Dashboard lights strobe,
a siren wails,
and before I remember my right
to a well-lit stopping place,
I am standing in the empty parking lot
of an abandoned business,
targeted by narcotics officers
because I had the temerity to enter–
and soon after depart–
an apartment complex notorious
for its high rate
of drug trafficking.
They claim they did not see
the friend I dropped off
at her home,
although her front door
stood just a few yards
from where they’d taken up their post–
vision tunneled–
and waited for someone
who looked like me
to do what I did.
As one of them ransacks my car,
I stand beside it
under the watchful eye
of the other,
trembling–
not because I am in possession
of any contraband,
but because I have realized
with a sickening sinking of my stomach
that I have in fact done something wrong:
I’ve been out and about
without my license to drive.
My anxiety increases their suspicion,
and yet their search of my vehicle
and my pockets
yields nothing illicit.
When at last they come to the inevitable conclusion
that I could not possibly be savvy enough
to conceal banned substances
from them,
their contemptuous countenances change
to expressions of concern
for this young white woman
who finds herself alone
and apparently ill-equipped to navigate
the mean streets of their beat–
while I am reminded,
neither for the first time
nor the last,
how different even the similarities are
on opposite sides
of the color line.