When I Was Racially Profiled By LAPD Coming Home From School

It was not unusual for me to be enrolled in night school when I attended East Los Angeles College. Classes would go until 10 p.m. and the student body’s groans would be more audible the further the clock hand would go away from 9:30 p.m. After class would adjourn for the night, I would race away in a huff in order to make the 9:45 bus back to my home. We would all shuffle into the bus and complain about the weather – whether it was too cold or even too hot. The bus drivers are always friendlier when they know that all you are trying to do is get home.

I remember one particular bus ride home. I got off the bus after the 20-minute bus ride and walked the last five blocks home. I kept myself company with the songs inside my Walkman. I was almost at my driveway when I had to stop because a police car decided to shine its lights on me. I took the headphones off my ears and listened to what they had to say. It felt awkward because it was the first time I had to deal with police officers. I had grown up with the notion that the cops were always right — even when they were wrong — so I took that knowledge to heart and into practice. They told me to stop from their built-in loudspeaker. I stopped and then they exited their car from a short distance. Then they began to ask me some questions.

Apparently they had been attempting to pull me over for a time, but thanks to my headphones I had ignored them completely.

They wanted to know where I was coming from, and they were somewhat dissatisfied by my answer — even though I was still wearing my backpack. They wanted to know what school was open that late at night. I told them that I was going to East Los Angeles College. The duo went into a Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. The Good Cop commended me on pursuing a higher education whole the Bad Cop remarked that community colleges were nothing more than discothèques with ashtrays.

My mother was waiting outside watering the lawn. She was holding the hose nervously demanding to know what I had done – as opposed to asking why the police were questioning me. The police wanted to know why she was outside watering the lawn, and I told them that she was waiting for me. They told her to remain where she was in English. I told them it was useless since she only spoke Spanish. The Bad Cop then told her, “No movear senora. Stay there alli.” My mother then went to turn off the water hose and watch helplessly from the porch with her arms crossed.

The Good Cop told her that they were just doing their job, and everything would be all right. I was waiting for the Bad Cop to tell me that I fit some kind of generic description. Instead he wanted to know what my gang affiliation was. I kind of laughed it off because I have always been a professional nerd. There is no gang that exists that would take me into their ranks. Even now, I am sure that even my bank is waiting for me to dip below some minimum balance.

The Bad Cop would not believe my answer, so he had me raise my shirt in order to find tattoos, but all the only incriminating evidence he found was my stretch marks. The Good Cop then thanked me for my time and they both entered their squad car and drove off. I could only wonder if those police officers are still getting some weird kicks from chasing down chubby Mexicans and making them squirm without their shirts on.