I’m on my way home from a basketball game, it’s Friday night and I’m excited to tell my momma that we won. I’m driving through a town that I’ve called my home since the day that I was born; riding past the daycare where I spent many afternoons as a child, waiting for my mom to get off of her second job so that we can spend some time together before she was off to her third job. All she ever wanted was for her one and only child to not end up with a life like hers. A life of making sure that her child was fed and clothed, even if it meant that her work shoes had no soles and she had to eat whatever she could afford with the change found under the seat of her old, beat down car. My momma worked hard to make sure that her boy was a star, and in return, I worked hard to make her proud.

As I’m preparing to make a right turn, just two streets away from my house, a glimpse of those infamous red and blue lights catches my eye. Instantly, my pulse starts to race as I try to recall every piece of advice my momma had ever given me on what to do during an encounter with the police. Don’t move your hands, not even to grab your wallet. Always say “yes sir” and “no sir”. Make eye contact, don’t look away for a second. Whatever you do, don’t back talk them. When I was little I always wondered why my momma felt that it was so important that I knew how to behave around a police officer. I didn’t see my white friends’ parents teaching them what to do. Besides, I knew that I was a good kid and nothing bad happens to good kids, even the black ones. The older I grew, the more I understood it: momma didn’t want me to become just another hashtag.

As I pulled my car over to the side of the street, I quickly grabbed my wallet, and sat it on the dashboard, making sure that it was open to my ID. I placed my hands on the steering wheel and turned my head to the window, praying that I would be the one going home to my momma rather than a police officer informing her that her son had been shot and killed. My mind started to race wondering what they would say about me on the news. He was a drug addict who was caught smoking pot back in 9th grade. He once stole a snickers bar from a convenience store. I tried my best to calm myself down, praying that the officer wouldn’t see how nervous I really was.

When the officer approached my window he held his flashlight right up to my face. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?” he asked, gruffly. “Just heading home from my basketball game, sir.” He started to scribble a few things down on his notebook. “You know you fit the description of a robbery suspect around here, boy?” I shook my head. “No sir, I didn’t know that. I was at a basketball game all night, sir.” The office thought for a minute. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car so that I can get a good look at you, boy.” “Sir, would you be willing to open the door so that I can get out. I promise you that I don’t have any weapons in my car, but I’m afraid that if I open the door you’re going to shoot me and I won’t be able to go home to my momma.” The officer stopped in his tracks. “What’s your name, boy?” “It’s Marcus, sir. If you need to see my ID it’s sitting on the dashboard, sir.” The officer shined his flashlight onto my ID and then back at my face. “You know what I want you to do, boy?” a flash of sadness shined across his eyes before he answered, “I want you to go home to your momma, tell her all about your basketball game, and then I want you to tell her that Officer Frank says that she raised a wonderful young man. I don’t think you’re who I’m looking for, so I’m going to let you go. Have a nice night and stay out of trouble.” And with that, he was gone.

I sat in that spot, windows rolled down and hands on the steering wheel shaking. Why did he let me go like that? Was it because I was polite and I called him “sir”? Was it because I showed him that I was afraid of him? What about all of the other good black boys and girls who were polite and still ended up becoming just another hashtag? Why didn’t they get to go home to their mommas?