Yeah. And that’s the whole problem with racial profiling.”

  “So you’re suggesting that instead of telling you to be on the lookout for a close shaved, five-foot-eight black man, I should just tell you to be on the lookout for a five-foot-eight man? Wouldn’t that become gender discrimination? Should I just say a five-foot-eight person? Would that solve the problem of profiling?”

  “I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is a lot of black men are scared of the police. They’re scared of walking down the street and getting stopped by cops and searched and harassed.”

  “And why are they harassed?” Carl asked. “Is it because ninety-nine percent of cops are out to get blacks? Is that what it is? An occupied war zone, as Mister Reverend Clarence likes to call it? Or is it possible that these black men are harassed because they’re conditioned from birth to despise the police, to disrespect the police, to take every instance of a white cop talking to a black man as a clear case of oppression? Are there bad cops? Sure. Are there racist cops? Absolutely. Should those problems be dealt with? Yes. But are Clarence’s protests going to make the streets safer for our black brothers and sisters? No. And I’ll tell you why.

  “Let’s say Gordon Clarence has his way. Let’s say he turns Reuben into a martyr for the black civil liberties movement. Let’s say a more comprehensive video comes out showing that Officer What’s-His-Name was clearly out of line. Everybody’s going to call it prejudice, a case of white oppression. So the police force makes all their officers go through cultural sensitivity training. Tells them they can’t pull someone over based on their skin color. Reminds them they could get sued or lose their jobs if they show any sort of prejudice. What happens the next time two white cops are chasing down a black drug dealer or a black rapist? What happens when everyone’s hunting for a black suspect who’s accused of murdering his girlfriend? What white cop with half a mind is going to pull a black man over because he matches the suspect’s profile? What white cop who values his job is going to use that Taser on a black criminal who’s resisting arrest? All the sensitivity training’s going to do is teach cops — the majority of whom I’m going to say are decent, moral human beings — it’s going to teach them that their hands are tied when it comes to dealing with black suspects or black criminals. Now, how is that going to make our streets safer?”

  Carl paused for breath, and Sandy took advantage of that moment to scoot her chair back noisily. “Well, it looks like everyone’s finished with dinner. Who’s ready for some dessert?”

  CHAPTER 15

  They made it through Sandy’s pineapple upside-down cake without any more arguing. Sandy told them about the progression of their adoption journey, starting from the time last summer when the Lord had put it on their hearts to open their home to one more child. She was always boisterous, but tonight, she was even more animated than normal as she spoke about little Woong.

  “The hardest part now is waiting. I don’t remember praying for patience, but I guess that’s what God must be giving us.”

  Kennedy couldn’t understand everything adoptive parents go through, but she got the part about patience. For so long, her life had felt like one big waiting room. Waiting for high school to end so she could leave Yanji and return to the States. Then, once college started, it was waiting for midterms or finals to be over so she could finally rest. Waiting to see her parents again after a whole year at school. Waiting to return to Yanji for the summer, even though she’d been in such a hurry to leave last fall.

  There was more to it, though. More difficult experiences that tried her patience. Waiting for reprieve from her anxiety. Waiting for whatever improvements those stupid counseling sessions were supposed to bring. And Reuben. First waiting for her mind to catch up with her heart so she could admit she had real feelings for him. Feelings beyond a simple crush. And then waiting to find out if he felt the same way.

  Would she ever know?

  She glanced surreptitiously at the Lindgrens’ clock.

  “I’m sorry,” Sandy apologized. “It’s getting late. I shouldn’t have kept you so long. It’s the adoption. Gets me babbling.”

  “It’s ok.” Kennedy forced a smile even though thinking about Reuben turned her overstuffed stomach slightly sour. What was he doing now? How long would it take before things could go back to the way they were before?

  Carl pushed his seat back from the table. “I’ll give you a lift back to campus.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Kennedy replied. “It’s not dark out yet. I can just take the bus and catch the T.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, young lady.” Carl turned his pockets inside out. “Now where did I put my keys?”

  Nick scooped up his dirty dishes. “Actually, I need to hit the road, too.
Some of the youth group boys and me planned a late-night X-Box tournament at my place.” He reached over for Kennedy’s dirty plate. “I’ll drop you off at your dorm. No problem.”

  Sandy smiled and joined Nick clearing off the table. “So I guess that settles it. Thank you both for coming over and sharing our good news with us. I’m sorry if I talked your ears off.”

  “Don’t believe a word she says,” Carl quipped. “At least not the part about her being sorry. If I had known this would happen once we decided to adopt again, I might have asked her to wait another ten years until I had hearing aids I could turn down on command.” He leaned over and pecked Sandy’s cheek. “Thanks for dinner, babe. It was delicious.”

  Kennedy and Nick both expressed similar sentiments. Once they got the table cleared and endured a drawn-out goodbye on the porch, they finally made their way to Nick’s VW bus parked in the Lindgrens’ driveway.

  “Is that a new paint job?” Kennedy asked, pointing to a cross made out of colorful handprints on the side door.

  Nick let himself in. “Yeah, I guess you could call this an ongoing project. Every few months, one of the youth group kids comes up with an embellishment. I try to be as accommodating as I can. Gives the teens a sense of ownership in the ministry, I guess. Although you might have heard how Carl had to veto the picture of John the Baptist’s head on a platter.”

  Kennedy chuckled and fastened her seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride. You sure it’s not too much out of your way?” She didn’t even know where Nick lived.

  “I don’t mind. Gives us an excuse to be together. I mean, without Pastor Carl and Sandy breathing down our backs. You ever get the feeling they’re trying to play chaperone?”

  Kennedy forced a laugh, even though she felt her face heating up like a beaker on top of a Bunsen burner. “I’m sure they mean well.”

  “Yeah.” Another chuckle, just as forced as hers. “They certainly do.”