Whoops, Cops Picked The Wrong Black Guy To Harass

Tech fans annoy me. Hate is a strong word.

It is the administration of Va Tech that I had a problem with, as did the state commission investigating the incident.

I feel there should be limits to what can be written about amateur athletes.

And I am not going to defend the rights of people hanging out with drug dealers over the police.

I'll take the hole instead of sticking my head into it.

 

Except there is no indication of these particular officers being there on a call and I doubt it was at 1 a.m.

 

Just to be sure that we are all talking about the same thing.

I arrived in Salisbury at midnight, figuring that gang members would be more visible after dark, and found a local hangout with the help of a cabdriver.

Striking up a conversation with young gang members in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar town is always a tricky proposition, but the one advantage I figured I had was that I am African-American. Brown skin can be a kind of camouflage in my profession, especially if you do a lot of reporting in minority neighborhoods, as I do. Blending in visually sometimes helps me observe without being observed.

But even when my appearance has been helpful, the benefits rarely survive the first words out of my mouth, which usually signal — by accent or content — that I’m not from around wherever I am.

“What’s The New York Times doing down here?” asked an incredulous black man. He and about a dozen other men were standing in front of a clapboard house in Salisbury. I observed several drug sales there within minutes of arriving.

“Man, you a cop,” said another. “Hey, this guy’s a cop!”

“You’ve got me wrong,” I said trying to sound casual as the men looked at me warily. I started to pull my press identification out of my wallet. “I’m a reporter. I’m just trying to talk to you about your neighborhood.”

In the distance I heard neighborhood lookouts calling: “Five-O! Five-O!” — a universal code in American ghettos for the approaching police. I thought they were talking about me, but thought again as three police cars skidded to a stop in front of us.

A tall white police officer got out of his car and ordered me toward him. Two other police officers, a white woman and a black man, stood outside of their cars nearby. I complied. Without so much as a question, the officer shoved my face down on the sheet metal and cuffed me so tightly that my fingertips tingled.

“They’re on too tight!” I protested.

“They’re not meant for comfort,” he replied.

 

Thus begins yet another referendum on race and fear and ignorance based entirely on hypotheticals. How about we just read the story and react to what actually happened?

 

You see a description of anyone running in there? Did the reporter run?

 

I wonder how many of the guys who yell "Five-OH" actually know who Jack Lord was?

 

Devil also believes the woman murdered by police at the Phoenix airport had it coming because she was yelling.

 

Take a ride along with your local police.

I'm sorry. Drug dealers always stand still when the police drive up. Those lookouts were yelling five-oh so that men standing can get their IDs out and ready.

We are now argueing semantics.

 

Arguing. Such as.

 

Thanks. It's so nice to see a person be libelous on a journalism board, isn't it?

 

Such as picking apart the scenario instead of looking at the problem as an entirety.

 

Limits on what CAN be written? Oye. The 1st Amedment weeps.