Ronald E. Davis,
Omaha, NE.
I bought my first home in 2003 in a small middle class neighborhood in Western Omaha, Nebraska. My house is situated on a hill and I share a street with young and established families of various sizes. The demographics of the area are predominantly white. Over the years there has been a gradual influx of color. For example, three doors down to the East, on my side of the street resides a Pakistani family. The husband is part of the leadership of the Homes association and we have brief conversation and acknowledge each other while cutting the grass on weekends. Four doors down to the West on my side of the street lives an interracial couple. The husband is white, the wife is black and their children are a beautiful cocoa brown. I see these children a lot as they walk up and down the sidewalk on their way to the playground that is situated at the end of my street. I am the only single black male that lives in the neighborhood. I am a programmer by trade and my work hours were eight to five.
A few of my neighbors came out and introduced themselves. Conversation was free flowing and it felt good to be welcomed like that. I have always been a private person and I generally keep a low profile. Sure, every now and then I would have people over who wanted to see my house. There were no wild parties that are typical of single life. My intention was too settle in and become part of the fabric of the neighborhood. I took my time when buying furniture for my house. At first, most of the rooms were empty and cavernous. Every night when I would come home from work I would take a book, lay on the floor and occupy a spot to read and daydream. My two cats, Tilly and Michael Anthony were also getting their fill of the new digs. Sometimes they would appear separately and other times they would appear in unison requesting food, attention or play time.
I was still shutting back and forth between my new home and my old town house. Boxes, clothes and cleaning equipment had to either be discarded or placed in closets and shelf-space in the house. It was a relief to finally get those tasks done so that I could relax. One weekend, I was out running around doing errands. I live on Ames street which is perpendicular to the main thoroughfare in my area. The speed limit on this street is twenty five miles an hour. I pay particular to that because there are always children playing about and they sometimes dart across the street without looking where they are going. Needless to say, I keep my eyes peeled for anything and everything. At the time, I had one automobile and it was a white Volvo S90. Back in the day, people would have referred to that car as a Yuppie mobile. In my case, since I am black it would have been called a Buppie mobile. If my memory serves, Buppie would translate to Black Urban Professional. I lived in suburbia, so I loosely embraced the moniker.
As I drove up my street, I noticed a police officer driving slowly in my direction. Through years of experience, it has taken me years to dampen the alarms that sound off in my head while driving in the presence of law enforcement. Even though I am DWB(driving while black) and have not committed any infraction, my spidey sense tingles. Its origin comes from a multitude of places. Stories I’ve read, the five o’clock news, personal accounts from friends as well as personal experiences of my own add to the alarm bell that rings quietly in the back of the mind. As we came upon each other I made a point to acknowledge the officer with a head nod. I got no such action in return. As he passed me, I watched him in my rear view mirror and I saw him stop at the stop light. I pulled into my driveway and didn’t hit the control to raise the garage door. I just sat in the car and he proceeded to remain stopped at the stop sign with his motor running. I remained seated in my car and did not turn my head to look right towards his vehicle. I thought, “why is he still stopped at the stop sign?” I was the reason why he remained stopped. It was obvious that he didn’t think that I belonged in the neighorhood. So, I continued to sit my car and he remained at the stop light. I sat there for about five to eight minutes. I thought, “should I sit here and let him come back and get a closer view?” The wild part of me was tempted to do just that. I was sitting in my driveway, in front of my house, in my car that was paid for. I was credentialed in that I had my license in my wallet, my title was in the glove compartment and there were groceries and other items in the trunk. If he were to approach me, there would be nothing to take issue except for the fact that I was sitting in my driveway for an inordinate amount of time. I abandoned that idea and proceeded to hit the remote control. The door raised and all of the lights within flicked on. I looked over in the direction of the stop sign and the officer drove off. Interesting story huh? I have plenty more where that came from, but this one will have to do for now.
