My Traffic Stop: what didn't happen to Philando Castile

On Wednesday, July 6, an officer of the Owatonna Police Department pulled me over. It was approximately 10 p.m., an hour or so after a St. Anthony officer pulled over and shot Philando Castile. Maybe even while Mr. Castile was dying. Maybe he was already dead. I hadn't heard about his fatal traffic stop yet, or seen the horrifying video his girlfriend live-streamed to Facebook. I was out playing sand volleyball.

I was pulled over for "failing to signal" -- though it doesn't really matter. The point is that my stop was for a minor offense, something similar to, say, a broken taillight.

The traffic stop was uneventful, really. Obviously nothing like Mr. Castile's. Even though I did quite a few things wrong.

As soon as I was pulled over, I began digging in my Northwestern cinch sack for my wallet. Although as soon as I shoved my hands in the bag, I knew my search was futile. I had done what I do so many nights -- "I'm just going down the road a few miles to play volleyball. I don't really need my wallet" -- and stuffed my phone and tube of chapstick into the bag and ran out the door. So, as the officer approached my window, I had both hands in the bag. I knew this was a mistake. You're supposed to put your hands on the wheel, right? Don't reach for anything. I quickly withdrew them, but panicked that this sudden movement was another mistake.

But the officer either didn't notice, or didn't care that I was hiding my hands and making sudden movements. He smiled and asked about my evening. He then requested my license and registration, and I admitted I didn't have my wallet.

"I'm just coming from volleyball..." I tried to explain, though I'm sure my sweaty face and drenched t-shirt told the story. "...but I live right up there..." I said pointing down the two blocks I was away from home.

"That's fine," he smiled kindly again. "Just tell me your name."

He asked me if I'd had any drinks at the bowling alley during volleyball. I told him no, and that was it. He just took my word for it. Maybe because I smelled like sweat and sand instead of booze, or maybe he used his detective skills to recall I didn't have an ID on me, 

And in my second dumb mistake, I reached for the glove box, remembering that Brett keeps a little pouch with his insurance cards there. As I was reaching, I spit out that I might be able to find cards in the glove compartment.

The officer nodded, showing no concern that I was already pulling out all sorts of things from the compartment. GPS stand, huge pile of napkins, a gift card to Dairy Queen, owner's manual...

When he asked when my last moving violation was ("Oh gosh," I laughed. "I don't even know. Before I was married, for sure. Maybe seven, eight years?"), he took my word for it, and handed my card back. He smiled again, "Just make sure to use your signals and you won't have to talk to me again. Have a good night, ma'am." And when I reached for the glove box with no warning, the officer didn't even reach for his gun. He trusted me. He didn't shoot me. He gave me the benefit of the doubt that I was looking for insurance cards, not a concealed weapon.

And that's the whole point. I learned about Philando Castile's death the next morning, and watched the video. And I couldn't help but notice that I had a very different experience with a similar traffic stop. "Very different experience" is a bit of an understatement, because I wasn't shot. Because I lived to write this story.

Why? Why was I let off with a kind warning and Philando Castile was shot multiple times? Do I dare say it? Is it because I'm white?

I shared this experience with my husband, and of course he reminded me of a few other differences. I live in a small town. Sure, there can be issues, but Lincoln Avenue in Owatonna is not exactly a high-crime district.

But...I went to college in Roseville, right next to Falcon Heights, where Mr. Castile was killed. Many of my college friends still live in the area. It's not impossible that, with a few different circumstances, I could be living there.

But, my husband reminded me, I don't look like a threat. I'm barely over five feet tall. I'm not going to be strong-arming anyone into submission. I was in volleyball clothes and ponytail. I have big blue eyes, a freckled nose, and a sunburn on my shoulders from playing with my son at the lake that afternoon.

"You look like a mom," Brett told me. "You were driving a vehicle with a car seat." True. I had explained to the officer I was playing volleyball, a fairly common night out for local moms. But...Philando Castile had a 4-year-old in the car with him. He must have looked like a parent too. What about him made him "look like a threat"? Did he look threatening because he's a man? Because he's black?

One of us went home that night, and one didn't. I went home. I peeked in on my baby, sleeping soundly in his crib. I climbed into bed next to my husband and went to sleep. I knew nothing of Philando Castile's traffic stop that night. I didn't even relate the story of my own run-in with the officer to my husband that night. It seemed inconsequential, and honestly, by the time I had showered and gotten ready for bed, I'd nearly forgotten it.

Here's what I want to believe: The police officer I dealt with was kind and a good person. A true public servant. I want to believe that he would have treated anyone the same way he treated me--a white, small town mom, who made a few mistakes during her traffic stop, but overall was polite and compliant. I want to believe most officers are the same way.

I want to believe that the officer who shot Philando Castile made a mistake. That things happened to fast.
That the officer said, "Can I see your license and registration?"
And as Mr. Castile was reaching for his wallet, he disclosed, "I'm carrying a firearm."
This made the officer nervous, and he drew his weapon, "Don't reach for it," he says. "Get your hands out of there."
But maybe Mr. Castile already has his wallet in his hands, and tries to pull it out to show ID, or maybe the officer's drawn weapon scares him, so he quickly jerks his hands away. Either movement makes the cop more nervous and he fires, thinking Mr. Castile is going to pull his own gun.
This is the scenario I want to believe. It isn't perfect; a man died either way. But I want to believe it was accident. A misunderstanding. That things happened too fast, and the officer truly did think own life was in danger. It doesn't excuse the mistake. It doesn't make it okay, or make Philando Castile any less dead. But I want to believe that our police force is doing their best. That they truly are working to protect and serve. That Philando Castile was not targeted because he is black.

Of course, there are some bad cops. It's inevitable. There are bad lawyers, doctors, bankers, mechanics, burger-flippers. There are bad people. But I want to believe that as a group, cops are good. I want to believe that they are not purposely targeting and killing black men out of shear hate and racisim. I'm teaching Jack that when we see police cars, those are the good guys. When we hear sirens, I tell him that the police are going to help someone. But am I teaching him the wrong thing?

What if we were black? What if I were raising a black son? Would I teach him the same things? Would I need to warn him he needs to be extra careful because there are some bad officers out there who are going to try to hurt him? That he needs to be careful how he dresses so that no one mistakes him for a "thug"?

In times like these, I don't know what to say. I don't know what, or if, I should write. I grew up in a white family. I have my own white family now. What is the right thing for a white, middle class, mom to say or do when things like these happen? Can I be against officers unjustly shooting citizens, but also against citizens unjustly targeting cops? Can I agree that Black Lives Matter, but disagree with protests that infringe on others' rights or incite riots?

Why do I feel like a fraud, or some sort of outsider, for wanting justice and change when these things keep happening? Why do I feel like I'm not allowed to be upset or sad or hurt because I don't look like Philando Castile's girlfriend and my son doesn't look like her daughter. Why is it so hard to talk about race when you're white and can avoid getting a ticket even when you do everything wrong?

And when someone else, less than 100 miles up the road, can get shot for doing everything right.