Six years ago, I went for a run in New York City. I’d left my watch and phone at home, so when I saw two NYPD cops on a corner, I stopped and said, “Excuse me, officers, can you tell me the time?”
One officer reached for his gun, pulled it out of his holster, and – when he saw the terror in my eyes – started laughing.
“Just kidding,” the white cop said as he put away his gun. “Gotcha!”
He didn’t kill me, obviously. But I was going to die. What little faith I had in the most powerful police force in America died in that moment, too. I felt “social death” in the humiliation and shame of being too frightened to go back and get his badge number. I felt powerless when I tried to report the cop’s threat to a civilian accountability board and was told there was nothing they could do.








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