I Was A Racist Cop

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"I was a racist cop.

Years ago, I was helping a supervisor at a single-car crash. A black man collided head-on into a concrete divider, and died at the scene. I was detouring the ensnarled traffic when my corporal, who had been alongside the victim, shared an update.

“When I got here he was alive, but fading. His eyes were opening and closing real slow and I could feel his pulse slowing down.” He paused, and with the smoothness of a perfectly timed punch line, the corporal said “So, I whispered in his ear, ‘Today is the day you die, ? .’”

I stood horrified.

Then, I did nothing.

Silence is the culture of many police departments. In my second year as a cop ― a career that would span more than a decade across three states ― I was taught the ramifications of speaking out. After a sergeant stole from an impounded car, another whistleblower and I reported him up the chain of command. Within days, I was fired. It was just before Christmas; young, a child on the way, and now my fledgling career tarnished. I received the message loud and clear: Do not kneel."
"Suspicious Behavior

With crime trends near record lows, the expense of policing must be justified. Rather than focus on building relationships with communities, officers rely on “proactive policing”: tactics to escape scorn from the administration over low arrest numbers. “Mechanics fix cars, pilots fly planes, cops lock up bad guys,” an old captain used to lecture. This leads to enforcement for the sake of a spreadsheet. The easiest way to add digits is to go to poor neighborhoods and profile ― typically ― young African American and Latino men. Stop, frisk, question, and search, simply because they looked “suspicious.”

“He didn’t look at me.” Suspicious. “He kept looking at me.” Suspicious. “He was running.” Suspicious. “He was walking too slowly or biking too fast.” Suspicious. “It’s too early or too late; they have no business outside at this time of night; at this time of day.” Suspicious. “They are in the wrong neighborhood, wrong side of the neighborhood, or hanging out too much in their own neighborhood.” Suspicious.

Rarely, I found a gun or wanted felon. Never did these intrusive fishing expeditions result in the capture of a murderer or ? . Never. But the arrests satisfied the front office and gave me the affirmation I needed to justify my role.

A Common Thread of “Bad Guys”

During my career, I attended four training academies and a slew of advanced classes. The common thread in all this training was an overemphasis on tactical situations, ultimately teaching us to be afraid—especially of black and brown people. Cadets were barraged with graphic imagery and war stories of violence by African Americans or Latinos until eventually, in our minds, “black guys” became synonymous with “bad guys.”

Daily, I arrested mostly poor, young people of color on petty charges. The discrimination was insidious. I pointed sanctimoniously to the prison cages and said, “See? It’s a breakdown of morality in their community.” This absolved me of my personal responsibility to protest when I saw wrongdoing, leaning instead on simplistic moral judgments like “If you don’t like it, don’t get arrested.”

During my first visit to one county jail, one of the imprisoned aptly announced: “Welcome to Amistad!” It didn’t look all that different. I routinely saw cages packed with mostly African American and Latino men 30 or 40 deep in spaces intended for 10 or 15. I saw people fed rotten food and endure unbearable jail conditions.

I knew this was wrong, but dehumanization had set in. Gathered outside one police station with a dozen or so officers, another cop called out, “Hey Shrewsberry, you know why southerners hate Yankees? Because y’all think ? are people too.” Laughter erupted.

What did I do?

I laughed along.

Then, nothing."

The rest of the article here:
https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/i-was-a-racist-cop_us_59ef6b76e4b0bf1f88362209
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