Waylaid
Imagine, if you can, traveling in a less-than-stable foreign nation
like Afghanistan or Nigeria, driving down some nondescript road
when, for no particular reason, you are stopped by a pair of men.
They are armed, and they are wearing matching clothes, and they
are not smiling. They ask for your paperwork, and you realize that
your heart is pounding out of your chest. The barrels of their guns
are not pointed directly at you, but their hands are on the grips,
ready to pull the trigger. They order you to exit the vehicle, and
you instinctively ask why. They don’t answer you, and you look
around for witnesses. Does anyone see what is going on here?
Does anyone care? A moment ago, you were on your way to the
airport, and now you are wondering if you are ever going to see
your family again, picturing yourself lying dead on the side of a
dusty road, full of holes. The men poke around your car, mutter
to each other quietly, and then after what seems an eternity, they
allow you to get back into your car and drive away, and as you do,
sweat pouring down your back, you look in the rear-view just in
case they change their minds and decide to follow you; they don’t,
and now, you can finally breathe, but your hands are still shaking.
This is what it feels like to be a black male driver in America.
