Come Out With Your Hands Up!

“Come Out With Your Hands Up!”

A projected, muffled voice came from outside with authority.

Confused, I walked from my kitchen to the living room, my cat trailing next to me, equally curious.

The voice sounded again:

“Come out with your hands up!”

By the time I reached the living room, red and blue lights were flashing through my window. My mind started racing:

“Did someone call the cops on me?”

“Does someone think I don’t belong in this house? Do they think I’m robbing it?”

“Was there some kind of misunderstanding?”

The firmness of the muffled voice continued:

“We know you are in there. Come out with your hands up!”

Filled with fear, I stood silent in front of my door. My cat sensed the fear and ran under the bed to his safe, dark place. I timidly opened the door and walked onto my long stoop, seeing police cars blocking the street.

“Do they think I am dangerous? Is that why they are farther away?”

At this point, I didn’t know what was going on. The scene felt like a modern rendition of The Trial by Kafka. Was I the one they were yelling at? As I started to calm down, I looked around the neighborhood and saw people exiting their houses, looking at the scene with curiosity or seeming apathy. But I was the only one who was afraid. Everyone else intuitively knew it couldn’t be for them.

But for me, I knew how easily something seemingly small could be misunderstood and change my whole life. I could easily imagine one of my predominantly white neighbors, who don’t know me, calling the police because I don’t “look” like I belong, or because they thought I had a weapon or was breaking into the house.

There have been impactful moments throughout my life where I encountered law enforcement, and they clearly made up their minds about who I was before I even opened my mouth. I’ve feared for my life because of misunderstandings, being deemed “suspicious,” or committing minor offenses that my white colleagues would have gotten a slap on the wrist for.

Let’s be real—much of this has to do with me being Black in predominantly white spaces. Even though I am mixed race and was raised by white people, most people project onto me what they think Blackness is.

So when I saw the police outside my house, I fully expected it to be about me, even though I wasn’t doing or planning to do anything illegal. On the contrary, I was having a very mundane night—sitting at a booth (likely taken from a 50’s-themed diner) left by my friends and landlords, eating some chicken while my cat sat next to me. I was somewhere between thoughtfulness and loneliness.

It’s crazy how in one moment, this mundane feeling turned into fear. My mind spun fictional scenarios of living in a militarized society where people were taken from their homes.

When I realized the police weren’t there for me, I began to feel empathy for the house down the street. How undignified for the police to make such a big scene for something that clearly didn’t warrant this level of action—especially since it wasn’t listed in the public arrest logs the next day.

I believe that dignity is the least we can offer in situations like this. Yet, each situation is different, and we are all human.

As I sit here to write this, I reflect on how different our lived experiences can be. I’ve met people who have never brushed up against the law and others who are constantly in and out of the system. I’m glad I’m okay and am reminded to keep strengthening my compassion for my colleagues and friends.